Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

A Tuxedo....The Closet Snob

A Tuxedo…The Closet Snob

The life of the party, that’s me…yet here I hang, lifeless in this musty closet, smelling of mothballs and sandwiched between a smoky-smelling blazer and assorted suits. I tell you, being a tuxedo gets you very little respect these days...at least in some circles.

But it was not always this way. I am, of course, the embodiment of elegance, being worn by men of distinction and pedigree. Tuxedo Park, NY was my birthplace, and my debut was at the privileged, if not somewhat pretentious, Tuxedo Club. Those were the days, when men were really rich, not dissembling debtors…men of refinement who drank fine port after dinner and spoke intelligently. I was born into this lifestyle.

Sadly, however, it’s not that way today. Why, not only am I worn in places that slander my prestige, like high school proms, but I am also relegated to tuxedo rental programs and treated with utmost contempt. Imagine how you’d feel if you were being rented to hordes of beer-swilling teenagers…the height of disrespect. So here I hang, day after day, being passed over in preference to the tasteless blue blazer, the dumbed-down choice of millions of men satisfied with mediocrity.

But my fortune is about to change. Tonight a classy Soiree, a Ball…Yes, finally, my evening has come. Oh, I will make for her a special night she will not soon forget. She will be the princess she knows herself to be. Yes, she will walk into the Club, down the long stairway in front of the envious eyes of bristling females, mirrors reflecting her elegance, escorted by a gentleman made regal by me, The Tuxedo. This is my role: I transform the mundane into the magnificent, a Cinderella into a Princess. Tonight I will make her illusions come true.

However, I must first endure the disgusting curses of the brutish man who will wear me. I can hear him now: “Why do I have to wear this “monkey suit” tonight?” (Imagine, being called by such tree-swinging names?). He will struggle and sweat trying to arrange his gold studs, and after about 15 minutes of frustration, he will be ready for the noose, er, excuse me, the bow tie. He’ll shout to her, as always, “Honey, get in here and fix this stupid tie”. Oh, the insults I suffer. But soon, as always, he’ll be smiling at the shocking beauty walking into the room, Armani-resplendent, the princess he married years ago.

And so it happened as I said. Arm in arm through the Hall of Mirrors they paraded, she in her make-believe world of fantasy, with her tuxedoed James Bond or Cary Grant, her man of mystery and intrigue. It’s a red-carpet walk for them, and he swells with pride at the adoring glances (none of which were for him, of course, but he can pretend, too!). Cocktails, dinner, then dancing…her, the dazzling essence of the evening, and he, with his tuxedo working its magic, working the crowd for tomorrow’s new deal or yesterday’s embellished exploits.

Look, as a tuxedo, I’ve been around. I know what happens as the evening wears on. My tie is jerked loose, the body I am worn by becomes a careless imbiber, my shirt has lost its starch and a couple of gold studs have disappeared. The alcohol has taken voice, and crass behavior concludes the evening of illusion. Ok, it’s time to go now. The fantasy evaporates.

The drive home is always dreadful. I am soon discarded and lie limp in the corner, just another cast-off of the evening. With stains of tenderloin au jus, sprinkles of red wine, dank with sweat and champagne and otherwise lifeless, once again my elevated status is demeaned. Folded without feeling and disgracefully tossed into the dry cleaning hamper, my triumphs in pretence and illusion are forgotten. Things have come full circle once again.

However, The Authority on illusion and fantasy always has the final word: The world needs more occasions for tuxedos and Armani gowns to escape the reality of too much reality. Yes, it was just a chimerical evening, but don’t forget, Cary Grant himself was an illusion, a Hollywood creation. His real name was Archie Leach…and he was a milkman! So ladies, put up with the grumbling and let me transform your milkman into the Prince of your Dreams, if only for an evening…everyone will be the better for it!

Next week, suffocating inside the cheap plastic bag, I’ll get stuffed into the closet and again subjected to the insufferable snubs of the vulgar and ignoble blazer and other slovenly attire.

But as for tonight, I was The Master of the Charade, the cloth of choice to define the nattering nabobs of society, brilliantly transforming the mundane into the magical.

Viva la Tux.



Bud

September 9, 2008

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