Throwback Thursday: Proto-Gay Edition

Things I had discovered in 1984: The stinky-feet defiance of going sockless in cheap canvas shoes from Target. The gender-bending subversiveness of wearing a hand-braided ankle bracelet. The surfer-wannabe failure of black board shorts decorated with gracefully swirling fish in trendy shades of neon. The glee-club weirdness of fake Ray-Bans with little black music notes all over them. Hair mousse.

Things I had not yet discovered in 1984: Going to a gym. Having the good sense not to wear tank tops in public. Having the good sense not to wear white fake Ray-Bans with little black music notes all over them. Having the good sense to make sure I didn't look like I was in a low-rent Flock of Seagulls cover band before I left the house.

Flashback Friday: Bow Ties And Billowy Pleats Edition

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly in the 1989 revival of Gypsy. (Early non-linear side note: You never forget your first Gypsy. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e the show like other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because she's never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the much-ballyhooed-about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful. Do not fear: My therapist has been alerted. Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated to me as I entered the store) and immediately found these dream pants with all their essential dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper, securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered in the shape of super-pointy ice-cream-cones = man who goes to the theater to see angsty-gay-anthem-filled musicals with his mom. Every time.

The Hubble Telescope called. It wants its lenses back.

Flashback Saturday: College Graduation Edition

I guess I had a cute little habit of saying YAY! about situations that met my approval when I was in college. Unfortunately, Mom (who correctly thought YAY! would be fitting sentiment to express over a college graduation) and the cake decorator (who probably didn’t have an advanced degree in spelling) ended up producing a graduation cake that said YEAH in my honor. Which only underscores what the rest of this picture is saying about me. For instance: The glasses. Bigger than my face. Lower than my eyebrows. I’m just a home perm and a cameo brooch away from being Sophia Petrillo. And don’t get me started on the shirt. I’d thought it was one of the coolest shirts EVER when I first found it wadded up on the tumble table at the County Seat. It was red and white, see, but it had blue stuff sewn in to the collar and sleeves (and, inexplicably, that saggy pocket) to make it look like it was LAYERED. It was also probably a small, yet it hung on me like a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. And in any case, the whole look was in direct violation of the contract I signed when they gave me my English degree: no bright colors, no perky smiles, no Sally Jesse Raphaël glasses. And no misspelled pastries.

I just opened the first bar of a four pack of "refreshingly clean" Lever 2000 Aloe & Cucumber Bar Soap this morning

It smelled vaguely as fresh as a frolicsome summer's morn when I tried to sniff it through the packaging at Target, but when it finally actually touched my skin it unleashed a disquietingly chemical effluvium of neither aloe nor cucumber nor fresh nor frolicsome nor summer.

I apologize in advance if I smell like plastic salad for the foreseeable future.

Throwback Tuesday: Jake and the Dreamettes Edition

Little-known fact: I toured extensively in the '70s backed up by my sassy sister and our groovy grandmothers. My sister eventually got promoted to take my place when we streamlined our look, but we made up for any awkwardness on our farewell reunion tour.

Leg Day in cheap, ill-fitting track pants is more miserable than Melania on Smocking Hamburder Night

I’d like to think my pants are all bunchy in all my uncomfortabunchy zones because of my mighty man quads and cantilevered cantaloupe calves, but it’s really because I was a big Clearance Clarence who was reeled in by the racing stripes. These stupid pants are tailored for cartoon ostrich legs, and they’re literally compromising my manly squats.

But they have pockets!

In other news, my Graffiti Wonder Woman shirt hasn’t sparked a single conversation about which is the definitive cast recording of Sondheim’s Follies. (It’s a tossup for me between the OBC and the Papermill Playhouse. Any other opinion is invalid.)

Throwback Thursday: Mally Holiday Edition

Here is a rare, valuable and unquestionably alluring photo of me tinkling the imitation ivories with the McKinley Junior High School orchestra at our gala holiday concert in front of the JCPenney at Cedar Rapids' relentlessly beige Westdale Mall:

You can tell I'm totally into the music because my eyes are closed and my hair is floofing dramatically with every arpeggio I summon from the depths of my artistic soul. You can tell it's a winter concert because of our coats piled haphazardly like broken Christmas dreams in the background. Right in front of the picket fence surrounding the dented-but-still-dancing Santa display that exuded all the holiday magic and wonder of the Midas carburetor aisle. And by the Hawkeye Rose Bowl pin dwarfing my chest. A quick google search tells me the Hawkeyes went to the Rose Bowl in January 1981, which would have put me in seventh grade. A quick reality check says that a giant macho football pin doesn't cancel out the fact that I'm gaily playing "Suzy Snowflake" on a partially tuned, poorly voiced mall piano.

Hello, 1980s glasses frames with old prescriptions in them that I just found while I was (don’t ask why) looking for all my old Speedos

And no, that isn’t my sister’s 1980s senior photo behind my head as I pose next to my own 1980s senior photo to provide historical context for my 1980s glasses frames. It’s just a weird shadow.

The secret to looking fit and trim at work is ... um ...

Oh, what the hell are you asking ME for? My desk is a dumping ground for insulin cataclysmia and regret.

Little tush, meet catwalk

I just found some long-buried comp cards from my early ‘90s Quest To Be A Supermodel(R). 

According to the stats under my Flipped Up Jeans Jacket Collar Equals Total Membership In A Biker Gang(R) headshot, I had a 32” waist. 

According to my three editorial shots, I had still-hopefully-trendy Jake From Sixteen Candles(R) sideburns. 

And a tie with a PERFECT DIMPLE, thank you very much. 

And pegged jeans. And a bit of a saucy frayed spot in my crotch. And bulky Classic Boot Socks(R) that I know for a fact I ordered from International Male(R).

#BraveConfessions

I can’t tell if I should trust my mother’s unconditional love for politely enduring my 1980s sartorial choices or if I should doubt it for letting me leave the house looking like this

but I’m still wishing her a happy, grateful, respectful, always-loving-back Mother’s Day.

Flashback Friday: Jake Regrets Edition

No words.

Flashback Friday: Milestone Birthdays Edition

I’m not sure what’s most disturbing about this picture: the bar mitzvah clown smile, the Disney villain eyes, the dinner-plate glasses, the scarecrow neck, the weird-ass way I wore my watch on the inside of my wrist or the pink-on-white shirt that hung on me with all the sex appeal of a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. The girls on my floor (Loser alert! I was living in the Foreign Language House, a co-ed dorm filled with language dorks who stayed in on Friday nights studying verb declensions!) had decorated my door with pink 21s. Probably to match the shirt. Or the homosexuality. I’m not sure where I got the wine, but I am sure I had only a sip of it to celebrate reaching such a milestone age. Because actually drinking a whole glass of alcohol on my 21st birthday would have been something the cool kids would do.

When restraint and common sense completely abandon you in the regret-filled canyons of Target

Because we have inclement weather and I need calories to keep my strength up in case I get snowpocalypsed in

Also because I don’t have a boyfriend to give me gentle encouragement to rediscover and nurture my latent abs.

Flashback Friday: Every Boy Fondly Remembers His First Seersucker Shirt Edition

The Muppets called. They want their floofy hair back. And their crooked-head smile. And their oversize nose. And their little stick arms.

My name’s Jake

And I regret the impulse purchase of this shirt.

Flashback Friday: Terrifying Halloween Costume Edition

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one kind of a gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. Big glasses + small bow tie = man who goes to the theater with his mom. Every time.

Fun fact: This is me in my dinner-plate glasses and pleated pants that were wider than the rest of my body in the lobby of the Kennedy Center when my mom and I went to D.C. to see Tyne Daly in Gypsy when I was in college. She got her kids out!

Flashback Friday: Mall Portraiture Edition

I honestly have no idea what I was thinking with that floofy hair and those dinner-plate glasses ... or what possessed my family to let me leave the house looking like a bar mitzvah clown. The only redeeming element of this family picture was our idea to show off our higher-education pride by wearing our college sweatshirts, which the mall photographer clearly screwed up. But here we are: my family circa 1995. My hair circa Carol Brady.