Cowboys and Gentlmen Aborgines

Recently I received this question: “What about cowboys? Cowboys are gentlemen, too.”

This is one of those “loaded” type questions. For one thing, I would hate to answer in such a way that I insult a cowboy, only to end up getting shot by an irate, probably Texan, cowboy. For another, their style of dress is truly of another culture—I may as well be giving advice on the manner of dress and etiquette of the Australian Aborigine. And for a third thing, and most important, my father asked this question, he’s a Texan, may have a gun, and he’s an Australian Aborigine.

No, wait! Scratch that last part. I meant he’s sort of like a cowboy. So how on earth does one answer such a question? Tell the truth I guess—cowboys appreciate the truth, I think.

So, the truth: Being a cowboy, or a Texan, or an Aborigine, does not rule out being a gentleman, like being a pirate would. What really differs here is culture. What's appropriate in London may be totally different on a ranch, or city out in the West, or with a group of Aborigines in the Outback. But the point is all cultures have their accepted etiquette and appropriate style of dress. It’s apples and kiwis*: Both great fruit, but kiwi is just not my cup of tea; ditto for Western, Cowboy-type style: bolo ties, cowboy boots, cowboy hats, definitely not for me—but they are for a gentleman cowboy or Aborigine.

As for etiquette, cowboys developed a rather Victorian/chivalric code, and put a good deal of emphasis on honesty. "One has one's honor," I think a cowboy would say. In essence, a cowboy's etiquette is a gentleman's etiquette, wrapped up in a somewhat different sartorial package.

So--a cowboy gentlemen? Indubitably.

There is one lingering question--would cowboys rather drink tequila/a Margarita, or a Martini? I fear it's the former. Well, no gentleman is perfect I suppose, strictly speaking.

*No actual cowboys, Aborigines, Texans or kiwis were hurt in the writing of this post.

Oh, the Horror!

Some articles of gentlemanly clothing cause people to stare.

Others are fodder for comment, such as, "My dear fellow, you look like an ass." This has nothing to do with how a donkey dresses, although, compared to some, they dress rather dapper; no, it has to do with a stubbornness that leads a fellow to dress like a lad that missed 12 out of the 13 required classes at clown school. That's not to suggest that clowns dress well; let us not even ponder mimes (suffice to say, some theologians suggest that mimes are a direct result of original sin).

Then there is the rare article of clothing that has an explosive effect: women scream, swoon, even faint; men walk by with wide eyes, mouths agape, grumbling about propriety and the good ol' days; children either laugh, run away, or have their eyes covered by their mums hands (unless they fainted, in which case the tots have their eyes covered by an invisible wall, courtesy the nearest mime). The whole dashed thing is scandalous! Crowds have gathered, and so have the police. Nice going, Mr. John Hetherington. Was it worth it? All this fuss because you just had to wear that new creation of yours--The Top Hat.

Gentlemen, I'm afraid the above tale is true, and in fact took place in the 1840's. Yes, once in a while, a London hat maker--perhaps because of the thick, yellow air of coal fires and gas light--would go off his onion. I mean, have any of them, in modern times, come up with some fruity, corker of an idea for a new hat style? No, not a one really, not since the advent of wide-spread electrical use. Coincidence?

It doesn't matter. The point is this--are any one of us fool enough to wear a top hat today--not for a wedding, not with morning dress, but with an everyday suit of some sort--probably with a bow tie? I admit, I would love to wear a top hat--like Sherlock Holmes, or even Watson for goodness sakes. I mean, you look at painting or photos from back in the day and they're wearing toppers, and they look awesome. Debonair, dashing, powerful, in a word, manly. Sadly, the only modern examples I can think of, who wear a top hat of some type, outside of the usual very formal occasions, are rock singers, most of whom strike me as not exactly the gentlemanly type.

Here are some old photos and prints of gentlemen of yester-year, complete with the "there's no school like old school" topper...

Below is Howard Carter, the archaeologist who found King Tut

Oh, and John Hetherington? He was arrested, fined 50 pounds, a huge pile 'o money back then, and a law was passed that forbade anyone from wearing a top hat in public--because nervous people, children, the overly timid, and those with heart conditions and high cholesterol may suffer harm. The rest is history. But can it come back? It's tough enough to bring the everyday Fedora back, not to mention the Bowler...but the topper? Maybe...may...be...

Restaurants, Charlemagne, a Beautiful Woman—all in one post!

And Jackets, too! May as well admit that sartorial faux pas right up front. In a previous post, on overcoats, the term “jacket” somehow snuck in. How? I’ve no idea. Sometimes posts get written and edited at 11:00 pm or later, when my hands continue to type long after I’ve fallen into sweet slumber. Anyway, an alert and knowledgeable gent brought this to my attention—not the part about me sleeping and typing at the same time, I mean the other thing, using the term “jacket” to describe—yes—an overcoat. He’s right of course—a jacket goes to the hips or waist, and an overcoat goes far beyond that, unless you’re 12 feet tall and they don’t make jackets in your size, in which case a jacket and an overcoat become one in the same. But no, let us not blur the lines of precise sartorial terminology with hypothetical what’s-its.

Rather, consider this—and I think I must have mentioned this before, at least in passing, but last night’s trip to a fairly decent restaurant brought it to my mind again; it was hardly possible for it not to come to mind again, because it’s maddening, astounding, and laughable all at the same instant—there sits a beautiful woman, dressed beautifully besides, and across from him sits some guy wearing a t-shirt, and if she is particularly lucky, he is wearing pants of some sort rather than shorts. His whole demeanor is that of a child out to dinner with his mum (or in Egypt, his mummy). And I can’t help but think—what is taking our food so long? Once the carpaccio and shrimp and drinks arrive it's then that the old brain restarts, and looking about I realize there's not just one couple like this, there are bunches of them! And then I think, what the heck is wrong with these guys? Where are all the gentlemen? And—lest we be deficient in our terms—we should always remember that a gentlemen is no ninny, and he's not someone whose gentlemanliness is simply found in his fine and dapper attire. A gentleman is a man. I know, I’m missing a good bit of the definition of “gentleman,” but bear with me—I’ve recently received a complimentary copy of The Compleat Gentleman in exchange for a review, and there are splendid definitions of “gentleman” in this book. So far it is a magnificent read, and I'll be sharing some of these definitions sometime soon. Anyway, for our purposes, I stress a gentleman is a MAN, not a ninny, not a immature boy whose development has been delayed by a few decades, not a chap who has no respect for his appearance or for the lady who is sitting across from him ,enduring all with womanly patience and restraint.

Perhaps, however, these fellows are all severely vision impaired, I don't know. Or maybe they want to dress like men did circa 800 AD, when baths were far and few between, they had just come in from fields at 9 in the eve, and being exhausted with honest toil hadn't the energy to put on the tails and topper. Granted, they dressed a bit different back in 800 or so AD; their t-shirts sported pictures of Charlemagne rather than their favorite baseball team. But I'm sure you understand what I'm saying--these modern guys have no reason to dress like slobs.

To make matters worse, some times these lads even refuse to take their (usually baseball) hats off at the table! Now, if anyone has a right to keep his hat on at the table, it would be me--these guys almost always have dashing heads of hair under those hats, whereas I now have a dashing head. And no one will find me wearing a hat at the table.

I'm afraid I've no solution to the problem either. Maybe--just maybe--if on the way out of the restaurant we walk by those tables, and, looking at the beautiful lady, say something like, "You have a very well-behaved son," or "Your friend here looks like an ass," things will change. It may of course not be the change you want--it could well be the badly dressed bloke will change your face for the worse. Maybe, though, a discreet sympathetic look towards the lady would do the trick.

And now, I must take off the old overcoat jacket thing, put on the pajamas and head to bed before my hands start typing about baseball Fedoras...