Seriously?

In my favorite scene from The War of the Roses, Oliver Rose is laying out his proposal for an equitable distribution of the dream home he and his wife, Barbara, have been fighting over in a vicious divorce. 

Oliver's attorney, Gavin D'Amato, barely raises and eyebrow when his client whips out an oversized chart delineating color-coded territories in the newly-zoned home. 

"The red areas are hers," Oliver begins.

"The yellow areas are mine," he continues.

"Green is neutral." 

At this point, he pauses to allow the brilliance of his solution to sink in.

Sounding like Douglas MacArthur on the brink of a nervous breakdown, Oliver (played by Michael Douglas) is at the precipice of physical and emotional exhaustion-- only he doesn't know it. While Gavin (played by Danny DeVito) manages to keep his professional cool in spite of the mounting alarm bells in his head: nodding sympathetically as his client presses on to the big finish.

"The kitchen was difficult, but Barbara came up with the idea of time allotment."

Although Gavin has had the advantage of being an impartial observer looking in and carefully maintained his mask as therapist-talking-to-crazy-person until now, Oliver's last bit about time allotments forces Gavin to break character and ask:

 "This seems rational to you both?"

I find myself asking the same question every time the Middle East conflict dominates headlines, as it did last night when Israel's Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu addressed the annual General Assembly of the United Nations. 

http://www.haaretz.com/blogs/diplomania/netanyahu-s-un-speech-familiar-tactics-get-the-job-done.premium-1.467251

Armed with a graphic of a bomb that looked like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon, Netanyahu dissected  the illustration with a red line to demonstrate the point at which he would shut down Iran's nuclear program. The theatrics were an obvious attempt to garner worldwide attention, and they worked. 

But when a statesman resorts to tactics that resemble those of Wile E. Coyote in pursuit of the Roadrunner, alarm bells go off in my head because there is nothing funny about nuclear annihilation nor the hearts broken and hopes dashed as lives on all sides of this dispute continue to be cut short through violence.

Which bring to mind Gavin's other unforgettable observation from The War of the Roses, when he reminds Oliver:

"There's no winning! Only degrees of losing!"

Hothouse Children

Nearly 20 years have passed since my drive-by with a Maasai shepherd in southern Kenya, but I can still visualize the intensity of his gaze as if it happened yesterday.

I was literally driving by-- scouting the next location for a fashion photo-shoot with our intrepid fixer, Masjid, at the wheel of an open air Land Rover and me in the back seat-- when I locked eyes with the shepherd for just a few seconds. And while I have no empirical evidence to back up my theory, somehow I instinctively understood that if the shepherd and I were to find ourselves stranded on the savannah with a lion chasing us-- no harm would come to me if I just followed his steady lead.

If you subscribe to the myth that every young Maasai must kill a lion before he can be circumcised-- a rite of passage that happens once the child reaches puberty-- then my theory might not strike you as far fetched. But what if I told you my shepherd's wise, old eyes were in the face of six-year-old boy who was roughly half my size and weight?

Time and again, when traveling in less developed countries I have witnessed the phenomenon of children who comport themselves with a poise, dignity and confidence that belies their young years. More often than not they also possess an intelligence which eludes that of the average Master of the Universe bumbling around Midtown Manhattan. Certainly, the increase of fatal accidents due to pedestrians texting, talking or checking emails while crossing busy intersections is merely one example of how a smartphone can turn anyone into a big dummy. Which is not to say that the geniuses at Apple are the problem. But our unprecedented access to such ingenuity probably is.



There is nothing like extreme privilege to lull people into a false sense of security and utter helplessness. From our increased reliance upon gadgets or government-- it seems the more we can depend upon outside entities to think and do for us, the less willing we are to think and do for ourselves. Last January New Yorkers were outraged when a snowstorm blanketed the city and brought traffic to a standstill for a few days. I was as inconvenienced by the storm as my neighbors, but couldn't help feeling embarrassed at what our neighbors to the north in Maine, for example, might have to say about the millions of city slickers for whom the concept of shoveling our own stoops, sidewalks and streets to improve mobility was inconceivable.

Similarly, you would have to live in a fairly well-padded bubble to forget it only takes one second for disaster to strike. And there would have to be some gaping hole in your logic if the connection between actions and consequences were a foreign concept. But if you have any doubt that we do, indeed, live in a universe of unicorns and rainbows just ask yourself why phrases like "I just glanced down at my cell for a second and the next thing I knew my car crashed!" or "How was I supposed to know that a flimsy, to-go cup of scalding hot coffee might lead to 3rd degree burns if I placed it between my legs while driving? I am going to sue the pants off of Ronald McDonald and teach that clown a lesson!" are the rule rather than the exception in our culture.

To be sure, this imagined immunity to danger is the domain of the super-privileged, and as foreign to the rest of humanity as is the concept of one's right to happiness. Because most people are too busy simply trying to survive.

I speak here of the toddlers I've observed who know how to navigate treacherous dirt paths that border roadways in the Jamaican countryside-- where, as any Jamaican can tell you, every other motorist is convinced he missed his true calling as a Formula 1 race car driver-- without parental supervision... never mind getting run over.

I'm thinking of the pint-sized mother's helper I watched doing the dishes on the banks of a deep, fast-moving river in the southern Indian state of Kerala, even though Mommy was nowhere in sight.



And I remember this pre-adolescent girl in rural Brazil-- who looks like she could give Maggie the 411 on how she and Brick might get their marriage off  the rocks, as Big Momma tried to advise in Cat on Hot Tin Roof-- with eyes that are haunting as they are all-knowing. Just like the little boy in Kenya.

Rarely are such children acknowledged, never mind portrayed in a non-pathological light in popular culture. But after seeing the film Beasts of the Southern Wild and its six-year-old heroine in action, I'm beginning to reconsider what it means to be privileged or  underprivileged  from every conceivable angle. 

Beasts tells the story of Hushpuppy-- a little girl who is as inclined to listen to the heartbeat of a baby chick as she is to that of her father, Wink, while he's sleeping. Hushpuppy is just as sensitive to the cadences of the thunderstorms, hurricanes and floods that constantly threaten her bayou community. Her knowledge that she is but one, small piece of a broader universe is fundamental to her understanding of the world at large; so much so she has a theory that "If one piece busts, even the smallest piece... the whole universe will get busted." Her observation is an apt metaphor for her relationship with Wink-- a man who, though constantly on the brink of implosion, is still Hushpuppy's biggest protector and loves her more than she can possibly know.

But how to show that love?

In Wink's world there are no margins of error. Second chances are a luxury he and his little girl have never known. And nobody gets any medals for effort. Theirs is a world where you either sink or swim, and Wink is determined that Hushpuppy will be a swimmer.

 

No doubt, Wink's methods would land him in the Modern American Parents' Hall of Shame for barking things like: "I'm your daddy-- it's my job to make sure you don't die!"; demanding that Hushpuppy "Show me your guns!"; and (in what has to be one of the most poignant cinematic moments between father and child) routinely calls "Who da' man?!" to Hushpuppy's squeak-of-a-response "I'M DA' MAN!!!"

And make no mistake: this little girl is da' man.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5d4IanzDG8

Hushpuppy, like the man-child Maasai shepherd who made that indelible impression on me two decades ago, would be my first pick to get me out of any jam, anywhere, anytime-- because she and he were privileged enough to be raised by parents who were willing to show them how the world really works, as opposed to how we'd all like it to work. And when compared to the crop of over-indulged, under-challenged children I've observed from New York to Los Angeles-- there is no doubt in my mind that for all the expensive toys, private school educations and micro-managed extra-curricular activities parents of means heap upon children, their offspring are living in abject poverty where characteristics like self-reliance, an understanding of one's place within a wider context and self-confidence are concerned.

It's no secret that ours is the age of Helicopter Parents and Tiger Moms. But with the advent of other terms like Adultescents and Boomerang Kids why aren't we all questioning the efficacy of these new-school parenting paradigms?

As a bystander, I understand the desire to give one's offspring every advantage in life. But barring the inevitable self-flagellation and sheer exhaustion that seems to comes with such great expectations among parents, I wonder what the cost has been to children.



In more ways than one, I've come to think of this generation as Hothouse Children for all the care, consideration and pruning apparently required for them to thrive. And as with any highly cultivated organism, I find the Hothouse Child simultaneously fascinating and horrifying. It is impossible for me to look at an espalier tree without contemplating what would happen if its wall, fence or trellis were suddenly dismantled. Likewise, until parents figure out a way to outsmart the grim reaper, I keep wondering what will happen to their espalier children-- whose limbs are so entwined with those of Mommy and Daddy that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Moreover, what happens to a child's self-confidence and sense of self when their growth pattern is so assiduously pre-considered, pre-determined and pre-ordained by someone other than the child?

Remember the old days when children could amble into and out of friendships with no parental guidance? Play dates have made a mockery of such natural selection processes. And what of extra-curricular activities? Chances are you ran cross-country or played the tuba as a kid because you had excess energy to burn or loved big, shiny objects. But those were the days before mom and dad took an interest in your development and decided that soccer and the cello would be more impressive on your-- or should I say, "our"-- Harvard application. And what about negotiating the treacherous waters of middle school with those notorious mean-girls, bullies and pre-proms to which we may or may not have been invited? What I have now come to recognize as excellent character-building exercises-- which, come to think of it, are a great way to prepare for office politics, the disappointment of not having you Facebook friend request reciprocated and/or having a boss who forgets to reaffirm your worth on an hourly basis-- are a thing of the past as educators and parents have reached a consensus that good behavior can actually be legislated.

Which it cannot.

Nor can parents be expected to keep up when running their children's races against a younger, faster more resilient competition who are rising in the east... and south.

As globalization leads to greater opportunities and leveled playing fields for all children, it won't take a psychic to predict how the indulged child will fare when obliged to compete with the little shepherd boys and Hushpuppies of the world. It stands to reason that children who know how to observe, adapt and coöperate  with their environments (instead of imposing themselves upon any prevailing ecosystems)will be far better equipped to succeed than their counterparts who've been brought up to regard themselves as the solar system around which all other galaxies revolve.

If the Hothouse Child is ill-equipped to stand on his or her own two feet when the going is good, how can we possibly expect them to hold their own against children whose backbones have been forged in fire? How many second chances will be afforded the child who has never had to consider the needs of a parent, sibling or next door neighbor in our unchecked defense of self-expression-- never mind those of their global neighbors in Africa, Asia,  Europe and South America-- when these so-called underprivileged children have always operated under the assumption that getting things right the first time was tantamount to survival? And when you are raised to believe that winning is your birthright-- how might you cope with loss of any kind?

The mindset that equates allowing a child to experience the consequences of their own actions with reckless parenting is prevalent; even as my most indulgent friends with kids are saying "Enough with the medals for coming in 7th place in a six-person race!" As I see it, not permitting a child to discover and exercise their capacity for self-reliance when the chips are down is a form of abuse. Why would any parent undermine the confidence that can only come of trying, and failing, then trying again until success is won? And why would any parent sacrifice their child on the alter of alleged privilege-- training their hopes, dreams and identities along some prescribed path as if they were nothing more than a botany experiment-- when the opportunity to have that child reveal himself to the world is the only way to transcend the very black & white sameness of that which is bred in a hothouse?

 Particularly when opportunities long taken for granted as the birthright of those born into the right families are now available to the truly smart who know how the world really works?

The Fashion Weaklings

Everything I know about light, I learned from my friend Fabrizio Ferri.

Fabrizio is a photographer known for doing with shadow & light what the Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer did with pigments & a brush. He paints to exquisite effect.

Courtesy Fabrizio Ferri

Fabrizio's favorite place to shoot is the desert because the dry, hot climate renders a clean, sharp light. Likewise, as the weather turns crisp in New York, the sun sits lower in the sky and a drop in humidity heralds the coming of fall-- one of the things I've come to appreciate in this urban landscape is the way contrasts are sharper and shadows are blacker now than they have been all summer.

Still, for all my fascination with black & white palettes-- now that fall is in the air my fashionista friends are all over the other end of the spectrum: as in "What will the hottest colors be this autumn?" And when it comes to matters of style, my go-to guy is Freddie Leiba. 

http://bryanbantry.com/artists/styling/freddie-leiba/

A front-row habitué of couture and ready-to-wear runways in New York, Paris, Milan and London for over 25 years, Freddie is also the go-to guru for A-listers like Beyoncé, Madonna and Elizabeth Hurley when they need a stylist to help put their best stilettos forward. Glossy magazines including Vanity Fair, Essence and InStyle routinely turn to Freddie to keep their pages fresh, clean and current. So when he told me the must have colors for fall would be "bright red, cobalt blue, berry, plum and violet" this year, I took him at his word and spread the gospel-- because Freddie is to fashion what Fabrizio is to photography: a savant.

And yet, for all of his credibility and expertise when it comes to making other people look fantastic, I already know Freddie's message will be lost on half the population.

Can you imagine a world where stags kept their antlers trimmed high and tight to avoid standing out; peacocks dyed their feathers brown to blend in; and the king of the jungle wore his mane in a bun to discourage admiring glances? 

I can. Because this is exactly how their domesticated human counterparts comport themselves. Even in style capitals where terms like Fashion Week have moved from insider lexicon to everyday speak, the human male is all to happy to play the role of Fashion Weakling.

I was shopping at Century 21 in lower Manhattan last weekend when I overheard the following exchange between a little boy and his father in the men's department:

"Daddy, is this for a boy or a girl?"

"That's for a boy, Sweetheart."

"But it's... pink."

"I know, but there are some men who like to wear pink ties."

If the child's expression indicated what he thought about men wearing pink I missed it because I was determined to keep my eyes trained straight ahead while pretending to mind my own beeswax. Which I never do. Which is why no more than two seconds passed before I felt my head spontaneously swivel to left and heard myself asking the dad if he'd ever considered wearing a pink tie.

A shy smile spread across his face as he said: "No, I work in Washington, DC and they're really... you know... (indicating "straight & narrow" with his hand gestures) down there.

"Most men would love to break out of that box," came my unsolicited advice. "But they need someone else to take the lead. You should be the pace car and set the trend in your office. You'd look great in pink! Why be a follower when you can be a leader?"

For all his southern gentlemanly manners, I could tell Daddy-O was not having it. After giving me a look that said "You wouldn't understand," he sweetly allowed me to snap a picture of himself and his Mini-Me as they returned to the task at hand.

Courtesy Gail O'Neill

I often wonder if there's a biological imperative behind the human male's aversion to standing out on a sartorial plane.

And, to some degree, I can see how women like me are part of the problem. 

I once had a friend who broke up with her boyfriend because his grooming products took up a disproportionate amount of shelf space in their shared bathroom. Ingrid was a lean, long-limbed, all-natural beauty who only needed shampoo, conditioner and some lip balm to get 'er done, as Larry the Cable Guy might say. While her Dandy Lion, a male model, possessed enough creams, gels, tonics, toners, lotions and potions to supply a cosmetics counter at Saks. Ultimately, the deal breakers were his concealer and eyeliner pencil (...no, she was not dating the Artist Formerly Known as Prince...). And while it's hard to say if he even noticed that she was gone, I was in full support of Ingrid's decision to pull the plug on the relationship with her 90's incarnation of Narcissus.

Nobody likes the dude whose favorite sight is his own reflection. But the average guy could afford to be more like his brethren in the animal kingdom, flaunt whatever he's working with and consider upping the bling quotient to reduce the blah quotient.

Like this... 

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

Too much?

OK. I was just messing with you.

But what about this?

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

Too Keith Richards?

I hear you...

...we can't all be rock stars, can we?

But can you get with this look?

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

I thought so!

Adding color to more traditional wardrobe staples is one way men can stand out without looking like they're trying too hard. And there is no quicker way of putting a pep in your step without having to make a Starbucks run or downing a can of Red Bull. 

My friend, David Goodrowe, an Aesthetic Identity Designer http://www.goodrowehobby.com/ based in Atlanta, is as passionate on the topic as he is discerning when selecting just the right tones to make his day. These days, he has a thing for yellow-- from his VW Beetle named Sunny to the lemony beads he incorporates when making bracelets in his spare time-- and David believes the fever is catching. 

Courtesy David Goodrowe

"I think all of the color in the Olympics, especially all of the fabulous yellow shoes in Track & Field were great, and men  are now taking more notice of color." 

A creative by nature and profession, David's motto is, "Why blend in when you can stand out?" And while his tribal chic accessories won't necessarily raise any eyebrows in his industry, the majority of men in more conservative settings wouldn't dare experiment with the look for fear of what other men might think. 

And that's a real pity, because as the picture below demonstrates, there is nothing about beading which inherently undermines a man's masculinity. 

 

Is there?

The color pink is another taboo tone for men, mostly because it's been co-opted by girls from cradle-to-grave. Whether the dominant color in a nursery, the must-have hue for budding princesses-- and all those scary princess-themed appurtenances that are making a post-feminist comeback-- or the popularity of blush-toned diamonds for engagement rings: nothing says "I love being a girl!" more than pink. 

But when a man has the cojones to rock that color with swagger, is there anything sexier?

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

¡Claro que no, Papi!

Of course, the other great reason to embrace color is to enhance the view of everyone proximate to you, as does Nicholas.


Courtesy Gail O'Neill

Nicholas and I crossed paths on an Uptown E train near Wall Street and his colorful ensemble brightened my day. He also managed to do the damn near impossible and brighten that grimy subway car. Which is about the kindest thing one strap hanger can do for another while riding the rails.

But what if you're better suited to be an Undercover Brothers? One of those men who appears perfectly tame on top, while taking a walk on the wild side down below?

Well... you could follow the lead of the hippest salesman I have ever met and represent your clan in an understated kilt.

Courtesy Gail O'Neill

I did a double-take when I spotted Ray Bowen roaming the aisles of Home Depot in Midtown Atlanta and knew I'd regret it later if I didn't ask for a picture. I love Ray's look not only for the originality and confidence it belies about his character; but the great pop of color his apron gives while doing double-duty as a sporran is absolutely genius!

Naturally, I was dying to ask the million-dollar question-- but even I have my limits.

Then again, if you're dying to know what Home Depot's policy is on, shall we say, foundation garments for menfolk-- and aren't too afraid to ask-- you can always check in with Ray at Invictus Forge http://www.invictusforge.com/  where he is a blacksmith and an artist.

Courtesy Ray Bowen

Then get back to me.

Please.

Not man enough to follow in the fine tradition of Ray and his peeps in the Scottish Highlands?

Then why not get jiggy with your socks?


Courtesy Gail O'Neill

I was seated next to a handsome dinner companion, Paul, at a mutual friends birthday party this summer, but only had eyes for his fancy footwork once I noticed the blast of color and play on patterns orbiting his ankles. In this case, I wasn't too shy to ask, and was rewarded with a full monty of the Robert Graham socks http://www.robertgraham.us/shopmen/accessories/hosiery.html  Pau'ls wife Rima bought for him.

To this day I can't think of Paul without picturing those funky stripes and smiling.

The same goes for this dapper, Atlanta-based salesman who recently helped me at Nordstrom. Clearly one who put as much thought into the upper half of his appearance as he did the lower...

Courtesy Gail O'Neill
... it was his sock garter gave me the vapors.

Courtesy Gail O'Neill

Which is not to say that I have some fetish for men in support hose, but the element of surprise in any outfit is absolutely irresistible to my eye.

And that's why I fell in love with this duo the moment I spotted them crossing West 72nd Street on a motorcycle.  

"You guys are adorable!" I bellowed as they rolled into view. To which the biker responded "Yeah, me and Captain go together pretty good." 

Indeed they do.

Sure, he was sporting the typical man-palette of gray-to-black, but I think any guy who would take the time to accessorize his best friend in a pair of aviator goggles and a shearling throw deserves an A+ for effort. 

And making an effort is, ultimately, what separates the men from the Fashion Weaklings... in any light.

Gimme a Break!

 Some of my best friends are Republicans. Or, to be more specific, they are a hybrid of fiscal conservative & social democrat. Which is a nice way of saying that when it comes right down to it their pocketbook will be their guide come Election Day. 

This, obviously, is their prerogative. And I'm cool with that.

For all the rhetoric from the Democratic Party this election season about how the One Percenters are "not paying their fair share in taxes", I suspect that the rest of us Ninety-Nine Percenters would make the same choices as Mitt Romney and his peeps if we walked a mile in their wingtips.

I can't recall what year it was, but I once heard Charles Barkley recount a conversation he'd had with his mother about an upcoming presidential election. After telling her that he would be voting for the Republican candidate that year, Mama Barkley was astonished asked how could even think of doing such a thing. "They only care about rich people!" she reasoned. To which her never-at-a-loss-for-words basketball superstar of a son replied: "Mom, I am a rich person."

How often have you heard someone say: "If I had 50 million dollars, I would give half to charity, buy homes for everyone in my family, settle all of my best friends' debt and open a Boys & Girls Club chapter in my neighborhood," or something similar? If I had a dollar for every time I heard a variation on this theme I would have 50 million dollars at my disposal today. But how many people actually take such action when the proposition is real as opposed to theoretical?

   As altruistic as you and I imagine we'd be if we lived on the sunny side of I'm Rich Biatch Street, nothing precludes the human instinct of self-preservation. When people acquire vast sums of cheddar-- whether via success in the NBA, on Wall Street, a Mega-Millions Lottery windfall, dumb luck or an inheritance-- the instinct to preserve that capital is hard-wired into the DNA. As is the desire to keep acquiring more and more. Humans also tend not to know when we have enough. Which is pretty remarkable, because in spite of not being able to regulate our own greed we are masters at calculating the precise moment when other people have had enough. At which point words like "greedy bastard", "the little people" and "fair share" start creeping into the lexicon and our psyches.

To be sure, there are exceptions to this rule: people like Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mother Theresa whose choices are dictated by what serves the greater good as opposed to personal gain. But let’s face it. Most people are not exceptional. We are who we are. And 99% of us are just like Charles Barkley.

That Mitt Romney's tax cuts will be very good for small businesses, corporations and wealthy Americans is inarguable. And a recent visit to Family Court in downtown Manhattan with a friend was all the evidence I needed that Republicans have a very valid point when they claim that our government is bloated, inefficient and wasteful to a nearly criminal degree.

That said, there is more than one way to calculate whether or not Mitt Romney will be an asset when it comes to America's bottom line. And I hope that some of my best friends will consider all sides of the equation before casting their votes on November 6th.

 "You might not be ready for diplomacy with Beijing if you can't visit the Olympics without insulting our closest ally.”

-Barack Obama

When President Obama spoke these words at the Democratic National Convention in Charlotte, NC last night, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up because I've been making the same point to my Republican friends for the past seven months. But for some reason, I haven't been getting through to them.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that the last thing my Economics 101 professor at Wesleyan said to me before encouraging me to find my smile in somebody else's classroom (Hello, English Department!) was: "Gail, Economics is not for everyone. For some people, it can be like banging your head against a brick wall. It's just not worth it." Sure, my pride was wounded, but I was secretly relieved for the mercy killing. In fact, my eyes still glaze over when people talk about things like CMBS's [Collateralized Mortgage Backed Securities], CDS's [Credit Default Swaps] or QE3's [not to be confused with the heir apparent to the QE2: the QE3 is a Quantitative Easing Three]. (Can you tell my money-managing honey helped me with these fancy fiscal terms?!). 

Still, tyro that I am-- even I know that the first law of commerce is: "If I don't like you, I ain't gonna' do business with you." 

A lot of people around the world do not like Mitt Romney.

When the then-presumptive GOP nominee's ill-timed, ill-conceived and ill-informed question  the UK's preparedness for the Summer Olympics offended London's Mayor Boris Johnson and turned Romney into the laughingstock of the British press-- my knickers were in a twist back home.

I was embarrassed for the United States after hearing Romney's confrontational tone at last week's Republican National Convention, and found it reckless of him to announce: "Under my presidency our friends will see more loyalty, and Mr. Putin will see a little less flexibility and more backbone." 

Hell, I'd like to see less Gary Cooper circa: "High Noon" and more statesman in my president, but maybe that's just me.

Even his well-intentioned tribute to a true American hero at the Convention devolved into an inelegant rant when Romney bellowed: "And I don't doubt that Neil Armstrong's spirit is still with us: that unique blend of optimism, humility and the utter confidence that when the world needs someone to do the really big stuff, you need an American." 

Really?!

I wonder what Jesus Christ, Confucius and Albert Einstein would have to say about that? Never mind those still paying the ultimate price for W's determination to show American muscle when diplomacy might have been more effective? 

But back to that man who took one giant leap for mankind... 

Contrary to Hollywood stereotypes of astronauts as testosterone-fueled macho men, Armstrong had a reputation for being extremely humble, unassuming and even shy. Something tells me that Romney's co-opting the original Moon Walker's good name for political gain probably left him rolling in his grave. While I was left wondering what it would take for American's to keep Romney on a shorter leash, if not muzzled, when representing his countrymen on a global platform.

Is this the man business leaders want to have as the face of American commerce worldwide?

Is this the best our country can offer when the really big job of bridge-building is on the line with emerging markets in China, Brazil, Russia and India?

Can we really afford to have a leader whose foreign policy is "stuck in a Cold War time warp", as President Obama has asked?

Like I said, I may not be a genius when it comes to finance, but any kid running a lemonade stand can tell you there is always a cost associated with doing business. 

What price is the American public willing to pay for a commander-in-chief who already has a well-documented record for losing friends and inspiring negative headlines when he takes his show on the road? 

Will the personal gain of an individual tax break balance the deficit of having to live, work and play in a world where fractured relationships and ill-will toward the United States is on the rise?

If past is prologue, I guess we already know the answers to these questions. 

But I'm still putting my money on some of my best friends who, at the end of the day, can spot the difference between a good deal and a deal-breaker from a mile off.

Michelle, Ma Belle

On the night of November 4, 2008 my friend Tiziano called to tell me that his pride in America was so great that he was inspired to start the application process for his US citizenship the very next morning. Barack Obama had just been elected president, and Tiziano-- an (until that defining moment) apolitical, non-patriotic, fashion photographer who was born and raised in Italy and had been living and working in New York City for nearly 20 years-- was in tears.

Nearly four years later-- on the heels of Michelle Obama's speech at the Democratic National Convention in Charlotte-- I got a text from my Republican, Tennessee-born-and-bred, good-old-boy buddy Bill saying: "I had tears in my eyes more than once, and I felt a sense of patriotism that left me years ago."  

Let me say here that neither Tiziano nor Bill are the kind of men I'd describe as being in touch with their feminine sides. And that is putting it mildly. They do not cry easily, and when they do it's not something either of them would be inclined to brag about. To the contrary, they are old school men in the oldest Hollywood traditions: from character actor to leading man. In Tiziano's case, his barrel chest, baritone that registers more like a lion's growl than a human voice and weathered soul remind me of Stanley Kowalski. While Bill, a Daniel Craig lookalike with a real-life resume that actually rivals that of James Bond, has the charm, resourcefulness and humor of Crocodile Dundee. An ex-Special Forces military operator who literally loves his guns as much as he loves his country, Bill was the target demographic for Clint Eastwood's Old Man and the Seat schtick at last week's Republican National Convention.

And yet, it was the lady in the pink brocade dress who blew him away on Tuesday night.

The image of our First Lady in a Tracey Reece sleeveless sheath with a flared hemline in contrasting turquoise (Can we talk about the brilliance of choosing a garment that blended red & blue to such stunning effect in the midst of a political campaign that could make the Bloods and the Crips ask that we give peace a chance?!) was a Convention highlight for me. But, apart from her breath-of-fresh-air delivery, the other enduring impression from FLOTUS’s barnburner at the DNC was the picture of Malia and Sasha curled up with their daddy on a sofa in the Treaty Room of the White House as they watched the Mom-in-Chief speak her mind.

As TV cameras on the floor of the TimeWarner Convention Center panned the crowd, I saw Malia’s (typically) nuanced expression-- in this instance, a mix of wonder and respect-- duplicated on the faces of delegates old enough to be her grandmother. In my own living room, a quick glance to my right confirmed that the look of profound and unabashed pride on my mother’s face was identical to that which radiated from the President’s. And the unbridled delight written all over Sasha’s sweet, little, dimpled face mirrored exactly what I was feeling in my heart as her mother spoke to all of us. 

Mrs. Obama's ability to elicit such a broad range of matching emotions in her immediate family, as well as those of us who have adopted her family as our own over the past four years, now seems inevitable. The sincerity with which she spoke, her firsthand recollections of what it felt like to grown up in a home where funds were scarce but love was unlimited and her optimism about our country’s future were as endearing as they were infectious. The arc of her personal evolution from reluctant political wife to “[seeing] that  being president doesn’t change who you are-- it reveals who you are” was monumental. And the implicit message that her husband is just like you and me was unassailable as she reminded us that “Barack knows the American Dream because he’s lived it-- and he wants everyone in this country to have that same opportunity, no matter who we are, or where we’re from, or what we look like, or who we love.” 

That women, people of color, or any person who has ever felt marginalized due to economics, sexual orientation, immigrant status or physical disability might see themselves in our First Lady, and fall in love with her, came as no surprise to me. But when men like Tiziano and Bill-- who by virtue of race, class and social status are expected to inherit the earth as a birthright-- connect with an African American woman to whom nothing in life was handed, that is a game changer. Speaking of which, my friend Bill just sent me a text stating: "BTW, changing from a Republican to a Democrat." And something tells me Tiziano is just as fired up and ready to go, with or without his US citizenship, as any political junky this campaign season thanks to Michelle, ma belle. Or, should I say our belle?

The morning after her triumph, my husband asked how I thought Michelle’s speech compared to that of Ann Romney’s at the RNC last week. I told him that as the women were as dissimilar as a paper doll and a living, breathing woman it would be unfair to compare them because Ann was not even in the same league as Michelle. 

Where Michelle’s spirit appears to have been burnished by a colorful (if not always rosy) and multi-faceted life; Ann’s appears to have been tarnished by politics. Where Michelle has covered tremendous ground from Chicago’s South Side to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; Ann’s trajectory seems more akin to that of a bonsai-- with all of the attendant protection from the elements, pruning and clipping implied. And where Michelle’s riches are obviously borne of strong family ties, shared values with her husband and an attitude of gratitude and humility instilled by her mom and dad; I get the distinct impression that if Ann lost all of her money tomorrow she would have nothing, because she is emotionally bankrupt.

To be fair, there is actually one arena in which the First Lady and her presumptive heir are equals, because both Michelle and Ann exude tremendous style. But as my friend Tiziano-- who makes a very good living taking pictures of all of the beautiful people-- can tell you: there is nothing more passé than style without substance. And We the People deserve so much more.