On Being a Fop

I'm not talking about that noble society of law enforcement officers, the Fraternal Order of Police, but of a much older meaning of this word: One that dates back to the 1700s. Within this context, there are various unflattering definitions of the word "Fop:"

• A man who is preoccupied with and often vain about his clothes and manners; a dandy.
• A conceited dandy who is overly impressed by his own accomplishments.
• A British dandy in the 18th century who affected Continental mannerisms; "Yankee Doodle stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni."
• A vain, affected man who pays too much attention to his clothes, appearance, etc.; dandy.

The common denominator here seems to be the word "Dandy." My first exposure to Fopdom was the Star Trek episode The Squire Of Gothos. I loved that guy. So I guess I was doomed to Foppishness from the tender age of six, when Star Trek originally aired, and Squire Trelaney intoned, "Greetings and Felicitations!"

It must have been hilarious to see a six-year old southern kid drawling, "Greetins' n' feelicitashuns, y'all." I'm sure both my parents and teachers worried about me. The other kids probably just ran away screaming, thinking I was casting voudou hexes at them.

Looking back though, there were previous examples:

Basil Rathbone in various movies was the very essence of Fopisshness, and let's not forget the elegant Fops in such classics as Errol Flynn's Captain Blood. As a young, sensitive redneck I loved those elegant dandies. Most of these Fops, despite their apparent prissiness, were real men--they could handle a sword, ride a horse, and seduce women with the aplomb of Genghis Khan--they just had better fashion sense, smelled extremely nice, and walked with a swagger.

Let me make one thing clear--I'm not a homosexual. But I am metro; I love nice clothes, and the names Hugo Boss and Armani can make my pulse quicken like a teenage girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. I have more skin-and-hair care products than my wife. I attend at least two spa and manicure sessions a month. I apply a medley of scented creams and lotions to my rosy skin. My sensitivities are delicate; I love art, literature, fine music. I relish clever use of language. I cannot abide ill manners; I have low tolerance for the electronic noise that passes for modern music, especially the hideous electronic noise usually accompanied by grunting and profanity euphemistically called "rap."

I think I am a Fop.