The "Dad" Look

As you know, I'm experimenting with the classic "dad" look for my stage clothes. This is based on the idea my show business theory of exaggerating yourself. Since I'm a dad, I thought that's what I should look like - taken to the extreme. My models are the dads of the 50s and 60s, as typified by Ward Cleaver. I also studied old photos of my grandfather, too, who effortlessly mastered this look. When he died, I got his collection of bolo ties. My favorite features a scorpion encased in clear plastic. I also found inspiration in studying the movie Cocoon, particularly the outfits of the Don Ameche character.
This is America, so dressing bad on purpose is easy, since the junk shops and yard sales are well stocked with hideous style cast offs. It's sort of like we're "molting" regularly, shedding godawful fashions which will be replaced by even more appalling style violations, such as cargo pants. The problem is in executing the "dad" look with original flair, as opposed to just looking like I grabbed the first petrolium-based outfit I saw at the Salvation Army store.
The real problem has been executing the Full Cleveland: the classic old guy pairing of the white belt and white shoes. The vintage and second-hand shop Cheap Thrills had a rack full of white belts, but I still can't find the perfect pair of gag-inducing vynil white loafers. I may have to make do with a pair of leather Vans slip-ons, but since these are actually hip now, this is the fashion equivalent of hitting a wrong note in the middle of the big solo.
The photo shows a real find: a pair of vintage dad glasses. I replaced the lenses and - voila - the look that launched a thousand lectures on "responsibility" and "doing the right thing." It's amazing. Slipping on these frames, I instantly starting thinking and talking like all the adult male relatives from my childhood. I've experienced total recall lot of great dad phrases I heard in the childhood, from "I'll give you something to cry about" to "You'd better stop acting like a monkey and get on the stick."
I plan to unveil this at our big show at the Hilltop Tavern this Friday, Feb. 16, from 8 p.m. to midnight. I have no idea if people will get it, or simply be confused. I can't wait until I qualify to join AARP next year. Maybe they'll sposor us. We can have a table and sign people up at every show.
When Tommy Dunbar, former teen pop idol and Rubinoos co-founder, turned fifty last year, he qualified for all kinds of great benefits. I'm insanely jealous and I'm counting the days when I can start suckling at the engorged teat of our nation's many "senior discount" programs. Tommy and I produce jingles for several Indian Casinos in Northern California. On a recent client visit to Rolling Hills Casino, Tommy realized he qualified for the senior half-price discount at the buffet. He had to sign up for the Shasta Club player's card. But what's a few minutes of paperwork compared to the delights of the all-you-can-eat buffet for less than five dollars? I had to pay full price. As we pushed our trays through the line, I told Tommy, "I know you're a vegetarian and everything, but I've seen the budget on this job and the only way we can make a profit is if you eat about five hundred dollars of Salisbury Steak right now."
Tommy ignored this advice, but we did eat two desserts apiece. Tommy still carries his Shasta Club card in his wallet next to his driver's license so it's ready for immediate deployment the next time we visit Rolling Hills.
Of course, I'm also practicing daily for a the next gig. After all, I haven't forgotten this is a musical event, not a fashion show. So, if you have any urge to watch some guy who looks like your grandfather sing "Rattle Snake Shake," which is a song that tastefully deals with the subect of masturbation, be there!