By David Scott Evans

In the 70s there were clones. Though a far cry from 90s clean-cut-boy, gym-toned, pectoral perfection, they were as bound by that decade's conventions: blow-dried, lean, mustachioed,-- in short: a look. Swaddled in copy-cat garb these were macho-identified sartorial elitists of a similar sort we see today; they too were primarily interested in only chumming it up with look-alikes. The Clone Look, then and now, was a contrived manifestation of the larger straight world. The Look was appropriated by "oppressed" gays taking back from their straight "oppressors." (pardon the victim's jargon.) Today the 70s clone is viewed with bemused disdain. Maybe wistfully (for those into that sort of thing.) Feminists fretted over internal beauty being relegated to insignificance, disallowing for spiritual growth. They still do. They're probably right. It really didn't matter. The boys kept doing their thing while the world spun on its axis. And the sun rose and set. Then, as night fell, the 70s clone became another bouffant hairdo in gay culture's yearbook. Embarrassing but harmless. 80s/90s gym-clones are no less the caricatures. In a few years, they'll appear as dated, Rod and Bob Jackson/Paris not withstanding. On a darker note, recently, New York magazine featured a cover photo showing a gym-toned stud floating in a pool. The ensuing story detailed the (new?) "beautiful" men who insinuate themselves via looks into the luxury class. The story, focusing on a tiny sector of the gay public, carries tabloid scraps of those few whose aspirations play into an easy-come superficial Peter Pan-ism. (About a million years ago Diana Vreeland in Vogue gushingly dubbed the same types Beautiful People. Back then "thin was in"). These are the hard-partying circuit types. The jet set. The B.Ps of the 90s. Ho-Hum. But even so, out pop the worry warts. Michaelangelo Signorile in his tome Life Outside started fingering his worry beads a few months ago over the steroid studlies who wanna play Beat the Clock with father time. They're setting a bad example. They're on a destructive path. They're on a collision course with…What? Steroid-induced-disease? Drugs? Alcohol? Age? AIDS? They're a group of party boys who--by virtue of a lucky break in the looks department, money, stealth with cultural conscience--if measurable- could be designated in milliliters- could give a rat's red wank what they contribute to society. To them "to be is to do…is enough" These are exactly the boys who should and who'll never read Signorile's book anyhow. First Michelangelo imitates Angelo D'Arcangelo and now he's Carrie Nation? (I know, I'm being "reductive"…) My god, if they want to ride the subway to Hell, all I can say is "Give me a light, a lap dance, and a cocktail on your way down. Oh, and take off that stupid cap!" If they inspire artery-clogged knish consumers to get off their bums on their way, GOOD! All the fewer Augustus Gloops, with whom America's couch is abundantly potatoed. In his punchier OutWeek Days, Signorile expressed a distaste for skinny people who could eat like pigs and not get fat. Could punch possibly have been replaced by paunch? Some sour grapes with that? Come on Mike, lighten up! The ideal gay collective profile isn't to be summed up in a couple decades'narrowly focused physiological meditations. To get worked up over these things is pretty laughable. Anyone who's read a fitness magazine knows, for instance, that there are many variations on perfect washboard abs. Those so devoted must be truly inspired. Some people care about baseball too…Some people even read OUT magazine. As my co-worker used to say in a very funny, studied, drawl: "If that's the kind of one of those you wanted, You sure got a good one." This whole Let's Get Physical clone thing will be looked back upon with as much reverence as the colored hanky code. Sure it exists, but is it pertinent? I got a call from my psychic friend Dionne who predicts the forever young and "ripped" will age, (if they live), grow fat, lose hair and be replaced by the next generation of deluxe model immortals who will do something entirely similar. Already those of the up-and-coming generation snicker at the self-absorbed queen bulking up like an over-stuffed scarecrow. All we have to do is acknowledge who's scared; we all, eventually, become crows… ________________________________________________________________________ David Scott Evans, a staff writer for Badpuppy's GayToday and for Hotspots, Florida's largest gay print media publication, lives in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. His regularly provocative columns can also be read on the Web at: http://www.hotspotsmagazine.com ___________________________________________________________