Last night I was trying to make use of the lamentable offerings on Roku and found myself on the Conde Nast Channel.
Offerings included a snappy series of style makeover videos hosted by Tom Ford, a handsome fashion designer who once ran Gucci.
In each short, Mr. Ford and a middle-aged editor at GQ appraised a guy who needed stylizing.
An array of schmucks, always under 35, with nice hair and nice jobs, stood in front of a white studio backdrop.
Mr. Ford, tanned, expensive and exfoliated; large glasses, fingers on his chin, looked them up and down.
“You are quite handsome, do you know that? But your eyes have crow feet,” he said to one man.
“You have premature gray hair,” he said to another 30-year-old, “Your eyebrows need trimming. The eyebrows are the architecture of the face.”
Onto these men went layers of Tom Ford clothing: oversized wool turtlenecks, tight jeans, high boots, suede jackets, and strangling scarves.
And upon completion, he would render his verdict based on the men’s new clothes and grooming.
“Now you look like a successful restaurant owner!”
“Now you are ready to be the CEO of the company!”
“If you want to be President in five years this is how you have to dress!”
He delivered his opinions with the confidence of a scientist and the reliability of a psychic.
Who would argue with Mr. Tom Ford, a man of large ego and white teeth, who rode into fame’s frontier pushing brands and image, marketing and makeover, money and manliness?
Perhaps I would.
Well-knotted neckties and well-tailored suits, polished dress shoes and good hair might count for something.
And many live thinking that if I only knew what I wanted to do in five years I could figure it out.
Mr. Ford, no disrespect intended.
But please fuck off. People like you bring us down when you bring us up.
The only expert we need is our own conscience.