The Class of Man
by Elliot Lessing
There is only one class of man. And that is — The Class of Man. Polo knows this. And this Season — note there are no years for The Class of Man as they are Timeless and Arrive at the table, whatever table — Nulla Obligatio. That is, Bearing Zero Obligations. But you know this. You know that everything outside of Timelessness — is a Mystery! Sheer knowable Myth. Now forward.
This Season — Polo Knows You. Like the Pure rain of sunshine knows the crisp shimmerfrost grapes that crack open with a smile in their own fruitful way. Then spray the Wine of Ages onto the supple brandy-burnished fingers of the Sun ranchers, the Mavr’k riders and Muscatine Cowboys as they pinch their way through each frosty ovaline grape until — Perfection! Perfection naturally attuned to the scrub-polished chin of the mustachio’d Country Gentleman — the Genteel Man of The Class of Man! Those Men who live — Supra Corium or Beyond the Leather AND Lather of Latterday Brute Man of the Class of Man, being those who feign not a displeasure at the Pleasures, Cycle & Style of 100% cotton in their daily routine of genteel Modern Day grape-inspecting chores.
Here at Polo, we salute the Young Men of The Class of Man with a green liquified ether of Essence distilled and piped down from the rolling hills of frozen grapes, darker-berry spray wine that fears not 100% Chill nor Hot in the Winter/Cool of Summer’s Day. Quintessential. Essentially dear. Dear. Ol’. Cotton. And This! Buckshot suede aroma mixing heavily with brown sugaree’d BBQ sauce, black charcoal breathing down the sweaty necks of maple-strapped bacon, desert pink tumbleweed winds that bay and howl at the aspirin Moon, leather-swaddl’d with wax’d gung-ho surfboards die-cut, shape’d up then zip’d out of a reel-to-reel lift-off pad built on Jazz-orbiting Beatnik Modern Sensibility in Hippie Malibu Canyon to bleach blonde zitless Malibu surfers paddling against the tide — Contra Granum, Against the Grain, then Bucking the System entirely as their Ho-Daddy nonsense gives way to ripping some curl and Breaking Lamb’s Bread with the Sky Gods of Sky as they become Sexless and Pure and perfectly tanned as to be ogled and longed for by go-go nymphs coppertoned, nearly Of Age and doing The Pony spellbound and bedazzled by The Young Man, The Young Shirtless Man, The Young Shirtless Zitless Breathless Man who spray Ocean Song in defiance and to the amusement of the Sky Gods of Sky — surfing the big Whoa Daddy Big Wave and now here — To amuse the Muses of Malibu and sometimes Venice and maybe even Santa Monica of Artisanal Virginal Waves, kooky long longtrunks and disruptive film crews looking to score — The Action!
The Action! — is in this green glass bottle with the gold round cap. The Action! — O Diaphanous and Soulful Awakening Crowd — The Action! is the golden Elixer Dei! — The Elixir of God! — Enjoyed by The Class of Man — Heartily sung and surfed-out on the canyon cheeks of cowboys, sniffed up non-obliviously by boycrazy bikini-blissed boy toys too Gidget for their own Good, cheek-smacked smartly aboard soon-to-be retail-evading beerbonging Executive types with pre-slashed throats care of their too-close-yet-heroical’lee amateurish close shaves — Daring the Disco with their Eternal razor blade pants and mosquito-stabbing shoes, Eternal Skinny Black Ties tuned-in tightly within their angular Atomic Pink! atomized skinny lapel jackets sporting a Disco Sucks pin Announcing their cool-as-a-cassette Arrival on the dance floor. Video-killing it to The Buggles. Gary Numan’s New Men — Novi Homines scoping Mom’s mascara and pop-locking suavely to M on a Nightflight to New York. London. Paris. Muzik. Everybody Pops My MTV Chick. Living on the ceiling for Maximum Headroom. Lipps Disenchanted and totally Incorporated. Swatch-whirling Pirates romancing Human Leagues of Visages, Adams, Ants, Frankies, Waitresses — and All Romeos in The Void. Tainting a Love Song gone KROQ Soft in our Cells. Save it for Later. Then OD on OMD. Go-Gos go Toto Coelo on your Bananarama. Blancmange Homosapien too. So RELAX — We get The Knack. Totally.
Cuz dude — We’re Dancing!
And Sexless. And the Club smells like Money. That’s Polo. Cuz it’s a Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret. And Classic. And you’re Classic. That’s Polo. And Cool. Like cool button-down 100% cotton shirts on a Summer’s day. Eternal Pinks, Jellybelly Purples, Malibu Sky Picasso Blue. Cuz there’s a Sunset offa Sunset and a firepit in my Heart that is — Way. Too. Cool. Money Cool. Monet Cool. M-M-M-Money Cool.
Sexless affluent-sex-dance-fluids-bottled-up-in-a-slim-dark-emerald-green-glass-bottle kinda cool. And this! The engorged bulbous golden clitoris cap. Polo Knows You.
That’s so cool.
Sorta like preppy New Waves of Cool for The Kids in America. That’s Polo. That’s America.
So cool.
*cue Electricity by OMD and dance — DANCE!