At our Gay Kennedy Compound in the Pines, those May flowers mark the time for outdoor showers! Every year, we spend the first nice weekend in spring scrubbing that outdoor slice of heaven with bleach. And once it sparkles like Leo DeCaprio’s eyes, we back up a UHAUL filled with our lotions and potions and presto, it’s shower time! By Cinco de Mayo, Cinco de Gay-Men-o can lather, scrub, hydrate, shampoo, condition, and polish. We maximize our glow while minimizing our pores.

Our parents—the greatest generation—raised us boomers to have a better life than they did: to get a better education, find our purpose in life and to make a good living.

And then sign our paychecks over to the Body Shop. When I was a kid, the body shop (small b s) was a place Dad took the Chevy after sis had her fourth fender bender. The only things you’d find at the shop were dented cars, Lava soap and under-educated men in over-alls (I wouldn’t cultivate a taste for them for many years to come).

As for beauty aids, at home in the suburban tract house, sitting in the shaky chrome shower caddy your father put together, was a bar of Ivory soap, a glass bottle of Prell Shampoo and Wella Balsam conditioner.

In the medicine cabinet was a tube of Crest toothpaste, a comb (sitting perpendicular in a hair brush), a tube of Bryl Cream, a tube of VO-5, a can of Aqua Net hairspray and a bottle of Old Spice. You don’t need Monty Hall to tell you that the ablutions for the entire bathroom cost about $12, which is what one travel size bottle of Pantene costs today.

"Aromatherapy" was pretty one dimensional during the English Leather period of American history. Men could choose from Brut, Old Spice or—a true slap in the nose, Ja’i Karate. All were battery acid mixed with varying parts of Pine Sol. When Aramis was finally launched in the late ‘60s, it was considered, among southerners, to be used only by commie pinko fags. I bought five bottles.

But out of this woefully inadequate wasteland of Old Spice grew a New Vice: self absorption by Persian Pomegranate Sealing Serum. As I recall, the revolution started with Wella Balsam and Herbal Essence, accelerated with Aloe Vera and Cocoa Butter and the next thing you knew you were spraying yourself with Triple Tan-Extender Emollients.

The torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans—born after World War II, tempered by SPF 15 and disciplined by an abiding fear of pore clogging. What a cornucopia of concoctions we have now!

And at our Pines compound, it’s collectively displayed in a woodsy and manly, yet whimsical and nautical manner. Body butter. Soy paste. Haute hydration.Emollients a go-go. If anyone touches my Detox Recovery Cleanser by Biolage, they’re as dead as the skin cells I’ll scrub off before applying the spray dehydrante.

Oatmeal. Grapefruit. Citrus. Apricot. Persian Peach. I’ll just take my breakfast outside in the eat-in shower. Loofah sponges are fine but just when did we decide to voluntarily sandpaper ourselves with the water running? The first time THE GLOVES—a/k/a five-finger sandpaper torture instruments—appeared in our communal shower, they looked innocuous enough. So while I was rinsing off my apricot scrub, I felt them. Luckily the first aid kit is kept under the bench seat.

As the aspiring esthetician of our compound, I know that if I ever do get into beauty school, I certainly won’t drop out. And if there is ever such a company as Gary Kay Cosmetics, I’d have me a baby blue Cadillac within a month. Then maybe, just maybe by the time I retire I’ll have conquered pyramid marketing and this oily T-Zone.By the way, Botox and Clearasil don’t mix.

I remember one early Saturday evening, when we returned to the compound from North Shores, all greasy, gross and sandy. We discussed who would shower first and more importantly, who would mix the cocktails. As we turned the corner, you could hear La Legend, La Barbra wafting through the windows of the rented house next door. Our neighbors that year were cute and young, an Abercrombie and Fitch fraternity right next door. There wasn’t much activity on the porch but there, in the back yard, were all eight of them playing croquet.

With their hair in towels like Sandra Dee, and each with an avocado facial mask, the sight made me shriek like an animal who had just found his own breed. I ran into the house to get the camera. We photographed them, toasted to their little whimsy, but as they went inside, all I could think was, "Oh my, avocado is for dry skin."

There was no way all eight of those young men had dry skin. And those with oily skin would break out. Surely they should have gone with a citrus base. They would have known that if they’d only checked with their Gary Kay expert next door.

Some of you readers may think this column is totally self absorbed. Poppycock! You want self absorbed? Clinique has this fabulous night repair soy serum…