Real Men

On Being a Man

It is common knowledge that real men don’t eat quiche, just as it is equally understood that real women don’t pump gas.  Certain things are just not done and certain social barriers are not crossed. We are also told that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. Real Men watch action movies with chase scenes and gratuitous sex, lots of gratuitous sex, they value their stoic independence, they take Viagra, they are masters of the barbecue, a carry over from our Neanderthal heritage, and real men don’t eat vegetables.

Apparently, there are differences between the sexes.  I’m not talking about the basic anatomical differences, such as large, voluptuous, firm breasts with exciting parabolic curves, or wrap around legs that go on forever, thick hair with that wild come hither look with a Jennifer Lopez ass. Those are all superficial trappings that men don’t even think about more than once every three seconds.  I really want to say something meaningful about the male side of the equation, real men versus “Betty Crocker” men.

At first I thought real men drink lots of beer and constantly watch sports. Talk about sports.  Read sports magazines and sometimes get off the couch and play sports or to get more beer.  That of course is a crude and unfair stereotype that doesn’t apply to more than 90% of the male population. 

At my place of employment there are several guys who live and breathe sports. I can rarely take part in any of the conversations.  Every since the NHL recently expanded from 6 teams I am no longer with the program or in any way in the sports loop.   These guys know the names and stats on every pro and college team in Canada and the United states in any sport.  They can talk at length, and usually do, about any combination of these teams and their players.  With this almost infinite knowledge they are able to bet and lose large sums of money each and every week end.

In some sports related conversations I can ask certain innocuous and generic questions concerning the half time shows, a theoretical question on violence in amateur and pro hockey versus the non contact Olympic-type hockey.  I know I am actually better advised to stay out of these conversations as I usually get evil impatience looks or polite superficial answers to my lame questions and/or comments, which led me to question my masculinity which in turn resulted in 3 years of expensive and intensive therapy.  I don’t talk sports any more.

Through therapy I learned that everybody needs it and every one can benefit from it in some way.  We are all screwed up to some degree.  My masculinity was not necessarily in question.  My “puck envy” was not really an issue.  There are lots of things that real men can do and talk about as long as it doesn’t have anything to do with feelings, emotions, monthly cycles of any type, budgeting and household chores.  Otherwise we can bo chatty about most anything.  Let me give you an example.

It will come to me.

Moving on.  Men do like to talk about their sexual exploits either real or imagined.  These stories often go back to university days if they attended, or high school days if they did not.  Most of this type of conversation can be heard in men’s locker rooms. I’m talking private racquet clubs, various fitness clubs including the YMCA.  Men will also talk about business and investments.  As a group, men like to boast about accomplishments of a physical nature, or in the business world. We seem to be busy preening our feathers in mating rituals and bragging quite a lot of the time.  

Many of my friends are coincidently my age.  I’m not sure how that happened, but there seems to be a statistically pattern.  They all use Viagra and trade pills back and forth like kids playing with marbles.  I was amazed as they were with me, for my not using this miracle drug.  Not that I actually need it mind you, but it could come in handy in some sort of emergency like having a spare tire or an extra set of keys.   I tried to get my doctor to prescribe Viagra for me once, but I suffer from a rare syndrome called candor and honesty.  After answering all of his questions with candor and honesty my doctor determined that I did not suffer from any manner of erectile dysfunction and that I should be quite pleased with my performance to date. I felt like I was some sort of a sordid circus act in one of those peep show tents. Although I’m told there are places in San Francisco where you can actually pay to see live sex shows, or maybe I saw that in 9 and a half weeks.  You know one of those movies with lots of gratuitous sex.  Although I don’t recall any chase scenes.

While living on my own for several years I had to develop domestic survival skills. One day I found myself in the laundry room of my apartment.  A place I have learned to hate with a passion.  Sorting laundry seems to be such a simple thing to do.  I will now sort the laundry. I will put lights here and darks here.  Although I am pleased to report that I have discovered where all the missing socks go, but I’m not telling.  In my laundry room there is a large sorting table in the geographic center of the room. In fact the whole place is very organized; all the driers along one wall and all the washer along another wall, creating the amusing situation in which one has to remove the wash from one side of the room and some how transport it to the other side of the room some 15 feet away.  This to me just seems like a waste of time and effort as does the whole washing process.  What ever happened to that Japanese idea of making clothing out paper and just throwing it away, or if there is a stain get it out with an eraser.  

I place all my cloths on this gigantic sorting table and began sorting.  In the best of light I defy anyone to identify at least 7 times out of 10 a blue sock from a black one.  I can not do this.  However, the elderly, legally blind lady on the other side of the sorting table miraculously “seeing” my problem was able to help me with my dilemma.  I was both amazed and appreciative. I value my independence while still depending on a blind octogenarian to sort my wash.  Go figure.

Fishing trips are a time and a place for men to express their maleness in it highest form.  It is a time to drink, eat food out of a can, sleep, trade stories and lewd jokes and fart in public, constantly.  I was on such a fishing trip as a rite of passage.  It was the opening of trout season in April when it was still too cold to sleep in a tent.  In fact we brought electric space heaters and plugged them and ran them on high for 24 hours a day.  Our tents were toasty warm.  

 The actual fishermen amongst us got up before the break of dawn.  Dawn broke for me at my convenience because I had my own tent and heater and did not fish.  I heard the other guys get up in the dark and stumble and swear as they bumped into things and each other before making their way to the river only a few hundred meters away.  At the river they would bait their hooks with some miserable dew worm that really did not want to die even if it was of a Hindu disposition and may come back as say a trout.  What’s the advantage there?  Either way that worm did not have a future.  The guys cast out their lines opened a bottle of beer (the sun was not up yet) and fell asleep in their sleeping backs on the ground or in lounge chairs.  It was a true vision of manly sportsmanship.  Man against nature as god intended.

I eventually wandered by seeking male companionship after waking up some two and a half hours later.  I made a point of photographing everybody sleeping with their beer and later e-mailed the pictures to their wives and girl friends.  I was the only one that thought that was funny. 

No one caught any fish that year.  As I recall no one caught anything more than a few inches long the year before.  It wasn’t about the thrill of the chase.  We were all about male bonding, camaraderie and sharing stories around the camp fire.