The Decline of Men, by some fella with the apropos handle of "Guy" Garcia, seems to have a few men in a tizzy -- mostly those living comfortably in Hugo Boss underwear and pressed pants in Manhattan. But before I dive in, it's interesting to note that Garcia is spanish for "mighty with a spear."
So, the author's name is really "guy with a mighty spear."
Ah... Yeah. I'm not making this stuff up.
Anyway, this dude with a mighty spear is throwing up quite an argument about how men are slowly outliving their traditional usefulness. My real question is: when were we ever useful? We have long been a self-indulgent bunch. Aside from a few nifty inventions like dynamite, the lightbulb, Harrier jets, Big Bertha drivers, Scotch and Hooters, we've mostly spent the past 10,000+ years killing animals and each other and then glorifying these exploits in bad poetry.
When you couple Senor Garcia's views with the latest brain research revealing that love is nothing more than a surge in seratonin in several small areas of the brain and can be controlled with medication (the scientist leading this research is a woman, by the way), then it's probably time to just throw in the golf towel. Men are toast. It's only a matter of time before stem cell research definitively shows that it makes little economic sense for us to make it past the first trimester before being harvested for our chromosomes. Somewhere in the world, some brainiac is putting together a gene bank that will allow women in the future to simply shop for the DNA they desire along with a wide variety of implantation methods that does not involve perspiring or post coitus tristis.
Does it strike you that for all of the scientific advances we are uncovering we are regressing as a species? We are learning very quickly how to deconstruct ourselves. It's frightening. But, as a man, I am not going to give up with out a fight. If we could make it a pillow fight with female opponents in bikins, then I think I might stand a chance of at least meeting my maker with a cheesy smile on my face. If the opponents could be female Scandinavian cheerleaders, all the better.
My Y Chromosome brothers, we must consider that if we are going to be marginalized to the point of eventual liquidation, we might as well enjoy ourselves. We better be doing it quickly as the world's gone completely mad. I do think some of our behavior could actually help us out of this recession. Therefore, I believe we can be useful after all.
A recent University of Pennsylvania study of shopping habits claims that women tend to browse around, “gathering” up the best from various sources and enjoying the experience, while men tend to buy, going straight in for the “kill.” What we need is more buying and less browsing to get us out of this rut. Maybe this ancient behavioral difference will keep us around for a while longer than we expect.
I'll drink to that!
Friday, February 13, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
Cabin Fever Remedies. Yes to Donuts. Hold the Hot Chocolate.
Day 5 in the house while a rare snow storm waxes and wanes outside...
We've now sledded to the point where we simply don't want to sled anymore. When you really think about it, that's kinda sad. But, there it is. We have had an overabundance of winter fun and now we'd just like for the snow to go away. School has been closed for over a week and as Christmas approaches, there's no end (or relief) in sight for Daddy to perform his duties as the "other child" in the house.
"Why don't you go out and help the kids build a snow man?," my wife suggests. Actually, it's more insistent than suggested. I've been enjoying working in my pajamas and have not taken a shower in three days. It feels absolutely fabulous. This is really livin' brother. But, all good moments must come to an end. Besides, I think I am starting to smell myself. Nah. That doesn't happen until at least the fifth day. Too late. My wife hands me my coat.
So, I cobble together a winter outfit and head outside. It's cold. It's snowing. It's quiet. It's a Robert Frost moment soon broken. The kids come tumbling out of the house. They sure look darn cute in their snow gear. Within minutes the laments ring out from the small to the tall.
"The snow is in my eyes."
"My gloves don't fit."
"I need to go to the bathroom."
"I have snow in my boots."
"Let's go to Starbucks, Daddy."
My replies in succession:
Then close them.
So, put your hands in your pockets.
You'll have to hold it or go in your pants.
Well, take them off and shake it out. Geez.
Aw hell yeah.
The back door opens. "I heard you say you are going to Starbucks?" my wife chides. "No donuts. No chocolate milk or hot chocolate. The kids don't need all of that sugar." Wait for it. Here it comes. "And neither do you." Right on time.
Well, what's the fun of going to Starbucks if you can't have a donut? I keep that thought to myself and return the question with the familiar refrain of every happily married male on the planet "Yes, dear."
I order the donuts anyway. But, I stop short on the hot chocolate. Too messy to clean up when they spill it all over themselves. Also, hot chocolate sticks to things like scarves, jackets and mouths. Too much evidence. Donut traces are easily concealed. I don't think my wife has one of those blue light thingys you see on CSI, so the donut buying crime will be effectively neutralized.
So I sit with my three progeny in a corner seat at the local Starbucks. The cute nurses from the neighborhood hospital come and go and provide a nice parade of bundled diversions. I have to check them from the corner of my eyes.
Sidebar: Any man who says he does not enjoy watching the girls go by is lying. It's somehow encoded into the DNA. There's no sense me denying it. Besides, let's face it, how obnoxious can I really be with three donut-chomping children sitting 'round me. I have kept man written all over my body. Which is fine with me. I like my wife. She's funny. And beautiful. And talented. I dearly love her. She's reading this. I'm not stupid, much.
And so as we tromp back to our wintry home here in the city, three wee ones in tow and a hot cup of coffee in my gloved hand, I am grateful for the moment. It's quiet. It's snowing. And, the sugar buzz is now firmly calming my children. Robert Frost could not have painted a better picture.
We've now sledded to the point where we simply don't want to sled anymore. When you really think about it, that's kinda sad. But, there it is. We have had an overabundance of winter fun and now we'd just like for the snow to go away. School has been closed for over a week and as Christmas approaches, there's no end (or relief) in sight for Daddy to perform his duties as the "other child" in the house.
"Why don't you go out and help the kids build a snow man?," my wife suggests. Actually, it's more insistent than suggested. I've been enjoying working in my pajamas and have not taken a shower in three days. It feels absolutely fabulous. This is really livin' brother. But, all good moments must come to an end. Besides, I think I am starting to smell myself. Nah. That doesn't happen until at least the fifth day. Too late. My wife hands me my coat.
So, I cobble together a winter outfit and head outside. It's cold. It's snowing. It's quiet. It's a Robert Frost moment soon broken. The kids come tumbling out of the house. They sure look darn cute in their snow gear. Within minutes the laments ring out from the small to the tall.
"The snow is in my eyes."
"My gloves don't fit."
"I need to go to the bathroom."
"I have snow in my boots."
"Let's go to Starbucks, Daddy."
My replies in succession:
Then close them.
So, put your hands in your pockets.
You'll have to hold it or go in your pants.
Well, take them off and shake it out. Geez.
Aw hell yeah.
The back door opens. "I heard you say you are going to Starbucks?" my wife chides. "No donuts. No chocolate milk or hot chocolate. The kids don't need all of that sugar." Wait for it. Here it comes. "And neither do you." Right on time.
Well, what's the fun of going to Starbucks if you can't have a donut? I keep that thought to myself and return the question with the familiar refrain of every happily married male on the planet "Yes, dear."
I order the donuts anyway. But, I stop short on the hot chocolate. Too messy to clean up when they spill it all over themselves. Also, hot chocolate sticks to things like scarves, jackets and mouths. Too much evidence. Donut traces are easily concealed. I don't think my wife has one of those blue light thingys you see on CSI, so the donut buying crime will be effectively neutralized.
So I sit with my three progeny in a corner seat at the local Starbucks. The cute nurses from the neighborhood hospital come and go and provide a nice parade of bundled diversions. I have to check them from the corner of my eyes.
Sidebar: Any man who says he does not enjoy watching the girls go by is lying. It's somehow encoded into the DNA. There's no sense me denying it. Besides, let's face it, how obnoxious can I really be with three donut-chomping children sitting 'round me. I have kept man written all over my body. Which is fine with me. I like my wife. She's funny. And beautiful. And talented. I dearly love her. She's reading this. I'm not stupid, much.
And so as we tromp back to our wintry home here in the city, three wee ones in tow and a hot cup of coffee in my gloved hand, I am grateful for the moment. It's quiet. It's snowing. And, the sugar buzz is now firmly calming my children. Robert Frost could not have painted a better picture.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Why are some father's so insensitive?
I was driving back from a meeting recently with a group of fathers. All of us have kids under the age of 11. We got to laughing our asses off at how it seems to be a universal phenomenon that fathers can watch their children fall or hurt themselves with an almost detached sense of amazement. Yet, our wives have some sixth sense for anticipating an accident even before it happens.
What is in our genetic wiring that would allow us to hold back for the moment when our child goes ass over teacups off their scooter? Our brains are saying just seconds beforehand that this is going to be interesting, if not permanently debilitating. So, we hold back. We pause. And as we do, inevitably, our wives are behind us screaming "What the hell are you doing just standing there? Little Bobby just skinned his knee with that stunt and you are standing there like a stump."
Well, honey, the reason for the hesitation is that we knew Little Bobby was not going to be permanently scarred. Somehow in that moment of hesitation we made a decision that he'd survive it, would be taught a lesson and we'd get the vicarious enjoyment of seeing something queerly amusing. For the same reason we watch sports -- to see people get hurt -- we also have a genetic predisposition to watching our children make small physical errors.
For those of you inclined to see child abuse in this, I can assure you that the judgment to pummel the life out of anyone who would seek to hurt our children is well-ingrained too. I'm not talking about watching our children stick a wet electrical plug into a wall socket. I'm talking about small disasters like you'd see on America's Funniest Home Videos. These moments, though, are purely our own.
I watched my three year old running pell mell down a hill recently (on the grass). As his feet began to move beyond his brain's ability to process the data necessary for coordination, I hesitated knowing full well he was about to receive an intimate introduction to a mouthful of fine fescue park grass. Sure enough, as if in a dream, he did a perfect arm-splayed forward fall landing precisely on his face.
The grass was in his mouth, his hair, down his shirt and all over the palms of his hands. Moments before he had known an experience of pure human bliss. Flying down that hill at top speed, legs moving, golden hair flying, screaming as if he'd just won an Olympic Gold Medal. Now he was stretched out like a spit-ready suckling pig gasping for breath through a flood of tears.
"Your'e ok, buddy," I said, lifting him off the turf and rubbing bits of grass out of his mouth with the corner of my shirt.
"Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"
"Daddy's got you. You're ok, sweet boy."
"Waaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
I lift him up in my arms. I hug and comfort him and he begins to calm down. We begin slowly walking home. And as we enter the back porch door. There's my wife.
"What the hell happened? I heard the screaming three blocks away. Were you even watching him?"
"Yes, dear. Of course I was watching him."
And so it goes.
What is in our genetic wiring that would allow us to hold back for the moment when our child goes ass over teacups off their scooter? Our brains are saying just seconds beforehand that this is going to be interesting, if not permanently debilitating. So, we hold back. We pause. And as we do, inevitably, our wives are behind us screaming "What the hell are you doing just standing there? Little Bobby just skinned his knee with that stunt and you are standing there like a stump."
Well, honey, the reason for the hesitation is that we knew Little Bobby was not going to be permanently scarred. Somehow in that moment of hesitation we made a decision that he'd survive it, would be taught a lesson and we'd get the vicarious enjoyment of seeing something queerly amusing. For the same reason we watch sports -- to see people get hurt -- we also have a genetic predisposition to watching our children make small physical errors.
For those of you inclined to see child abuse in this, I can assure you that the judgment to pummel the life out of anyone who would seek to hurt our children is well-ingrained too. I'm not talking about watching our children stick a wet electrical plug into a wall socket. I'm talking about small disasters like you'd see on America's Funniest Home Videos. These moments, though, are purely our own.
I watched my three year old running pell mell down a hill recently (on the grass). As his feet began to move beyond his brain's ability to process the data necessary for coordination, I hesitated knowing full well he was about to receive an intimate introduction to a mouthful of fine fescue park grass. Sure enough, as if in a dream, he did a perfect arm-splayed forward fall landing precisely on his face.
The grass was in his mouth, his hair, down his shirt and all over the palms of his hands. Moments before he had known an experience of pure human bliss. Flying down that hill at top speed, legs moving, golden hair flying, screaming as if he'd just won an Olympic Gold Medal. Now he was stretched out like a spit-ready suckling pig gasping for breath through a flood of tears.
"Your'e ok, buddy," I said, lifting him off the turf and rubbing bits of grass out of his mouth with the corner of my shirt.
"Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"
"Daddy's got you. You're ok, sweet boy."
"Waaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
I lift him up in my arms. I hug and comfort him and he begins to calm down. We begin slowly walking home. And as we enter the back porch door. There's my wife.
"What the hell happened? I heard the screaming three blocks away. Were you even watching him?"
"Yes, dear. Of course I was watching him."
And so it goes.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Question Number 1: What do Dad's really want?
What do men really want? It's an age old question. I'm here to answer a version of it: What do Dad's really want?
Dad's generally want to be left alone to
a) scratch themselves in private spots,
b) work in their shop or on their hobby,
c) read the paper (preferably in the bath room) and/or
d) watch the girls at the park or the mall or some other public venue.
Dad's are kind of like caged elephant's. Sure they like to entertain the kids and show off occasionally. Most of the time, though, they just prefer hanging out near the food and getting hosed down by some attractive zoo keeper.
Note to the women in our lives: We were simple creatures when you married us. As father's we are even simpler. No need to guess what's on our mind. Here's what's on our mind: Nothing.
For all of you Mom's looking for advice on how to deal with the "other child" in your life, this blog is for you. I am a full-blooded American man complete with a few extra pounds, an over-inflated sense of my own opinion and a southerner's sense of the absurd. I won't pretend to know the latest pyschological theory for why we are wired the way we are. I believe that if we get our asses out of bed on time in the morning, then we are probably ok. I am hoping that you will come to see the wisdom in that.
I've been on the planet for 45 years, so am old enough to know some things and young enough to think I still know more than I do. I'm gonna push your buttons to be sure. So, don't come here looking for a warm cyber hug. I plan to dish out advice with blunt force opinion. I invite my fellow father's to join in.
Dad's generally want to be left alone to
a) scratch themselves in private spots,
b) work in their shop or on their hobby,
c) read the paper (preferably in the bath room) and/or
d) watch the girls at the park or the mall or some other public venue.
Dad's are kind of like caged elephant's. Sure they like to entertain the kids and show off occasionally. Most of the time, though, they just prefer hanging out near the food and getting hosed down by some attractive zoo keeper.
Note to the women in our lives: We were simple creatures when you married us. As father's we are even simpler. No need to guess what's on our mind. Here's what's on our mind: Nothing.
For all of you Mom's looking for advice on how to deal with the "other child" in your life, this blog is for you. I am a full-blooded American man complete with a few extra pounds, an over-inflated sense of my own opinion and a southerner's sense of the absurd. I won't pretend to know the latest pyschological theory for why we are wired the way we are. I believe that if we get our asses out of bed on time in the morning, then we are probably ok. I am hoping that you will come to see the wisdom in that.
I've been on the planet for 45 years, so am old enough to know some things and young enough to think I still know more than I do. I'm gonna push your buttons to be sure. So, don't come here looking for a warm cyber hug. I plan to dish out advice with blunt force opinion. I invite my fellow father's to join in.
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