ELECTRIC GRAPEVINE: Searching for a Man's Man
By Nik Green
What really is a “man’s man,” and why does it sound so homoerotic when it’s supposed to mean the inverse? I have thought about this over the years as I postulate what might have been if I’d picked up a hammer and not a camera or learned a trade and not an art. The little perks and nuances that come with being a man’s man are the only reasons I have even debated my route through life. A couple of days ago I was reminded of this fading thought process as I helped someone unload a few boxes from a double parked truck. Time was of the essence as it was parked in a bus stop so we hurried through the offloading. As I pulled the last box from the truck I felt compelled to slap the side of the truck bed as it left. The driver knew I had finished unloading as I’d closed the tailgate so to signal was redundant. “That’s not enough though,” I thought. Perhaps a swift paneling of the truck will cap this manly process. Well, as I went to hit the truck he began to drive off, leaving the process feeling unfinished. So I ran after the truck and hit it. Okay, it was more of a slap. In fact it was more akin to Richard Simmons trying to spook a horse. I think I even lifted my right leg back. “Well, that backfired,” I thought. A day later I found myself conversing with an abrasive, veteran geezer about military terms and items. He became supremely agitated when I was unaware of this special elite unit or whatever he was on about. “Well I guess YOU haven’t done time in the military!” “No Hannabal Smith, I haven’t,” I thought. He took offence to my general disposition, so I decided to ensure that a Christmas card was not forthcoming by adding: “Can’t you tell by my well-manicured hands that I’m an artist and not some grunt?” “Ahh, so you HAVEN”T served,” “Served? Hah, I haven’t even thrown a hammer,” I replied. His response was curt and brief, my desired effect had taken hold and he went away. Minutes later a friend would point out that the surly old wetbag was missing a good portion of his finger. Something I failed to notice when broadcasting the ph balance and soft qualities of my art loving digits. I don’t say this with regret. I could care less what this coot felt about me, and enjoyed irritating him with nothing more than the self-deprecating truth. He likely lost the finger while pointing it at others in disgust, given his overall attitude. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but it’s a digital and virtual 2011, so I don’t need that there Captain or whatever the frig. This verbal genital measuring contest seems to be prevalent in the Manly Man’s world. Nowhere is it more noticeable than in locker rooms. For some reason, every out of shape tradesman feels the need to pontificate about the latest political situations around the world whist wearing only a shirt. Nowhere in my youth was I taught to hang about pant-less in men’s locker rooms, but these dudes seem to thrive on it. The last thing you do as a newcomer is engage them. Not only will the awkwardness be dialed up to ten before any words fly, you may run into the ones who like to finalize their new friendship with a handshake. Nothing upsets an obsessive complusive columnist more than a pant-less man looking for a place to try out his action handshake grip. For whatever reasons the Asian population in Richmond, B.C. seems to take awkward locker room experiences to a new level. A good portion of these men tend to stand on the bench while changing. Not only must that be insanely precarious, it makes for a poor eye level to genital ratio that shouldn’t be the final image of your work out. In my limited knowledge of Asian culture, things like taking your shoes off before entering ones home are practiced. How does that logic compute with raising the elevation of your gentleman’s bits to eye level in a public forum? The majority of the conversations I endure while changing rapidly and exiting the locker rooms are nearly always men bragging about their son’s latest exploits on the ice. This vicarious way of living is damn near a religion in this country. All kids’ dads couldn’t have underachieved at hockey. How is that possible? How are their grades? Do you care? Pride is great and all don’t get me wrong it just seems a ton of people are far more excited about li’l Billy knocking a cross-town player into the boards than they are about the state of his schooling or social life. I’ve tried to understand hockey culture but it’s something you’re born with. I’ve offered up an occasional “How about that game last night?” only to be met with “What game? There was no game last night?” I even obtained my shooting licenses and have done fight training in my youth but none of that matters because a Manly Man doesn’t necessarily mean tough, it’s just a way of life.
Perhaps I am short the requisite level of body hair it must take in order to become one of the “Manly Men”. They seem disappointed when the 33-year-old “man” has as much growth as a pre-teen Swedish girl.
Me, I’m just fine with that as I swirl my colorful girly pop and put the lid on another column by pressing save on my iPad, with my perfectly intact finger.
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