Recently, I found myself reading an article about the “Harlem Renaissance”, and its importance in the larger cannon of American Literature. (See how much smarter I sound just by having written that sentence. That is why I “find myself” reading shit like that.)
The individual accomplishments of people like Langston Hughes, Zora Neal Hurston, Gwendolyn Brooks are interesting in their own right, but what really struck my intellectual fancy was that these people were all friends, neighbors. It is like if the stars of Sesame Street were all black and not puppets. Instead of Grover singing about “Near and Far”, W. E. B. Dubois is explaining how “Honkey is a Big Dick Donkey”, while Oscar the Grouch and Elmo slip into verse, praying to break free from the big white hand shoved up their asses.
I am kidding, obviously, but the idea of a cultural revolution, one fed by the ideas and interests of those surrounding you really got me thinking. Based on my own life and experiences, what kind of change am I putting in place? Will my friends and I be the next great political minds and /or agents of social reform?
No. Not unless that change concerns watching a monkey eat its on feces on YouTube or measuring just how much a person can drink before having to “break the seal.”
F! My life is pointless! Langston Hughes spent his mid – 20’s rubbing shoulders with Duke Ellington and influential leaders, while my best friend Nick can sustain a single fart for over a minute and my friend Greg considers his days successful if he can go the whole time without calling someone “the c word.”
It’s not that I don’t love my friends; I think they’re great. It just when I compare my group of contemporaries with others throughout history – the Harlem Renaissance, the Romantics, the American Expatriates, that very special season of the Mickey Mouse Club from the early 1990’s - I feel a little inferior.
Don’t get me wrong, the “We Love Barrack” buttons pinned to our hipster satchels and our never-ending mindless facts about bands no one’s ever heard of is pretty damn important, but I am afraid it is not enough. I mean, I buy organic vegetables and have gay friends. What more can I possibly do? And it’s not like we can excuse ourselves because we are attractive or bubbly like those people on the TV show Friends; we’re ugly and our apartments suck.
It has not always been this way, however. I remember in high school being convinced that my group of friends and me were all a Barbara Walters’ Special in the making. 20 years from now sociologists would be dumfounded by the success and contributions that came from this tight-knit group of friends. Gwen was going to be a famous writer, Teresa the first female president. Matt was going to be a brain surgeon, Eric would be David Letterman, and Nick was just going to be rich and do it with a bunch of hot girls.
As for me, I was going to be a famous actor, but not of the blockbuster film variety. I didn’t want to sell – out, so I was just going to stick with Edward Norton or Phillip Seymour Hoffman fame. A popular movie or two interspersed between my serious “indie projects.” I learned from People Magazine that real actors do not work on films, they work on “projects.” You know the ones with lots of dialogue about sex and being unsatisfied with the “monotony of the modern condition.”
Her hair golden and inflated, sitting back in her chair, hand delicately supporting her chin, Barbara Walters, Babs really, leans forward in her pale pink pant suit, and says, “Well, I have to ask the question everyone has been wondering: How did this ever happen? How did such a close group of friends find this much success?” Seated together on an beige, overstuffed couch, we all laugh humbly, excited to be recognized for our accomplishments and to reunite with one another after all of these years.
Cut to a montage of old yearbook photos, certificates and awards. Barbara’s voice looms over the sentimental music as she introduces each of us and explains our story. The next day we are all over the papers, featured in magazines and editorials. O Magazine runs a feature story about me that begins with “Sitting down with Josh Clark over sparkling water and a lemon salad, I get right to the tough question: What’s next for this boy wonder?”
What the hell happened? Where is my 20/20 interview??
It’s not that my friends aren’t successful; everyone is doing great, but we’re sure as hell not taking calls from Oprah’s people.
In the end, though, I guess this is how it happens. The demands of the real world can deflate even the most certain of dreams. I know in my case what amounted to “groundbreaking talent” in Collierville, Tennessee translated into a loud voice and flamboyant undertones on the college stage.
It’s not too late, however. We should make a change, take a stand! Maybe we can save some gay baby seals from dying in Iraq or write important poetry about what it’s like to be white males.
We can do this, we can make a difference!
Oh, what you’d just say? You Netflixed The Big Lebowski and bought a six pack of some pretentious Czechoslovakian beer that tastes like cat urine? Well fuck, we can get started on the rest of this shit tomorrow. Pop that bitch in the DVD player my friend.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Masculinity & Me
The other day a friend and I ventured out to see the new Batman movie. After negotiating through long ticket lines and promising the soul of my first born child for over-salted popcorn and a giant cup of ice colored with a splash of Coke, we found our way to the back of a very crowded theatre. Being opening weekend, even our Sunday matinee was jammed, leaving very few available seats. Finally, we secured two spaces in the very last row of theatre, and as I began to make myself comfortable, I noticed the two guys in front of us were sitting with a seat in-between them.
By the way they were talking and joking with one another, it was obvious they were at the movie together. Cloaked in camouflage shorts and “The South’s Gonna do it Again” t-shirts, they were dressed as if they had confused this mega-plex movie theatre with a gun show or some type of convention where one buys fishing tackle while hating black people.
Watching as families and couples searched desperately from the front of the theatre for adjoining seats, I leaned over to my friend Jason and asked, “Why won’t these guys just sit together?” Without a moment’s hesitation he looked at me and sagely explained “Because that would be gay.”
Ah, yes, of course, the old “that would be gay” stream of logic.
If you are unfamiliar with this train of thought, just ask your closest straight, guy friend. For many of them, much of their lives are dictated by avoiding that which would be gay. Now while this might sound homophobic and asinine, I assure you it is. But it is also more complicated than it seems. You see, straight men’s avoidance of that which would be gay has little to do with sexuality and is more a question of masculinity. In the world of the hip, where men can carry satchels, gel their hair, and appreciate Tori Amos and yet still dig chicks, men must adopt new mediums to express their manliness.
A great example of this phenomenon is the politics and negotiations of the men’s room. While women travel to the bathroom in clans and have no problem painting each other’s nails as they pee, it is a solitary experience for a man. Small cramped bathrooms are the worst. If there is a line, where do you stand? Where do you look? What kind of small talk is appropriate when other men are holding their penises? Do real men wash their hands? And if so do they use soap? The questions abound!
Now, I will admit I may be a little more paranoid about this issue than most. You see, I often find myself insufficiently masculine. When surrounded by a group of “guy’s guys” I never know what to do. I feel as if there is a secret language or understood behavior that I somehow missed learning during adolescence. I think it might have been covered during 7th grade gym when I sat out because I had a note from my mom explaining my skin’s sensitivity to sweat. Or maybe it was during recess when the other boys played “run around and beat the shit out of each other”, while I was sitting under a tree reading Are You there God? It’s Me, Margaret.
Regardless of when it happened, I am clearly missing something.
For instance, I went out the other day for some drinks with my boss and an enclave of all male co-workers. The conversation snaked through topics such as Bret Favre’s still undecided fate with the Green Bay Packers, the recent NBA draft, and everyone’s speculations about the upcoming college football season. I of course sat silent. Downing my Chardonnay and thinking I needed to start recording Sports Center, the conversation suddenly took a turn for the better. My boss asked if anyone watched Big Brother and how they felt about the dramatic events of the past few weeks. Yes, finally something I could talk about: reality TV! Waiting patiently for an appropriate pause in the conversation, I pounced on my opportunity. With my best attempt at a deep voice, I added, “Oh yeah. And did y’all catch this week’s Project Runway? Can you believe Wesley tried to make that dress with that tacky brown Satin?”
Silence.
Ok, so I admit, a show about fashion designers might not be the archetype of masculinity. But who knew it was acceptable to discuss a show were a bunch of shirtless pretty boys sit around and gossip all day and then sleep in the same room, but Heidi Klum and a bunch of half naked female models, that’s gay! You see what I mean? There is no way this is a instinctive understanding that all men share; there must have been a class!
I like to think I am getting better though. Just the other day I spent all day swishing my toes within my shoes because they would not stop itching. When I got home and took off my socks, I discovered some type of bubbly fungus in the crevices of my feet. My mind immediately leaping to rare foot cancers or bird flu, I insisted my fiancé come into the bathroom and examine my feet. After only a passing glance, she began to giggle and told me to relax. “It’s only Athlete’s Foot” she said.
That’s right ladies and gentleman, Athlete’s Foot…..You can’t get any more masculine than that!
If A is equal to B and B is equal to C, that meant I could only contract Athlete’s Foot if I am…..that’s right, a mother fucking athlete! Who’s afraid to climb the rope in gym class because it gives him a funny feeling in his stomach now?
I am finally a man.
By the way they were talking and joking with one another, it was obvious they were at the movie together. Cloaked in camouflage shorts and “The South’s Gonna do it Again” t-shirts, they were dressed as if they had confused this mega-plex movie theatre with a gun show or some type of convention where one buys fishing tackle while hating black people.
Watching as families and couples searched desperately from the front of the theatre for adjoining seats, I leaned over to my friend Jason and asked, “Why won’t these guys just sit together?” Without a moment’s hesitation he looked at me and sagely explained “Because that would be gay.”
Ah, yes, of course, the old “that would be gay” stream of logic.
If you are unfamiliar with this train of thought, just ask your closest straight, guy friend. For many of them, much of their lives are dictated by avoiding that which would be gay. Now while this might sound homophobic and asinine, I assure you it is. But it is also more complicated than it seems. You see, straight men’s avoidance of that which would be gay has little to do with sexuality and is more a question of masculinity. In the world of the hip, where men can carry satchels, gel their hair, and appreciate Tori Amos and yet still dig chicks, men must adopt new mediums to express their manliness.
A great example of this phenomenon is the politics and negotiations of the men’s room. While women travel to the bathroom in clans and have no problem painting each other’s nails as they pee, it is a solitary experience for a man. Small cramped bathrooms are the worst. If there is a line, where do you stand? Where do you look? What kind of small talk is appropriate when other men are holding their penises? Do real men wash their hands? And if so do they use soap? The questions abound!
Now, I will admit I may be a little more paranoid about this issue than most. You see, I often find myself insufficiently masculine. When surrounded by a group of “guy’s guys” I never know what to do. I feel as if there is a secret language or understood behavior that I somehow missed learning during adolescence. I think it might have been covered during 7th grade gym when I sat out because I had a note from my mom explaining my skin’s sensitivity to sweat. Or maybe it was during recess when the other boys played “run around and beat the shit out of each other”, while I was sitting under a tree reading Are You there God? It’s Me, Margaret.
Regardless of when it happened, I am clearly missing something.
For instance, I went out the other day for some drinks with my boss and an enclave of all male co-workers. The conversation snaked through topics such as Bret Favre’s still undecided fate with the Green Bay Packers, the recent NBA draft, and everyone’s speculations about the upcoming college football season. I of course sat silent. Downing my Chardonnay and thinking I needed to start recording Sports Center, the conversation suddenly took a turn for the better. My boss asked if anyone watched Big Brother and how they felt about the dramatic events of the past few weeks. Yes, finally something I could talk about: reality TV! Waiting patiently for an appropriate pause in the conversation, I pounced on my opportunity. With my best attempt at a deep voice, I added, “Oh yeah. And did y’all catch this week’s Project Runway? Can you believe Wesley tried to make that dress with that tacky brown Satin?”
Silence.
Ok, so I admit, a show about fashion designers might not be the archetype of masculinity. But who knew it was acceptable to discuss a show were a bunch of shirtless pretty boys sit around and gossip all day and then sleep in the same room, but Heidi Klum and a bunch of half naked female models, that’s gay! You see what I mean? There is no way this is a instinctive understanding that all men share; there must have been a class!
I like to think I am getting better though. Just the other day I spent all day swishing my toes within my shoes because they would not stop itching. When I got home and took off my socks, I discovered some type of bubbly fungus in the crevices of my feet. My mind immediately leaping to rare foot cancers or bird flu, I insisted my fiancé come into the bathroom and examine my feet. After only a passing glance, she began to giggle and told me to relax. “It’s only Athlete’s Foot” she said.
That’s right ladies and gentleman, Athlete’s Foot…..You can’t get any more masculine than that!
If A is equal to B and B is equal to C, that meant I could only contract Athlete’s Foot if I am…..that’s right, a mother fucking athlete! Who’s afraid to climb the rope in gym class because it gives him a funny feeling in his stomach now?
I am finally a man.
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