What's Going On With Men?
Once in a while when I’m doing my elderly mall walking exercise, I spot a fella wearing a t-shirt like this:
First off, what is with these t-shirts with an entire paragraph on the back? How long do I have to walk behind you to read all that shit? Do I really want to stand that close to paranoiac just to read the manifesto he had the silk screener at Spencer Gifts whip up for him? Sounds dangerous to my already shaky health.
More importantly, a natural question comes to mind when one reads a shirt like this: are men okay?
Here’s the thing: we’re really not. And we haven’t ever been. And women are the ones who have to deal with it. It’s grossly unfair.
On a recent trip to Boston, I visited JP Licks in (ironically enough) JP. There happened to be a gorgeous 25-year old femme working behind the counter. Instantly, I was struck with this overwhelming urge to tell her how beautiful she was. To be clear, I had no intention of asking her out or having anything at all happen between us. I just wanted to “compliment” her. Because that’s what every girl in their mid-20s wants in her work day. To deal with a middle-aged man’s slobbering bullshit.
I have had this urge for as long as I remember. When I was a younger man, I used to give in to it and say something. In coffee shops, ATM lobbies, doctors’ waiting rooms - I had to say some version of “Wow, you’re gorgeous.” I almost never tried to get their number or asked them out. I didn’t have the self confidence for anything like that. I just needed to “compliment” them. The result was always a polite “Thank you” with an obvious undertone of “Leave me the fuck alone.” Luckily, I was empathic enough to pick up their vibe and it would end there. But still - what was I doing?
I’ve been thinking a lot about that urge. And here’s the thing: it’s never about the woman. It’s about her stirring something in me that makes me feel like she has some sort of control over me. So I have to assert myself. It’s not about me actually picking her up. It’s about her seeing me in that moment as… I don’t know. A viable option? A threat? A virile male? I’m not sure. I just need her to see me.
I don’t do it anymore. The closest I’ll come is trying to make strangers laugh, a (relatively) harmless version of the ‘notice me’ urge. There’s no more “I just have to tell you - you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen” bullshit. But here’s the thing - I still want to. I want her to see me. Especially as I age into sexual irrelevance. And that’s weird. And - to borrow a term - “toxic.”
There’s so much of this that women have to deal with in their everyday lives. Unsolicited dick pics. Street harassment. “Smile.” All of it. It’s the same pattern:
A man feels attracted to a woman.
That makes him feel small and powerless.
He asserts himself with some comment or demand or photo of his phallus.
The woman is now forced to deal with his bullshit.
It is WILDLY unjust that women have to deal with this. It’s not their responsibility to validate our insecurities. And yet, they have to do it regularly or face the threat of real violence. It’s insane and broken and I don’t know what the solution is other than men spontaneously deciding we need to get our shit together. But acknowledging that we are the problem is the very thing that we’re the least capable of doing.
I have a fraught history with traditional masculinity. My dad was an unbelievably gentle man and the most caring and loving person that I ever met. I consider myself wildly lucky in the dad department. I couldn’t have asked for a better role model. And yet… it didn’t leave me super equipped for hanging with the ‘bros’ on the hockey team.
I remember in middle school when all the boys were expected to start fighting each other. We were all friends for years and then BOOM - it was the UFC all of a sudden. I didn’t have any interest in fighting (see gentle dad), but of course I wanted to fit in. I was 12. Fitting in is what 12-year olds do. It felt like at some point, it was going to be my turn to fight so I’d better just get it over with.
At a CYO dance, I decided that I was going to make it known I wanted to fight this kid named Mike. Mike and I were actually friendly. I didn’t have any problem with him whatsoever. I think I picked him because a) he was kind of a nerdy kid like me so he probably wasn’t tough and b) I thought there was a chance that he would chicken out so I could get my fight out of the way without actually fighting. Win-win, right?
No such luck. Under similar peer pressure, Mike reluctantly said he’d absolutely fight me. While clearly neither one of us wanted to fight, this other kid Ryan ran around the dance, hyping the matchup like a pubescent Don King. People were salivating to see this epic nerd fight, goading us on until Mike and I had the worst fight in middle school history right there in the middle of the dance floor while “Da’ Butt” by Experience Unlimited blared through the speakers.
I don’t think any punches were thrown - just some posturing and shoving and I think maybe a headlock until a half-interested church lady mercifully broke it up. People actually said “Wow - that fight sucked.” But I had done it. I got my fight out of the way. Of course, I cried for an hour and hyperventilated.(See again: gentle dad.) But I had proven… something?
But in adulthood, we grow out of that adolescent posturing bullshit, right? Come oooooon. You’ve been to bars, right? It’s the same thing over and over again. And even Ol’ Cry-Cry Pants Brendo isn’t immune to it. I remember I was hosting a show at the Lizard Lounge when an audience member was being a wiseass to me at the bar. Didn’t he know who I was? I was Brendan Goddamn Boogie, goddamn it! He was on my turf and wasn’t showing the proper respect. I jawed and chest-thumped with him for a bit until (luckily) cooler heads prevailed. I knew there wasn’t going to be a fight (I retired from fisticuffs after my epic middle school battle), but I was in that “don’t fuck with me I’m a MAN” mode. I was in my mid-30s. It’s embarrassing to think about.
Today, I still struggle with masculinity. I never fit in with “the guys.” I mostly hate being in all-male situations, like sports teams or all-male bands or movie sets. When there are no women around, you’re expected to play along with a certain level of casual misogyny, as if there’s an understanding that if there were no women around we’d really get to relax and say whatever we’re really thinking. I hate it and I didn’t ask to be a part of it. Don’t include me in your stupid club. I never trust any group that doesn’t want women around.
Luckily, I have amassed a group of male friends who don’t prescribe to those traditional masculine roles. We hug and say “I love you.” We talk about our feelings and cry if we’re hurt. We’re not threatened by emotions and don’t feel the need to put women down. Plus, I never feel peer pressure to punch anyone except my friend Madden because his face is so stupid! Look at his stupid face!
When I encounter a dude sporting a ridiculous t-shirt or espousing toxic views, I feel genuinely sad for him. He is trapped in such a limited version of life. He’s missing out on so much. I just want him to know that he doesn’t have to abide by all these stupid rules. He can just feel whatever he feels and it’s ok. Most of all, I want him to know that he is beautiful. And I want to send him a dick pic.
Boogie Writes is a completely independent endeavor by one hard-working funnyman trying to make his way in the world today (which takes everything you’ve got.) If you like what you read, please subscribe, support, and tell a friend! Also - do you need advice? Of course you do! Send your queries to brendan@brendanboogie.com with “Dear Boogie” in the subject and get some solid or at least passable advice!