As Shania Twain probably should have contributed to a lyric for “That Don’t Impress Me Much,” “Okay, so you have a black turtleneck and think you’re Kerouac or some shit.” For yes, it is only in this one respect–if you are actually a beatnik living in the 60s of Paris, San Francisco or New York–that it would be even remotely “acceptable” to wear a turtleneck, let alone a black one. While some would argue that it’s a perfectly timeless fashionable winter statement, there is something very deliberate in a “man’s” choice to don this particular absence of color in turtleneck form.
More often than not, he is a “writer.” Or rather an “aspirant.” A motherfucking poseur, if you will. And because of his own latent insecurities about a talent that is not latent so much as nonexistent, he makes up for it in the aesthetics of what he believes a Writer with a capital “w” would wear. Your Dostoyevskys and your Tolstoys and your Chekhovs. Granted, all of the aforementioned had the viable excuse of living in the frigid airs of Russia that might have justified them wearing a goddamn turtleneck beneath their furs. What excuse does the slack-jawed white “man” sitting in front of a Mac as he “thoughtfully” takes years to never complete his opus have?
This is precisely why a girl, if she knows what’s good for her (especially in terms of ever hoping to encounter a “man” who isn’t more selfish and stingy than usual), ought to run in the other direction if she ever sees a “male” in her vicinity in this specific style choice (particularly if there’s only a mild chill in the air). For is a black turtleneck ever just a black turtleneck on a “man”? Absolutely fucking not. Like all of us, a “man’s” fashion choices are calculated, even if they reside somewhere in the “subconscious.” Which is where all of “men’s” darkest desires come to roost in the conscious world. On a side note, did you know col roulé in French means pretentious twat with vocal intonations like farts as he explains Turgenev’s brilliance to you?
While the hands of time might persist in rendering us all genderless by 2030, there will always remain that one sect of “male”–that rare breed still born into money–that can’t help but be driven by an innate desire to usurp his father’s “success” (the Bush family generally comes to mind). This, in white “male” speak, pertains to 1) having more money and 2) procuring a more synthetic wife, paired with a younger mistress. As for poor sons born to middle class fathers, well, no one talks about them, unless it’s a story like A Bronx Tale.
The issue with this little plot to overthrow Daddy as the unshakeable patriarch is that no son can ever truly outshine the father that bore him into wealth in the first place. There is nothing impressive about a rich “boy” who becomes richer just because he slummed it a few years by not automatically becoming a CEO or senator. It goes against the very fabric of the falsity of the American dream, which still touts capitalism as a fair means to rise to the top by your own bootstraps. Thus, it is as Bob Dylan phrased it in “Temporary Like Achilles”: “I’m helpless, like a rich man’s child.”
That helplessness stems from the fact that a son can never outshine son cher papa on the integrity of merit. Even if he renounces access to the bank account and changes his last name, he will always know the cushion is there, just waiting to catch him if and when he should encounter a snag in the plan to Oedipally topple Father. And no, one doesn’t feel sorry for this pathetic and inane drive to outperform Dad’s success, particularly when the inheritance finally rolls in and the new patriarch by default–not by honor–can rename the family yacht anything cheeky directed at his father that he wants. The rich son wins by outliving his father, and by that alone. Just look at the Amises.
Though we keep telling ourselves that gender roles are an illusion (and soon enough so will reality be altogether thanks to, among other things, persistent hologram concerts from the likes of Roy Orbison and Amy Winehouse), it would seem that many “men” still rely on the tried and true Jay Gatsby go-to of making a shit ton of money in order to both impress therefore “procure” a woman. Tragically, what he can’t seem to procure is a clue regarding how to be sociable in a way that doesn’t scream “eccentric millionaire” (although one hopes, at the very least, not at quite the same decibel as Howard Hughes). So he goes about his usual manner of being a bumbling idiot that somehow managed to make him vast sums of money not in the face of but precisely because he is socially inept and generally daft.
The girl, of course, is partially at fault for falling into the cliche trap of wanting to be, to use a gross, parody of something Frank Sinatra would say, wined and dined, allowing herself to fall prey to the inevitable sandpaper hangout session. Because, what can she say, that statistic about women making seventy-five cents for every dollar a “man” makes still rings true, and thusly, she could use a paid for meal every now and again. Yet for all his best attempts to treat the dinner like a job interview and go on about his various qualifications for the role of potential fuck and maybe–if she’s lucky–boyfriend, she is, as usual, of the Shania bent, not impressed much. And in truth, sort of just trying to get through the dinner without vomiting her food too prematurely (that’s for later, in the privacy of her own bathroom). So it must be said that just because a “man” has a wallet more burgeoning and thrilling than his so-called panisse does not mean it is enough to 1) keep a woman’s interest or 2) even reel her in in the first place. Because there’s something to be said for the non-faux pretension of poverty dick. Crusty though it may be.
Runaway Bride, a film that saw Julia Roberts in her last phase of the 90s before transitioning into Oscar roles only or nothing at all (meaning a greater paucity of straightforward rom-coms), canonized the very overt definition of what a runaway bride is, while also going deeper into the meaning: a person in a relationship incapable of being their own entity, therefore mimicking all the interests, behaviors and aesthetics of their significant other so as to make it easier on themselves in terms of forever avoiding self-exploration. This is precisely why Maggie Carpenter (Roberts) can’t even decide on her own damn eggs, favoring the adoption of whatever he likes best. It just makes it all so much more effortless in terms of ignoring one’s own total lack of personality.
Surprisingly, however, this tendency is most apparent in “men” in the epoch called “We’re Too Fucking Afraid of Women to Be Ourselves and We’re Kind of Just Trying to Secure Pussy at Any Cost–Even If It Means Renouncing Our Own Vacuous Thoughts and Feelings.” In the past, of course, it was a comportment that might have been easily chalked up to a woman reading too many “lifestyle magazine” articles about how to catch a man, keep a man and forever please him. Over time, however, her sole desire has become how to ditch this fucking dead weight (which is much harder than catching a “man” ever was). Especially once he starts copping her style–from sartorial steez to haircut to speech patterns and specific word choices (Jesus, F. Scott Fitzgerald much?). It’s enough to make a girl want to change her name, change her address, change her Instagram handle. But she doesn’t, instead bearing with the offensive poseurdom in the hope that she might one day procure an orgasm in the interim period before the sex robots liberate us all from feigned attempts at emotionalism.
As a result of having a “penis,” it doesn’t matter what sexuality a “man” claims when it comes to falling prey to the unfortunate syndrome called: Let Me State the Obvious. Falling in line with the unfortunate congenital need to “man”splain so as to prove his worth as a species (of which he really can’t, try as he might with his needless and unwanted explanations about “how the world works”), an unshakeable desire to make glaringly obvious statements further pertains to the “male” inability to fill a silence with anything valuable (unless it is the screams of a woman from orgasm, but how often does that really happen outside of a “male”-created porno?).
So we have Troye Sivan (content to ride the coattails of Charli XCX’s talent on “1999“), responding to the vacuous Teen Beat sort of question posed by The Coveteur, “What’s one thing people don’t know about you?” to which he stated, “A good pasta is, like, my favorite thing in the world.” Wow, does he like music and breathing too (as Emma Roberts’ character in It’s Kind of A Funny Story might ask)? Because such “favorites” would be equally as expected and obvious of statements. But to the garden variety “male,” declaring such banalities is just another way to accordingly pepper an earth in which the most pea-sized brain (and wang) belongs to one of the most “powerful” “men” in the free world.
If you would like to state how much you love pasta as though it’s novelty information that is somehow surprising, consider that 1) it would be more shocking and profound if you did not like pasta (communist!) and 2) be prepared to have a mound of it tossed on you like Samantha Jones in “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Because some of us still, even despite being forced to exist in this century, prefer our sentences arcane and dissectable.
“Men” have many a comprehension issue–deficit, really. Among one of the more unfortunate ones is their inability to compute that you can hate “men” while still being a straight woman. Or as straight as a woman can be during these times of extremely slim pickings (most of which consist of the toadish fat “man”). You can wanna get railed and still feel the strange urge to bash a “man’s” head against a railing. Such are the many tortured dichotomies of being a woman with complex emotions beyond “me want food.” But the one thing that is almost enough for a girl to will a change in her congenital sexual orientation is when “men” say shit like, “Why don’t you ‘just become’ a lesbian?” As though it were as easy as blinking one’s eyes I Dream of Jeannie style and “making it happen.”
In turn, one must ask the question of a “man,” “Why don’t you just start taking dick up your ass since you have to rape women in order to get sex? It would save us all plenty of heart and pussy ache.” But, of course, just as a “straight” “man” knows he cannot “develop a taste for penis” (other than his own), so, too, should he be aware that a misandrist cannot simply conjure an enthusiasm for rug munching, her “predisposition” for genitalia that can really penetrate being what it is. And for the most part, the only reason any “woman” still holds out for “being with” a “man” is because of the strange catharsis that comes with being entered. And a “woman” cannot offer that substitute, try as she might with a strap-on. So next time you think to suggest that the solution to all of a “man-hater’s” (because any woman who calls bullshit on what “men” do [and don’t do] are deemed as such) problems is transforming into a lesbian like Cinderella from a poor person to someone you could actually look at, try to envision a knife going through your throat the way a pork sword might go up your rectum should you “just change” into a gay “man.” Since it’s fairly obvious you hate women more than they hate you based on the systemic chauvinism you were taught to believe was normal (therefore aren’t even cognizant of) since the day you were born.
Because stereotypes make everything easier and generally hold some grain of longstanding truth (e.g. Italian Americans working in construction or plumbing), it is safe to say that the reason “men” hold such general contempt for women is a result of their many luxury “needs” (though some “males” would like to deny their unwitting complicity in the success of the beauty and fashion industries). The things, in short, that make them so very susceptible to desiring and coveting the bourgeois lifestyle. Certainly, it’s not as on blast as it was in the 50s, when Lucy was asking for all manner of increase in her allowance from Ricky, or in the 80s, when Bret Easton Ellis was inspired to write about someone as frivolous as Evelyn in American Psycho. But the residual materialistic airhead trope is hard to shake even with the firm presence of the twenty-first century as well (see: Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, Kylie Jenner specifically and, for some reason, Tiffany Trump).
The resentment “men” have toward women of this nature (which is to say, most of them), stems from the reflection it gives back of his own inadequacy as a functioning member of a capitalist society (the only society still recognized by mainstream media). Because, yes, for the most part, “a scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly” but also has no fucking money to at least back up a shitty, irascible personality in addition to being bad in bed. So it is that they balk at the bourgeoisie so as to make themselves feel slightly less deficient about being unable to ever be a part of it. Because you know goddamn well if you could be, you would be. That you would not be so quick to balk at an endless reserve of cash if you could actually access it without more than the effort it takes you to get out of your pathetic excuse for a bed.
Balking also aids in convincing the girl whose vagina they’ve briefly managed to enter that she’s the one who’s in the wrong–insane, in short–for wanting access to such vacuous things as a memory foam mattress or a Nespresso maker. Convince her that it’s the more proverbial “man” who has infected her brain with these false and inane aspirations that set us all back to the June Cleaver era. But like, again, if these things were handed to a “man” instead of him actually having to work for them, where would his balking be then? Probably slightly muffled by the taste of homemade bread from a stand mixer.
While we are all aware that the “democratization” of fame has been a blessing for some (e.g. Tao Lin), for most of the rest of us, it has come with the curse of being able to instantly pinpoint the ego of the type of “man” who would be unable to resist turning on a Google alert for whenever his name comes up in an article from a semi on the radar website (blogs, of course, obviously don’t count).
The desire to know he’s being talked about is more of a source of ejaculation potential than analog banging ever could be (because how can a “man’s” ego possibly be fortified by his fucking skills these days?). “I didn’t see that article come up in my Google notifications,” he’ll admit unabashedly when someone mentions they saw something about him on the internet recently. It’s the kind of exchange that tends only to occur in New York, where everyone keeps track of everyone for the sake of knowing where their place is on the insignificant totem pole called “talentless microcosm.”
The “man” who needs to be notified of being “eloquently discussed” by some middling “publication” (non-ink laden with typos and grammatical errors, as it were) is clearly clinging to whatever bread crumbs of relevancy he can in order to stave off the unshakeable thought that he is just as irrelevant and meaningless as he knows himself to be deep down. But with the “frequency” of Google alerts, he can help perpetuate the fallacy of self-importance that his Asian girlfriend can only do so much to support as one person. It is the foremost tool of modern “fame” that has been perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the deterioration in quality of art. Because if you’re only in it to see how many times your name crops up in some crevice of the internet, how can you possibly create something enduring? What’s more, high-level fame (the Madonna tier) does not require one to be notified of their “many” achievements if there are enough to lose track of.
“Men” have almost too many bizarre behaviors to fully track and monitor in an epoch that has only recently gone truly hog wild on mocking them for their weirdness, but among one of the more overt peculiarities is his unabashedness in watching a girl’s Instagram story every day for the rest of her life despite having flagrantly fucked her over.
How he might have slighted her could have occurred in any number of ways, from arbitrarily deciding to ghost her to giving her an STD (since, apparently, that’s happening a lot more frequently these days). Whatever the case may have been, it was surely cause for any normal human being not pretending to have a penis to feel at least some modicum of shame. Not so for a “man,” a gender evidently born without the mechanism required to imbue him with any sense of guilt or humiliation when blatantly destroying another’s ability to ever trust, and by default, love again. No matter to him. He’ll still watch your Instagram story. Not for any reason that could possibly be clear to anyone but himself. And even that might be a stretch, for the only actions a “man” seems to be cognizant of is shoveling his face full of slop and ejaculating (from any number of holes when taking into account the former activity). Both of which he can (and likely will) do while watching your Instagram story.
One understands that, more than ever in this day and age, whenever a “man” miraculously consents to be pinned down via the binding ties of marriage, he’s probably especially prone to castration and other “light” methods of the gradual chopping off of his entire remaining wang. Even so, it is still difficult to fathom his ability to surrender all control over his dignity by consenting to partake of shameful photos that are really just intended to make the “unattached” women in his fiancée’s life feel bad about themselves.
Sure, maybe a standard-issue couple photo featuring the two against some tritely idyllic backdrop could pass for the “man” at least having some say in the matter. But when it reaches the level of intricacy that only a female could be responsible for (e.g. posing as an infinity circle on the floor together dressed in flesh-colored bodysuits for some reason or, worse yet, in the shape of a heart in red bodysuits), you have to wonder if there’s something particularly brilliant she must be doing to his nub behind closed doors to get him to relinquish all forms of self-respect in public. But alas, no probably not–for “men” get aroused by nothing more in this life, it would seem, than the type of basique who posts shit about tiles while in Lisbon. It is for love of this type of melba that he will let all sense of former honor for the self fly out the window of his bachelor pad and into the carefully decorated (but still somehow banal) mortgage payment-heavy home he must now share with his new wife. And it is a transition, a death of the soul (if a “man” can ever be deemed so generously as even having one to begin with), that the clearly non-discerning “male” feels (or perhaps doesn’t feel at all) inclined to immortalize in humiliating photo form. Because behind the words “I do” also, apparently, lingers the fine print, “I do…agree to spend an exorbitant sum of money to make my fiancée feel like she can at least pretend there’s anything straight about me even though she’s wielding me like a Barbie doll for her own sadistic dress up purposes and scenario creation pleasure.”