Attention, hayseeds. An official trend has been
decreed, and once again
you’re behind the curve. According to the Fashion
& Style section of
The New York Times, the hippest, most voguish,
up-to-the-minute thing is
something called a "man date." According to one
Jennifer 8. Lee, a man
date consists of "two heterosexual men socializing
without the crutch of
business or sports. It is two guys meeting for
the kind of outing a straight
man might reasonably arrange with a woman."
Here are some dos and don’ts. Having dinner at
a restaurant table is a
man date; having a burger at the bar is not.
Two guys going to a movie is
a man date; ball games are out. A walk in the
park is a man date; a jog in
the park is, like, so last year. According to
Lee (and no, I don’t know why
her middle name is an Arabic numeral), "‘ Sideways,
’ the Oscarwinning film
about two buddies touring the central California
wine country... is one long
and boozy man date." And here I thought "Sideways"
was mostly about
getting drunk and chasing babes. That’s what
made it so funny. All that
touchy-feely, winetasting stuff turned out to
be nothing but an excuse
for acting like the young George W. Bush on a
road trip to Tijuana.
But what do I know? I’m the kind of guy who takes
women to ball games.
Having married a coach’s daughter, I’m blessed
with a wife who not only
thinks it’s normal to watch baseball every day,
but actually has opinions
about the Chicago Cubs bullpen. (She’s glad to
see Kyle Farnsworth
exhibiting his gold chains elsewhere this season.)
Sure, she dragged me
to a musical after our most recent pilgrimage
to Wrigley Field. But that
was a small price to pay.
Funny, but last time the Red Sox visited Yankee
Stadium, there appeared
to be thousands of women in attendance. But then
the ballpark’s in The
Bronx, where nothing trendy ever happens.
Needless to say, the real idea behind the "man
date" is that ageless female
delusion: turning men into facsimile women. According
to Jennifer 8., guys
have "much to gain from the emotional support
of male friendships. (Women
understand this instinctively, which is why there
is no female equivalent to
the awkward man date; straight women have long
met for dinner or a movie
without a second thought.)"
And what makes man dates awkward? "If men become
too close to other
men, then they are always vulnerable to this
accusation of, ‘ Oh, you must
be gay, ’" one psychologist told the Times. Indeed,
most of the article
consists of twentysomething guys explaining the
exact rules for being
vulnerable and sensitive without seeming faggy.
Suffice it to say they’re
more complicated than the infield fly rule.
Also completely unnecessary after you grow up.
First, you know who you
are, whatever you are. Second, once you start
playing that game, it’s easy
to end up like a certain president I could name,
swaggering around in macho
costumes like a member of the Village People.
The harder you try, the more
it looks like you’re trying too hard.
But no, I don’t have candlelit dinners with men,
thanks. Candles survived the
invention of light bulbs for one reason: female
vanity. By candlelight, I’m sure
Lauren Bacall looks like a babe in a beer commercial.
And more power to her.
But I prefer to see what I’m eating.
I’ve also noticed a direct correlation between
candles, skimpy portions
and astronomical prices. If the joint looks like
it’s got an art director in the
kitchen, my buddies and I are going somewhere
else.
A fishing trip, for example. Somebody needs to
alert New York Times
trend spotters that out in the hinterlands west
of the Hudson, men do many
things together in the absence of women—backpacking,
canoeing, sailing, etc.
Why, I’ve heard of guys sleeping together in
tents without anybody producing
a fag-o-meter to assess their Manliness Quotient.
Perhaps Jennifer 8. would deem such activities
unfashionable. But did I mock
my wife for using the "crutch of clothes" when
she participated in a bizarre
female ritual called a "clothes-swapping" party
hosted by a friend a foot taller
than herself the other day? OK, actually I did.
But not for seeking companionship.
Nor did she mock the weekly ritual I shared with
my late, great friend,
The Doctor. We’d meet shortly after dawn at a
prearranged spot in the
boondocks, drop the tailgates, turn the beagles
loose and enjoy a "man
date" of our own, sharing intimacies only another
man could understand.
The Doctor’s first wife had been an artist. One
day he confided in me
the most enduring lesson of their breakup. "God,
I hate art," he said.
Now there’s something you’d never hear over a
candlelit dinner.