A few years ago a friend gave me a ticket to watch a Brewers baseball game from the Lawyers-Only level at Miller Park, which meant I’d get a peek at how the other half lives.
But I made a horrible mistake. I wore a tank top, and as I entered a bar in the top-secret Fancy Schmantzy Smarty Pantsy Pavilion, a menacing mench who was a head taller and a shoulder wider than me blocked out the sun, pointed to a sign, and said, “No tank tops.”
I looked around. It was ninety degrees outside, so there were tank tops galore. Every one of them worn by a woman.
Just one more reason to want to get inside.
But it occurred to me that what Behemoth B. Bigboy was actually saying was, “No dudes with tank tops allowed.” Aggravating, since Miller Park was built with public money. Every time I buy a new tank top, the millionaires who run the team get another half-penny of my hard-earned pay. I freakin’ own that park. Don’t I have rights?
What was the problem anyway? Armpit hair? If so, why didn’t they just ban the scragglies on everyone?
I am not the only victim of this insidious form of discrimination. “After waiting in line to get in, we were told there was a dress code,” Neverreturn says in a Citysearch.com review of a club on the Las Vegas strip. “Men could not wear tank tops. Not sure why, because (the place was) a dump, complete with chicken wire on the walls.”
Is it societal? It was hot the last time my writers group met, and every woman had bare shoulders, while every man had cotton at least down to his elbows. And when I participated in a romance writing panel a few weeks ago, the room contained exactly one man and two sleeves.
A Match.com article says that tank tops might be “a great option for the beach, but many women want that tank to stay seaside.” A Match.com client named Alicia says the “often-bushy display of armpit hair on a stranger (is) extremely unappealing — not a turn-on in the least.” Alicia also lists in her profile that, “I am allergic to cats, most tattoos and tank tops.”
Men don’t quibble. In a highly intelligent and nuanced thread from a Michigan State University sports board, “If you're over the age of twenty-five,” one Phil McCrackin declared, “you should not be wearing a tank top/cut off shirt in public. The only exception being a pool/beach/gym scenario.”
His nemesis, The Assman, countered with “I wear tank tops to Meijer and shit. I don't care if you don't like it, I sweat easy and ninety-five degree weather doesn't help. So F off!!!!”
McCrackin no doubt thought he’d settled things with, “The pussification of America started when people stopped giving a shit what they looked in public. My grandfather would've kicked my ass if I ever tried to wear a tank top in a restaurant around him.” Then Jahlil Suggs added, “I don't see the problem if your arms are huge and brolic like mine. Gotta show off the gunz for the bitches.”
Puerile and inane, yes—but nonetheless similar to the sentiment expressed by Alicia in that Match.com article: “I think many men tend to wear (tank tops) to show off their biceps and feel manly.”
Oh, yeah…Alicia’s forty-eight, and it doesn’t say how she feels about guys under twenty-five in tanks. Or romance novel cover model Jed Hill’s absolute shirtlessness on Jaci Burton’s The Perfect Play.
I’ve been working out with weights since I was fifteen, but I do not wear tank tops to impress women. I wear them around the house, when I’m riding my bike and to the ball park when it’s hot. The weather, I mean. And, no, I really don’t care how I look at the ball park. Not when the whole show features men who un-self-consciously scratch their genitals in front of forty thousand people.
Okay, so I don’t wear them anywhere else because, you know, the hair thing. Kind of icky.
Ladies, I’ve got no problems with being able to see your shoulders and arms anywhere I go, which should surprise no one. In the Yahoo.com article 5 Outfits Guys Secretly Hope You’ll Wear, Redbook contributor Aaron Traistor says that guys think tanks on women are “pleasantly low-maintenance…simple, comfortable and very sexy.”
To which I say, “Hell, yeah. As long as your pits are shaved.”
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Cat(call’s) got your tongue?
Here’s a question I never thought I’d hear my wife utter: “If there’s a really hot guy riding his bike with his shirt off, is it appropriate for a woman to shout, ‘Woo! Woo!’?”
This was strictly a hypothetical question, as Mary Jo said she’d thought better of letting this romance-book-cover-come-to-life in on her innermost thoughts. Even so, I told her, “Every man wants to hear catcalls from women—even when he’s not really hot and riding a bike with his shirt off.”
Or, more to the point, especially if he’s not really hot.
Women often seem surprised—or at least amused—that a man might like to hear a woman he doesn’t know tell him he’s hot. On the other hand, there are apparently plenty of men who would be surprised that lots of women don’t like it.
All those men would do well to do some ridiculously brief and incomplete Internet research. My such research dug up tidbits like these:
• From a Quora.com post: “With low self-esteem, a catcall is external validation that you meet society's standards. If you don't think you're good enough, that catcall is something to celebrate.”
• From another Quora.com post: “Appreciating catcalls is similar psychologically to wishing you could be in Playboy. It's a desire to excel at sexual beauty.”
• From ThoughtCatalog.com: “Believe it or not, most human beings have this thing called an inner monologue (that) prevents every mundane, offensive, inappropriate thought that crosses one’s mind from being articulated. It becomes especially helpful when you’re attempting to be a civilized person who respects other civilized people.
• And from a Men’s Health magazine blog: “My roommate and I received a ‘compliment’ about our legs while walking to the subway—courtesy of a man shouting from his car. When we completely ignored his subsequent offer to join him in the car he shouted, ‘At least say thank you!’ Apparently, not only should we express gratitude for his comment, it’s the ‘least’ we could do—as if he deserved a reward.”
That Men’s Health excerpt followed with an explanation that drives the point home: “Catcalls are comments directed at a woman to highlight a sexualized part of her body. Researchers at the University of Connecticut found that simply witnessing a cat-call can result in anger toward men. Street harassment reminds women that they’re vulnerable to attack and demonstrates that ‘any man may choose to invade a woman’s personal space, physically or psychologically, if he feels like it,’ according to a Harvard Law Review paper.”
Personally, I’m with ThoughtCatalog writer. The other day my male brain went all kinds of haywire as I rode my bike—with shirt firmly on—past two shapely, well-tanned, nineteenish brunettes lounging on the beach in day-glo bikinis. It was a great view, but I kept my mouth shut. Or, at least, managed to stop stupid words from falling out of it.
I also have to admit that it would have made my day if they would have looked over their shoulders at me and said something like, “Hey, sweaty old guy in a tank top: Woo! Woo!”
And don’t ask me how I know they didn’t look over their shoulders.
This was strictly a hypothetical question, as Mary Jo said she’d thought better of letting this romance-book-cover-come-to-life in on her innermost thoughts. Even so, I told her, “Every man wants to hear catcalls from women—even when he’s not really hot and riding a bike with his shirt off.”
Or, more to the point, especially if he’s not really hot.
Women often seem surprised—or at least amused—that a man might like to hear a woman he doesn’t know tell him he’s hot. On the other hand, there are apparently plenty of men who would be surprised that lots of women don’t like it.
All those men would do well to do some ridiculously brief and incomplete Internet research. My such research dug up tidbits like these:
• From a Quora.com post: “With low self-esteem, a catcall is external validation that you meet society's standards. If you don't think you're good enough, that catcall is something to celebrate.”
• From another Quora.com post: “Appreciating catcalls is similar psychologically to wishing you could be in Playboy. It's a desire to excel at sexual beauty.”
• From ThoughtCatalog.com: “Believe it or not, most human beings have this thing called an inner monologue (that) prevents every mundane, offensive, inappropriate thought that crosses one’s mind from being articulated. It becomes especially helpful when you’re attempting to be a civilized person who respects other civilized people.
• And from a Men’s Health magazine blog: “My roommate and I received a ‘compliment’ about our legs while walking to the subway—courtesy of a man shouting from his car. When we completely ignored his subsequent offer to join him in the car he shouted, ‘At least say thank you!’ Apparently, not only should we express gratitude for his comment, it’s the ‘least’ we could do—as if he deserved a reward.”
That Men’s Health excerpt followed with an explanation that drives the point home: “Catcalls are comments directed at a woman to highlight a sexualized part of her body. Researchers at the University of Connecticut found that simply witnessing a cat-call can result in anger toward men. Street harassment reminds women that they’re vulnerable to attack and demonstrates that ‘any man may choose to invade a woman’s personal space, physically or psychologically, if he feels like it,’ according to a Harvard Law Review paper.”
Personally, I’m with ThoughtCatalog writer. The other day my male brain went all kinds of haywire as I rode my bike—with shirt firmly on—past two shapely, well-tanned, nineteenish brunettes lounging on the beach in day-glo bikinis. It was a great view, but I kept my mouth shut. Or, at least, managed to stop stupid words from falling out of it.
I also have to admit that it would have made my day if they would have looked over their shoulders at me and said something like, “Hey, sweaty old guy in a tank top: Woo! Woo!”
And don’t ask me how I know they didn’t look over their shoulders.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
The kitten-killing kind
At a writers’ conference I attended, people kept talking about whether men can write female characters and women can write male characters.
First a female author said that trying to figure out men is like parachuting into a jungle without a map and trying to figure out how to survive. I feel her pain; that’s how I sometimes feel when trying to figure out women.
Another author said that when she was writing a book with a nineteen-year-old male narrator, she felt like a nineteen-year-old man. I wondered how she could be so sure. When readers say I got Lara, my Fast Lane heroine, right, I don’t think it’s because I felt like a divorced thirty-two-year-old woman. It’s because of empathy, and empathy is intellectual and imaginative. Effective, but not quite all the way there.
Another author said there are just two things a female writer needs to know about men: They’re simple, and they’re literal. I think she meant what she said, but I don’t really get it. Requires too much thinking.
If you notice a pattern here, it’s because there’s a pattern here. I didn’t hear much talk about whether male writers can write convincing female characters because I was part of a romance-writing panel and mostly hung out with romance writers. I was the only dude in the group. Which isn’t a bad way to spend a Friday afternoon.
But, I have to say, if you think men are simple and literal, you haven’t figured out men, you’ve figured out a comedy routine. I would never say, “All you have to know about women is that they like shoes and worry if their pants make their butts look big.” (And, by the way, the answer is “no.”)
The day ended with a talk by Tawni O’Dell, author of Backroads, who made two interesting contributions to the debate even though she doesn’t write romance.
The first was a story from her tomboy childhood, when she and a male friend were toting their BB guns down the street and came upon a crow picking at a kitten that was not yet dead. The friend wanted to shoot the cat. O’Dell wanted to take it to a vet. The boy said there was no hope and pulled the trigger. O’Dell vowed never to speak to him again.
She did speak to her grandmother, though, who told her that men and women have “different natures,” and wasn’t it good that her friend was able to put the kitten out of its misery? The next time O’Dell saw the boy, she told him she was glad he was able to do it. And he said he was glad she couldn’t.
I’m not sure what the takeaway is supposed to be. Men kill; women nurture? Men don’t let emotion get in the way of what has to be done? Men are strong enough to do what women can’t? I’m sure plenty of women raised on farms and ranches would be able to put down a suffering animal. Female veterinarians don’t defy people who bring them old and suffering pets to be put to sleep.
Maybe she just meant that men and women have—by nature—different strengths.
O’Dell’s other contribution was a line from her work-in-progress about how “men spend their lives trying to prove themselves to others, but women spend their lives trying to prove themselves to themselves.”
I think she’s right. And it’s music to my ears, since it describes Lara and Fast Lane hero Clay to a tee.
It’s also a more nuanced—and fairer—way to express general differences between the sexes than other opinions I’d heard. Men and women may likely have different approaches to cutting a path through the jungle of life, but neither path is harder and neither way is better. Just because they don’t think, act and talk the same about their journeys doesn’t make either gender simpler or less capable of deep emotion and reflection.
It just makes us different. And, like granny said, aren’t you glad?
First a female author said that trying to figure out men is like parachuting into a jungle without a map and trying to figure out how to survive. I feel her pain; that’s how I sometimes feel when trying to figure out women.
Another author said that when she was writing a book with a nineteen-year-old male narrator, she felt like a nineteen-year-old man. I wondered how she could be so sure. When readers say I got Lara, my Fast Lane heroine, right, I don’t think it’s because I felt like a divorced thirty-two-year-old woman. It’s because of empathy, and empathy is intellectual and imaginative. Effective, but not quite all the way there.
Another author said there are just two things a female writer needs to know about men: They’re simple, and they’re literal. I think she meant what she said, but I don’t really get it. Requires too much thinking.
If you notice a pattern here, it’s because there’s a pattern here. I didn’t hear much talk about whether male writers can write convincing female characters because I was part of a romance-writing panel and mostly hung out with romance writers. I was the only dude in the group. Which isn’t a bad way to spend a Friday afternoon.
But, I have to say, if you think men are simple and literal, you haven’t figured out men, you’ve figured out a comedy routine. I would never say, “All you have to know about women is that they like shoes and worry if their pants make their butts look big.” (And, by the way, the answer is “no.”)
The day ended with a talk by Tawni O’Dell, author of Backroads, who made two interesting contributions to the debate even though she doesn’t write romance.
The first was a story from her tomboy childhood, when she and a male friend were toting their BB guns down the street and came upon a crow picking at a kitten that was not yet dead. The friend wanted to shoot the cat. O’Dell wanted to take it to a vet. The boy said there was no hope and pulled the trigger. O’Dell vowed never to speak to him again.
She did speak to her grandmother, though, who told her that men and women have “different natures,” and wasn’t it good that her friend was able to put the kitten out of its misery? The next time O’Dell saw the boy, she told him she was glad he was able to do it. And he said he was glad she couldn’t.
I’m not sure what the takeaway is supposed to be. Men kill; women nurture? Men don’t let emotion get in the way of what has to be done? Men are strong enough to do what women can’t? I’m sure plenty of women raised on farms and ranches would be able to put down a suffering animal. Female veterinarians don’t defy people who bring them old and suffering pets to be put to sleep.
Maybe she just meant that men and women have—by nature—different strengths.
O’Dell’s other contribution was a line from her work-in-progress about how “men spend their lives trying to prove themselves to others, but women spend their lives trying to prove themselves to themselves.”
I think she’s right. And it’s music to my ears, since it describes Lara and Fast Lane hero Clay to a tee.
It’s also a more nuanced—and fairer—way to express general differences between the sexes than other opinions I’d heard. Men and women may likely have different approaches to cutting a path through the jungle of life, but neither path is harder and neither way is better. Just because they don’t think, act and talk the same about their journeys doesn’t make either gender simpler or less capable of deep emotion and reflection.
It just makes us different. And, like granny said, aren’t you glad?
Thursday, June 7, 2012
And now, something to love about Fifty Shades of Grey
Holy crap! I’m in danger of dwelling on Fifty Shades of Grey, but today I’m going to spin it in a different direction: How Fifty Shades encourages me as a writer.
And it’s not just that the book started out self-published.
Sometimes when I’m bumming about how Fast Lane still has more than 999,000 downloads to go to reach a million, I turn on my Kindle and read Fifty Shades’ reviews. Not all of them. Just the ones that make me feel good.
Like this one from DS: “The repetition…the repetition…the repetition. I’m convinced the author has a computer macro that she hits to insert one of her limited repertoire of facial expressions whenever she needs one.”
And from GadgetChick: “The success of this book baffles me. The really tragic thing is that there are authors of erotic fiction out there who have been working for a long time, who actually—you know, have WRITING SKILLS—who will never be as rich and famous as the woman who wrote this very lackluster book that is getting all kinds of attention for no good reason.”
And nopeachoil: “Warning: You will not be able to unread this book.”
And meymoon: “Did a teenager write this? I looked up the author to see if she was a teenager. I really did because the characters are out of a 16-year-old’s fantasy. The sex scenes…become so unbelievable that it becomes more laughable than erotic. (Ana) orgasms at the drop of a hat. He says her name and she orgasms. He simply touches her and she orgasms. It seems that she’s climaxing on every page.”
And these gems: “Fifty ways to yawn.” “Could not finish.” And, the crown jewel, “Not the worst I’ve ever read…No, wait. It IS.”
And those appear in just the first four out of 1,883 pages.
You might think the monumental success of a book that spawns so much vitriol—yet averages about four stars—would further bum me out. But the way I look at it, the number of bad reviews for E.L. James is higher than the number of books I’ve sold. All that hate—and yet, really, I can’t imagine it keeps her up at night. Many, many people hate this book, this series—and yet, it’s a monster success.
If a million people hate your book, there are still seven billion more people who might like it. I’m only looking for 999,000.
Failing that, I could always start writing down my teenage erotic fantasies and throwing them up on Amazon for $2.99 a pop. And since I’ve been having teenage erotic fantasies nonstop for the past forty years, I just might have Ms. James beat.
And it’s not just that the book started out self-published.
Sometimes when I’m bumming about how Fast Lane still has more than 999,000 downloads to go to reach a million, I turn on my Kindle and read Fifty Shades’ reviews. Not all of them. Just the ones that make me feel good.
Like this one from DS: “The repetition…the repetition…the repetition. I’m convinced the author has a computer macro that she hits to insert one of her limited repertoire of facial expressions whenever she needs one.”
And from GadgetChick: “The success of this book baffles me. The really tragic thing is that there are authors of erotic fiction out there who have been working for a long time, who actually—you know, have WRITING SKILLS—who will never be as rich and famous as the woman who wrote this very lackluster book that is getting all kinds of attention for no good reason.”
And nopeachoil: “Warning: You will not be able to unread this book.”
And meymoon: “Did a teenager write this? I looked up the author to see if she was a teenager. I really did because the characters are out of a 16-year-old’s fantasy. The sex scenes…become so unbelievable that it becomes more laughable than erotic. (Ana) orgasms at the drop of a hat. He says her name and she orgasms. He simply touches her and she orgasms. It seems that she’s climaxing on every page.”
And these gems: “Fifty ways to yawn.” “Could not finish.” And, the crown jewel, “Not the worst I’ve ever read…No, wait. It IS.”
And those appear in just the first four out of 1,883 pages.
You might think the monumental success of a book that spawns so much vitriol—yet averages about four stars—would further bum me out. But the way I look at it, the number of bad reviews for E.L. James is higher than the number of books I’ve sold. All that hate—and yet, really, I can’t imagine it keeps her up at night. Many, many people hate this book, this series—and yet, it’s a monster success.
If a million people hate your book, there are still seven billion more people who might like it. I’m only looking for 999,000.
Failing that, I could always start writing down my teenage erotic fantasies and throwing them up on Amazon for $2.99 a pop. And since I’ve been having teenage erotic fantasies nonstop for the past forty years, I just might have Ms. James beat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)