Here is wisdom. A real man doesn’t worry how he appears to others. A man is emotionally and mentally strong. He does as he must, but he chooses his path and how he gets to his destination. His feelings, if “man-feelings” really exist, are his and his alone. He doesn’t care what you think.
I saw a guy the other day that is a brave, strong man. He didn’t have big muscles or a monster truck. He had the wardrobe of a warrior. I hope he’s reading this because he’s a great example to men everywhere. His clothing said, “I know who I am and I don’t care what you think. Bring me pie, then go away and leave me alone.” He wore a pith helmet, which was part of the Air Force tropical uniform that I never had occasion to wear. His clothing was an assortment of every color and texture ever to leave a textile mill. The clash of colors would make a designer’s head explode. It was awesome. He reminded me of times when men were macho and tough.
I watch a lot of old TV shows from the before-time when Hollyweird had a soul. I get to watch things like “Matlock” and “Diagnosis Murder” and “Leave It to Beaver”. In the evening I enjoy Carol Burnett and Johnny Carson and every Star Trek series ever produced.
Johnny Carson is particularly entertaining. The jokes and banter are dated and hearken back to a simpler time when you could hurt peoples’ feelers without remorse or legal action. A safe zone was unheard of in that era. Johnny told jokes that hurt feelings and he dressed like he defied anyone to laugh. He even wore a plaid sport coat when sitting with Don Rickles, the king of insults. Rickles insulted everything and everyone but never dared insult Johnny’s jacket.
Johnny wore a plaid sports coat because he could. It’s like my “Dupo Fire and Rescue” shirt. Sure, it’s got a few holes and a couple of bleach spots. I like it anyway. It understands me. That shirt really gets me. I don’t care what others think of it.
It’s like when I was a kid and had to wear a suit and tie to Stokes Chapel church. I’d rather be impaled on a pike than wear that get-up. I’d look across the congregation and see the men in bib overalls and brogans. I’d see the women’s disapproval and the male indifference to that disapproval. Sometimes a man would wear a white shirt and tie with the bibs, showing that he’d had to compromise with the wife. The other men would be sad he’d lost his manhood. It left an imprint on me.
Sure, it’s only clothing. It doesn’t mean anything. You can be a man and dress in a socially acceptable way. You can do that but eventually you’ll lose your manliness. First you wear a shirt with a collar because your spouse is quieter that way. Then, before you know it you’re carrying her purse and shopping for female hygiene stuff. Eventually you’ll be doing housework and crying for no particular reason. Your body will cease making male hormones and you’ll be a girlie-man.
I remember back when I used to be a man that didn’t care what others thought. I ended up at a posh resort on the Mediterranean. The place was full of society types and old European money. I’m proud to say I’m the only person on that fancy beach wearing cut-off fatigue pants and cowboy boots. They weren’t even the fancy boots; they were the clean-the-stalls, kick-dirt-clods boots. I didn’t get many looks from the women but the men envied me like I’d envied the guys at church.
So why care? I’m trying to save you, the young male. I’m trying to keep your “Y” chromosomes from mutating to girlie-man genes. I don’t want you to be reduced to caring what others think. If you start to dress well it won’t be long before you’re moisturizing and talking about feelings. Don’t think it’ll be easy. People everywhere will try to change you. The girlie-man conspiracy has even tried to eliminate ugly plaid jackets. Stand strong and wear what you want, not what they put in the magazines and on Wall-Mart racks. Dress like you want, and defy wives and others. Rock that pith helmet and plaid. Never, ever wear a tie with your bibs. That’ll be the end for you.
I choose to close now. I have to hide the tie my wife bought me.
Fini.
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