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Are you sitting down? Good, because this last bit of news is going to come as quite a blow. Despite all you’ve believed, all you’ve prided yourself on, despite all the photographs you’ve posted to Instagram, it pains me to inform you that … well, there’s no easy way to put this: your genitals just aren’t that fascinating.
Please understand, it’s not me saying that. I, for one, completely believe you when you say your private parts are an anatomical wonder worthy of poetic commemoration and weekend videotaping. And I’m not just saying that because of the little hat you bought for them.
However, the brainiacs in the academic community—well, they are of the view that the topography of your crotch is profoundly unremarkable. Welcome to Yawnsville, population: your vagina. I am not exaggerating when I suggest a fellow could theoretically drop his drawers in the North Yard at Harvard and those faculty Poindexters would just saunter on by, completely uninterested in the acrobatic feats I was making it perform.
But whip out a duck penis and, man, watch those science nerds reach for the microscopes and protractors! Yes, the genitals of ducks are the wave of the future in the research community. It seems as though every PhD with a lab coat and a Segway is off questing for a promiscuous quacker to probe and prod in search of secrets to the Compelling Mysteries of Life—or, failing that, to the Still Fairly Interesting Mysteries of Why That Duck’s Unit Looks So Freaky.
It all started with the findings of Patricia Brennan, a behavioural ecologist at Yale University. Dr. Brennan uncovered evidence among waterfowl of what news reports have described as “a sexual arms race waged with twisted genitals,” including phalluses that range from smooth to covered with spines and grooves. (Note to human evolution: Can we skip this part?)
A New York Times article about Dr. Brennan begins with a scene in which she declares a Meller’s duck from Madagascar to be “the champion” of genital evolution (second place: Tommy Lee) and then “carefully coax[es] out his phallus,” which is subsequently described as “a long, spiraling tentacle.” After flipping back to the front page to ensure I wasn’t reading the latest Danielle Steel, I continued on to discover that in most birds, the vagina—or oviduct—is a simple tube. But the oviducts of some waterfowl feature various sacs and pockets that “function as dead-ends or false passages.” In other words, impregnating a duck is a lot like trying to loot an Egyptian tomb—but with your wang, which makes it harder to carry the gold.
According to the Times, Dr. Brennan was “oblivious” to bird phalluses until 1999. In that fateful year, while working in a Costa Rican forest on a non-freaky-duck-sex-related expedition, she spotted two birds mating. “They became unattached, and I saw this huge thing hanging off of him,” she said. “I could not believe it. It became one of those questions I wrote down: why do these males have this huge phallus?” Other questions she wrote down included “Why don’t people invite me to dinner parties anymore?” Alas, these questions had no answers, except for the last one, which is pretty obvious when you think about it.
Through the use of dissection and saucy pictures of Daisy Duck, Dr. Brennan discovered that male waterfowl evolve more ornate phalluses to attempt to bypass the defences created by ever more elaborate vaginas, and vice versa. “Some large waterfowl that are highly monogamous, like geese and swans, have small phalluses, whereas other species that are quite small but more promiscuous have more elaborate genitalia,” Brennan told the Times. To illustrate that theory: if Leonardo DiCaprio were a duck, his phallus would by now have evolved to include colourful feathers, a digital clock and a pyrotechnics display at the top of every hour.
Though she’s already published her work, Dr. Brennan remains so dedicated to her research that she visits a waterfowl sanctuary every two weeks to inspect and measure the phalluses of six species of ducks. You can tell it’s her day to visit because there are eight thousand male birds waiting out front with flowers and chocolate. Dr. Brennan says she’s become “very good at predicting what the genitalia of one sex will look like by looking at the other sex first.” Sadly, her wait continues for this category to come up on Jeopardy!
Lately, Dr. Brennan has become obsessed with the question of why the duck phallus grows and then disappears. “It may be easier to regrow it than to keep it healthy,” she offers in a theory that (a) is supported by some academics, and (b) makes me cringe. “But those are some of the things I may be able to find out. When you’re doing something that so little is known about, you can’t really predict what’s going to happen.” Except that your dates will continue to back away slowly from the dinner table before turning to flee.
The Future and Why We Should Avoid It
Reason No. 10: Aging
I’ve got bad news about your own personal future: a new study has found that memory loss begins as early as one’s mid-forties. But as one who recently entered his mid-forties, here’s something even more distressing: the study found that memory loss begins as early as one’s mid-forties.
And it’s not just memory. The study, published in the British Medical Journal, also found that over a period of ten years there was a 3.6 percent decline in mental reasoning among men aged forty-five to forty-nine. Worryingly, that may be enough to make the brain succumb to nefarious plots like email scams and drinking responsibly.
Not that there aren’t positives to a feeble memory: it can be a real thrill ride. Every moment holds the potential for adventure and intrigue. Will I remember where I parked my car? Will I remember that I own a car? MY PULSE IS RACING!
The key is having the right attitude. For instance, I used to get flustered when I couldn’t immediately recall the name of an acquaintance, or long-lost friend, or blood relative. Not anymore. Now I embrace it as a challenge: to figure out who you are before you figure out that I can’t figure out who you are. How will you know if I win? I will use your name with enthusiasm and repetition. JIM, IT’S JIM-DARN GOOD TO JIM YOU, JIM! (There is a chance I will say this even if your name is Nancy.)
The brain is truly bewildering. You’d think there’d be some kind of setting so we could actively prioritize what we remember. Instead, I now find the following scenario playing out most mornings:
Wonder where car keys are.
Find car keys.
Place car keys in pocket.
Wonder where car keys are.
Yet during a recent holiday, my family and I found ourselves in a ski gondola with a few younger chaps. Talk turned, as it often does on such occasions, to the 1980s song “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats.
I impressed the kids with my knowledge of the lyrics. I dazzled them by referencing the song’s inclusion in an episode of Futurama. And I amazed them with a shot-by-shot recollection from memory of the song’s video, including the random guys wearing chicken masks. At this point the fellows fell silent, as people often do when calculating the odds of surviving a thirty-foot plunge to escape a conversation.
There’s an obvious lesson we all can learn from this: to be forever preserved in memory, all our life’s events must be set to the tune of “The Safety Dance”:
Met a guy at a conference
Said his name was Ted McGee
He wore a brown suit
Is allergic to fruit
Then he said he had to go and pee.
What’s most irritating is the selective nature of what the brain retains. First names of performing members of the Osmond family? Scored six of seven without consulting Google. What I just got for Christmas? No clue.
It’s best to console oneself with the upside. People with strong memories are often forced to relive their darkest and most painful moments, whereas I move freely through life unburdened by the mental image of my Grade 8 designer jeans.
I do wonder, though: How much worse can my memory get? And how will the decline manifest? Also, where did this bruise
come from?
If there’s any good news out of the study, it’s that even as recollection, reasoning and comprehension erode with age, our vocabulary endures. The most memory-challenged person remembers words. So at the very least, I’ll always be able to eloquently apologize for forgetting to wear pants.
I dialled into a conference call the other day. Just as we were getting under way, I recalled with a lurch that I’d committed myself to another call at the same time. Or had I? I needed to check my email. But my laptop was in for a memory upgrade and, dammit, I couldn’t find my iPhone. I rummaged through bags and coats. I looked on and under tables. My frantic search was producing a fair bit of noise, so I stopped to press mute. That’s when I found my iPhone.
It was in my hand. I had been talking on it.
This actually happened. I am officially getting old. It’s only a matter of time before I pull a hamstring while grocery shopping.
Beginning to lose your memory sounds like a downer—but it can be a great conversation starter. I, for one, recommend a fun game that I like to call Where Have I Been Previously?
Here’s how it works: every now and then I get together with some old friends and we try to remember when last we saw each other. Was it six months ago at a restaurant? Eight months ago on the golf course? If you get the perfect blend of faulty memory and stubborn insistence, this could take up about forty-five minutes.
It works at family gatherings too. Was it last Christmas that the turkey was too dry? Was it ’06 or ’08 when Uncle Mike fell asleep on the toilet? My family now spends 85 percent of most holiday meals trying to remember the chronological order of events at past holiday meals. Believe me, it’s hours and hours of fun for everyone who doesn’t get bored and go watch TV instead.
If you’ve mastered this game and are ready to take it to Expert level, try remembering what everyone gave everyone else for Christmas the preceding year. There are no wrong answers, because no one can ever remember the right answers.
I looked in the mirror. I don’t usually look in the mirror—at most, I may glance or take a gander. (This fact is supported by anyone who has seen my “hairdo.”) But this time I lingered because I noticed something I’d never seen before: the hair of one of my eyebrows was askew. Frankly, I had no idea my eyebrow hair was even askewable. How long has this been going on? When did my brows go rogue, forcing me to worry not only about bed-head but also about bed-face?
In forty-six years, I’d never known my eyebrows to do anything other than divert forehead sweat and indicate astonishment every time Whoopi Goldberg won an acting award. It’s hard not to wonder: Exactly what evolutionary purpose was served by eyebrows that start growing like mad in middle age? Is this nature’s way of telling us we were all meant to be eccentric university professors? Or is this simply a genetic relic of an ancient survival mechanism for aging men in a primitive world? Sure, Grampa is a horrible burden and we’d all love to push him out into the night to be devoured by sabre-toothed tigers—but dang it, the kids are sleeping so soundly under his eyebrows!
I’ve started talking to myself. I was backing out of the driveway and was into the third sentence before I realized it was happening. What’s worse, it wasn’t even something interesting, like a subconscious thought or an alien possession. It was just the normal boring stuff I usually think to myself—“Okay, first go get gas, then the bank, then Jazzercise …”—except now I was saying it out loud for some reason. You know who does this? Old people. I don’t think Andy Rooney even knew there was a camera on him for the last twenty years of his life. That’s just how the elderly talk when they’re alone. Why does fruit have to come in so many different shapes? Who decided purple should be called purple? LETTERS ARE BETTER THAN EMAILS!
Also, I’m getting a little worried about the wisdom thing. The fundamental bargain of life is that as you grow older, you acquire a measure of insight and perspective—which sort of makes up for all the nose hair and incontinence. But I’m getting on and so far I haven’t come up with anything more profound than “If you have the time, homemade guacamole is best.” Do you get your wisdom all at once? Will I wake up at the age of seventy-five going, “Aha! Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience!” These things keep me up at night—or they would, if I could stay awake past 9:30.
Then again, relative youth is still youth. I have a regular poker game with a group of guys, all of whom are older than me. It usually takes about twenty minutes for things to degenerate into confusion, contention and a general unawareness of who won, who lost and what the hell just happened. I figure I’m about three years away from being able to win every hand simply by saying confidently: “No, my pair of sixes beats your royal flush, old-timer. THOSE ARE THE RULES.”
Almost every day, the world presents me with a new way of feeling my age. For instance, Can No Longer Focus on Things Too Close to My Face Day was a bit of a bummer. Another tough day came recently courtesy of Paulina Gretzky, daughter of Wayne Gretzky and a person who uses Twitter to broadcast photos of herself in which she displays few clothes and less shame. Here is how two versions of me would react to this:
Past Me: Oh my God, she is almost naked in those photos. That is so hot.
Present Me: Oh my God, she is almost naked in those photos. I’m glad I don’t have a daughter.
For the record, Future Me would likely mutter something about bikinis and the statistical probability of melanoma.
I’ve been thinking a lot about slippers lately. I don’t currently own a pair, but the benefits of slippers grow more obvious and alluring with age. Warm feet. Superior traction. And all for the low, low price of no one ever again thinking of you as a sexual being.
Some of my friends are nonchalant about slipper ownership, but I remain of the view that it’s a big step. Once you become a slipper guy, there’s no going back. You are fated to a life of flannel pyjamas, warm milk and Ned Flanders expressions. I even know people—including a work colleague—who will bring their slippers to social events at other people’s houses. Because, really, there’s no easier way of indicating to your host, “I’m going to sit over here on the couch, converse briefly about the weather and then nod off for twenty minutes. Thanks for having me!”
The other day I actually said “Bah!”
In recent months, I’ve taken to carrying a pen and notebook around with me at all times. I highly recommend it. It’s an easy way to make sure you never again forget anything—so long as you can remember it long enough to get out your pen and notebook. And remember to remember where you put the notebook.
Young people will assume I’m exaggerating the fleeting nature of middle-aged memory. They will ask, “How hard can it be to maintain one’s train of thought for eight to twelve seconds?” To which I can only laugh and say by way of reply: “What were you asking about?”
Allow me to break it down for you. Let’s return to the four-step process:
Remember an errand that needs to be done.
Reach into coat pocket for pen and notebook to ensure errand is not forgotten.
Forget errand.
Continue to remember all the words to “Sussudio” for some reason.
Here’s a pro tip for those approaching middle age: on the rare occasion when you do put pen to paper in time, it’s important to write out the complete thought. I can’t stress this enough. Otherwise, you’re never going to remember what the notation means.
I made approximately 2.96 million lists over the Christmas holidays, and each morning I’d transfer the same item to the new list: “Get thing to T.” Each morning, I’d try to remember: “What does ‘Get thing to T’ mean?” Never cracked it. With the holidays now behind us, all I can do is hope “T” wasn’t a person and “thing” wasn’t a gift or a kidney.
If it was, I’m going to have to send an apology. I’ll put it on my list.
So I’m having my mid-life crisis now—and so far it consists
of struggling to decide what to do for my mid-life crisis. Who knew that choosing the physical manifestation of my crippling self-doubt and fleeting mortality could be so stressful?
In my twenties, I always assumed I’d wake up one morning, slap on a hairpiece and embrace a fun new hobby like curling or alcoholism. But the truth is, people judge you on the originality and quality of your crisis. It’s like a science fair for middle-aged people: you don’t want to be the guy struggling to hook up a potato battery while the genius next to you breeds an advanced race of atomic supermen.
That’s why I decided right from the start to rule out all the clichéd mid-life crises for men. Among them:
Buying a sports car: This is the classic display of male mid-life anxiety. Every sporty two-seater sold to a man over the age of forty should come with a mandatory bumper sticker that reads: “My other car is more practical but does not sufficiently announce my paralyzing fear of death. PLEASE PRETEND I LOOK YOUNG AND COOL BY WINKING MISCHIEVOUSLY (LADIES ONLY).”
Alas, men of a certain age get so caught up in the allure of the shiny $50,000 car that they overlook one important fact: it costs $49,980 more than a box of Just For Men but has the exact same effect—it makes women look at you and instantly think “Viagra.”
Trying to recapture one’s youth through sport: I’m ashamed to say I gave this a try not long ago, going out on Monday nights to play pickup hockey. I hadn’t taken to the ice in full equipment in twenty-five years, but believe me, it didn’t feel that way: it felt as though I’d never done it before. The fellas would surely have nicknamed me the Human Pylon, but pylons don’t vomit on the bench. (For reasons I still don’t understand, my ensuing retirement speech was not carried live on Sportsnet.)
The Future and Why We Should Avoid It Page 25
