In most of the country (and the world), there are teenagers who could whip me in most contests, because they are working hard every day of their lives, swinging an axe, hauling buckets of water, wrangling herds of cattle, hogs, and horses. Conversely, I memorize written lines of (brilliant) dialogue. Then I go to a trailer where my hair is coiffed and MAKEUP is applied to my face. After that, I squeeze my beefy corpus into specifically unattractive garments before heading into the set, where I then deliver my prepared scenes with all the deadpan élan I can muster. If hungry, I can request a sandwich fixed to my liking. My mewling is easily silenced with a bottle of water or a cup of corn chowder.
Please don’t misunderstand me. In my life, there are and have been times when I do and did work like “a man.” I have engaged in seasons of labor on my family’s farm. I have framed houses. I worked two summers on a blacktop crew, paving parking lots and driveways in the Illinois humidity. I did some roofing in Chicago. I have known and enjoyed hard work for many of my prime years. But now, I am a clown who occasionally gets to mill a tree into table slabs.
Having thus established my current meager rank on the great tourney bracket of manliness in life, let’s begin this chapter in earnest. First of all, let’s change up our semantics. I wish to examine some human attributes that I think of as, yes, “manly,” but I would also like to touch upon some personality traits that I feel are charismatic in people of all sexes, that many readers might instinctively think of as “manly” but I will simply call “capable.” I will perforce be indulging in some gross generalizations here, like “all men have strong arms” and “women wear high heels,” but this is obviously not the case for everyone. Just making conversation.
For the menfolk:
Chivalry: In a nutshell, there are certain situations in everyday life in which we fellas have the opportunity to behave, well, decently. The initial “women’s lib” movement brought the role of modern-day chivalry into question. “If you ladies want to be treated as equals, then shouldn’t you be able to open your own car door?” The answer to that is, quite simply, “No, dude. You’re an asshole.” Women are, quite clearly, powerful and smart, quite often more than us bros. Their literal bodily connection to the forces of the moon’s gravity and resultant tides, not to mention their quite regular performance of the medicine-ball-through-a-needle’s-eye MIRACLE of childbirth, renders them superior to men in many important ways. However, when ladies like to wear shoes that are difficult to move around in, or perhaps a foxy skirt that limits their choices in sitting positions, then it’s simply nice to lend them a sympathetic hand. We men generally weigh more than they do, so the wind doesn’t prove as much of a threat to us. Perhaps we’re not as worried about our hairdos, so the rain is not as big of a bummer. Whatever the adversity, if a man is on hand to provide ease to a lady’s cause, I think he’s a shitheel if he stands idly by when she could use an umbrella, a handkerchief, or a steady arm.
Of course, this is applicable to all people, not just ladies. There are a lot of daddies out there who sometimes need a little aid as they try to change a diaper whilst juggling groceries and a latte. I suppose that’s another part of being “manly,” or more accurately, “like a man.” I am speaking of our tendency as humans to try to do too much. People love to bite off more than they can chew. I consistently arrive at the grocery store for maybe five or six items, so I get the two-handled plastic basket instead of the cart, and I invariably see seven more things I need, including sixty-four ounces of cranberry juice, and, oh, I really should try this new craft beer from the Russian River Brewing Co., and on and on, until I am testing the limits of both the thick-gauge-wire basket handles and my arms and fingers. Why don’t I go get a cart? Go fuck yourself. Why don’t I ask for directions? A topic much masticated by many before me. “I know I’m lost, I know, but I will be goddamned if I’m going to stop and ask someone in a gas station for help.” Behave like that, and I’ll be much more quick to call you “manly” than if you win a boxing match.
Grooming: Again, who is making the rules? How does a “man” groom himself in this modern age? As a character actor blessed with a thick head of hair and a thicker thicket of bracken upon my face, neck, and lip, I have enjoyed excessively utilizing these accessories in every possible permutation I could muster. I have done Mr. T’s majestic hairdo in both brown and platinum white. I often shave my head bald. I have exploited my whiskers for beards, goatees, Vandykes, muttonchops, and of course all manner of moustaches.
Working in the live theater or on a television series can mean maintaining a certain look for months on end, which means if I’m playing a person with a douchey hairstyle (for Christ’s sake, Ron Swanson’s coif is called “the full douche”) or lame facial hair choice, then I might be stuck with said shrubbery throughout my real life, at the lumberyard, at a Little League game, at the post office, you name it. It’s been fascinating over the years to study how I am perceived differently by strangers depending upon my current hair/whisker style. I certainly have rolled around town in a Gucci tuxedo or other fancy Sunday clothes. I have also swaggered about even more in dusty Carhartt pants and jackets (for my money, nothing beats denim and work boots), but whatever the case, people tend to look at you and judge you differently based upon the cover of the book.
I say, who fucking cares? Sure, I think we should do our best to keep ourselves clean, for reasons of health as well as politeness. If you want to attract a conservative person, then get a square haircut and a clean shave. If you long for a Phish fan, well, I don’t know what they typically look like, but I’m betting it’s more laissez-faire than most. Let your freak flag fly, friend. Do your thing, however it looks, keep the hygiene up, and tell everybody who doesn’t like it to kiss your tattooed ass.
Another thought that I think goes for everybody, but men especially: Be Handy. For Pete’s sake, I know not everybody can build a canoe, or even a Popsicle stick. That doesn’t mean you need to throw your hands in the air and say, “I’m useless.” There are many facets of our daily lives that entail minor tool use, which damn near any idiot can master. A pet concern of mine: changing a tire on your vehicle. I know, I know, AAA is great, they really are an amazing service, but don’t let the security blanket of their service make you soft. You just might get caught out in the cold without your blanket. Every modern car and truck comes with a full kit for changing a flat tire, and I highly recommend you give it a few practice runs in the safety of your own driveway or street, before you’re stranded in the hills on your way back from Bonnaroo with no cell phone service and a pancaked tire.
You can use a screwdriver. You can use a hammer. Trust me. If you want to fix a broken closet hook or doorknob, you can! Take your time, read about it online, or better yet, ask someone handy that you know for advice. I can’t describe the richly deserved feeling of accomplishment you’ll glean from nailing up just one fallen fence board. Your genitals will expand exponentially. Men have been known to gain up to seven-eighths of an inch in length, and a burgeoning nine-sixteenths of an inch in girth! I’ve heard tell of ladies who increased their vaginal volume by almost a half liter! Don’t take handiness lightly, especially if you hope to increase your manliness, particularly by means of an enlarged vagina.
I cannot wrap up this chapter before touching base with one of my all-time paragons of manliness. I speak, of course, of Theodore Roosevelt, aka “number 26.” Here is a piece he wrote to adorn the wall of the lobby at New York City’s magnificent Museum of Natural History:
MANHOOD
A man’s usefulness depends upon his living up to his ideals insofar as he can.
It is hard to fail but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.
All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune, make for a finer, nobler type of manhood.
Only those are fit to live who do not fear to die and none are fit to die who have shrunk from the joy of life and the duty of life.
Oh, right, just in case we might have forgotten why he was the baddest mofo ever to sit the Oval Office bareback (we haven’t), this should firmly remind us. I would especially like to echo his sentiment that “it is worse never to have tried to succeed.” I would equate this notion with manliness, or, more correctly, capability. Damn it all, you have been given a life on this beautiful planet! Get off your ass and do something!
It is far too simple these days to lazily coast through an entire lifetime, performing adequately at some thankless job, so that one can purchase a roof, a television, a video game console, and a crappy vehicle, only to find oneself in the final days with absolutely nothing to show for the squandered years. My dad always told me, “If you’re gonna do a job, do it right,” and “Just always do the best you can, and then nobody can fault your effort.”
Those simple adages saw me through a great many times of adversity, lending me the necessary gravel for finding gainful employment, so that even when I couldn’t land an acting job, I could find carpentry work, which paid me dollars that I could then spend on beer. When the storm clouds hit, with a little gumption, life can begin to look rather sunny pretty quickly. If you like beer. Which men do. Just kidding. My sisters Laurie and Carrie can drink circles around me. Not sure if I mentioned that they’re also talented belchers.
You’ll notice that Mr. Roosevelt doesn’t mention punching anybody in the face or firing a weapon of any caliber in his description of manhood. This from a man who so famously led the Rough Riders in their conquest of San Juan Hill and punched a fellow assemblyman in the face during an argumentative session of the New York State assembly. He does suggest that quality can be found in a chap who lives “up to his ideals insofar as he can.” This, to me, is another arena in which men and women can prove their worth. Loyalty. Honor. Have a set of rules, a code of ethics, that you will do your best to uphold and defend, whether you’re on horseback in Cuba in 1898, or at a school board meeting next week, or merely at the water cooler with your coworkers. Pursue decency in all dealings with your fellow man and woman. Simply put? Don’t be an asshole.
4
Football Troubador
1984. My hometown, the village of Minooka, Illinois, was rather devoid of anything but the most homogenized popular culture. To this day, I don’t know where the good independent record store or bookstore is. I’m certain they must exist, perhaps in Morris, the nearby town with a movie theater, but I just never had occasion to find them.
My older cousin Angie and my sister Laurie could legally drive to town, enabling them to traipse the twenty minutes to the Louis Joliet Mall in the nearby metropolis of Joliet. There Duran Duran records could be obtained, as well as the other glittering apples of their teenage-girl eyes. George Michael and his sassy young band, Wham! UK. Cyndi Lauper. Adam Ant. Madonna. In fealty to these musical phenoms, the girls also would purchase multicolored bangles with which to festoon their wrists; all well and good for them.
But there was little opportunity for a future weirdo like myself to discover the bands that would have thrilled me to pieces, like Talking Heads or Elvis Costello, not to mention Tom Waits or Laurie Anderson. If I wanted to experience popular music, I had but one apparent alternative, and that was to accompany Laurie and Angie to the concert of their choosing, which in 1985 happened to be George Michael and Wham!. Was Mr. Michael a bewitching singer and captivating dancer? Certainly. Was I as intoxicated by the lights and glamour as I was terrified by the wilding crowd of screaming, drooling housewives at my first large-scale music venue? You bet. Did any of that make me the tiniest bit inclined to answer in the affirmative when George Michael shouted, “YOU WANNA SEE MY BUM?!”? It did not, no.
Clapping along to his dance hits did not induce in me any urge whatsoever to enjoy a peek at his buttocks, as impressive as they must have been after all that “wake me up before you go-go”–ing. Experiences like this one certainly must have nurtured any developing feminine or “sensitive” side I possessed, so perhaps I entered high school looking for ways to round out the testosterone contingent in my hormonal congress.
In the 1980s there was really not much to do in a small Midwestern town. This recreational vacuum made team sports an incredibly important and prevalent part of our everyday lives. We worshipped the Chicago Cubs with a fervor now reserved for things like Downton Abbey. My older sister, Laurie, and I would compete on car rides in the arena of baseball statistics, quizzed by Dad at the wheel, which we could call up from our encyclopedic mind-vaults like Rain Man. Keith Moreland triples in 1982? Two. Fergie Jenkins’s last wild pitch? Nineteen eighty-three. Easy.
Laurie and I mowed the front yard on a tractor mower. It was about eighty yards to the road and back. Two laps would take ten minutes, so we’d take turns, one of us watching the Cubbies while the other mowed. We got so good at it, we’d never stop the mower, just supplant each other while in second gear. Cubs fever? . . . We caught it!! This obsession bled liberally into our own participation in baseball and basketball for me, and in softball for Laur. At about eight hundred students, our high school was small enough that we could participate in almost every activity we desired, meaning sports and then some. Thus, I immediately signed up for band, jazz band, drama club, football, baseball, and basketball. I also was on the student council, eventually serving as its president. In other words, I was an asshole.
I had already played my first dramatic villain by this time, dastardly sheriff Black Bart something-or-other, in our eighth-grade play, Trouble in Sinnimin City. My friend Joe Frescura—a strapping Eagle Scout of a lad—played the protagonist. I suppose he was named “Tom” or some other bullshit hero name. This was several years before I would learn the efficacy of stage combat, so we opted for full-contact face punches in the show’s climax so as not to appear weak before our thirteen-year-old castmates. In hindsight, the fact that Joe let me leave the stage on my feet with all my teeth speaks to his quiet generosity of spirit, because he could have laid me out with a single clout from his well-fed Italian knuckle sandwich. Joe went on to become an exceptional army major in the Special Forces. I became an actor, and not just an actor, but a thespian.
I didn’t have a chance to play football before arriving in high school. I’m not sure I had any business getting into it even then, but I was a decent-to-good athlete, and I was willing to buy into the whole romance of high school and homecoming and, well, cheerleaders, so I signed up. At age fourteen and fifteen I was faster than I was tough, so I started out as a receiver and a defensive back, and those first “double days” (two conditioning practices a day) in July and August 1984 left me so stiff and sore that my uncle Dan would chase me around giggling at the pain my aching muscles were causing me. Halfway through the season I broke my collarbone diving for a pass, which was admittedly pretty badass. At least it was until I started sobbing openly while my mom drove me to the hospital in Morris. We would laugh/sob every time she hit a bump because it hurt so goddamn bad that it was funny. When things get bad enough, all you can do is laugh. I feel like my mom saved my fanny like that about once a week throughout my childhood.
That injury put a damper on my football career for a while and allowed me to focus on my life in the arts. Namely, playing the saxophone in band and jazz band, kissing girls, the theater, and more kissing girls. Band was overall a really great experience throughout my school career, but it was also a place for me to explore my inner smart-ass. I would offer my belated apologies to our band director, Mr. Wunar, who had to put up with way more “hilarious” tomfoolery than any human should ever have to countenance. It was in band that I was able to learn how to carry myself as a leader with a sense of humor, whilst indulging my propensity for high-grade jackassery.
The key was in discerning just how much mischief I could get away with. The percussionists, for example, took things too far. They drank vodka and beer to excess and then allowed their alcohol to fuel some pretty flagrant insubordination, ultimately finding them
selves in the principal’s office. I was interested in the grab-ass but not the consequences, so I focused on making people laugh without having my techniques detected by the administration, in this case Mr. Wunar. Apparently, I became rather adept at playing both sides of the fence, earning A’s in class while firmly establishing myself as a miscreant purveyor of chuckles.
I also, quite understandably, took to the stage whenever I could. As my involvement in the arts expanded, I found myself being cast as more bad guys or antihero protagonists, such as Jud Fry in Oklahoma! and Joe Ferone in Up the Down Staircase, and I really began to enjoy the therapeutic aspect of getting to play some version of an asshole. All of the weak human inclinations that I had been raised to eschew were qualities in which I could revel onstage, and I could even win an audience’s love through misbehaving! This was big, big news. As I worked as a professional on the stages of Chicago in later years, I continued to find that people were willing to reward me for acting like some of the jerks I had grown up around.
* * *
To wit: football players. Thanks largely to my dad’s genes and his coaching, I was pretty good at sports, but I was like the fifth-to-seventh-best guy on any given baseball or basketball team. I was a solid contributor, but I was never the star. I often batted second or sixth. I’d win “most improved” or “best sportsmanship,” if anything. I would be among the team leaders in rebounds or assists, perhaps. But by junior year of high school I had started to fill out, and through no fault of my own, I ended up being one of the hardest hitters on the football team. There were guys on the team who were much more imposing Mack trucks of young men, like Todd Reische and Brian Edge, to name a couple of hulks, but some badass instinct was awakened within me. By senior year I was the “headhunter” on kickoffs, which meant I was the guy who ran in front of everyone else to reach the receiver of the kickoff and exact as much punishment upon him as possible for having the temerity to carry MY FOOTBALL.
Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for Delicious Living Page 5
