A man knows how to lose an afternoon. Drinking, playing Grand Theft Auto, driving aimlessly, shooting pool. A man listens, and that's how he argues. He crafts opinions. He can pound the table, take the floor. It's not that he must. It's that he can. Or he stands watch. He interrupts trouble. This is the state policeman. This is the poet. Men, both of them. Style — a man has that. No matter how eccentric that style is, it is uncontrived.
It's a set of rules. He understands the basic mechanics of the planet. Or he can close one eye, look up at the sun, and tell you what time of day it is. Or where north is. He can tell you where you might find something to eat or where the fish run. He understands electricity or the internal-combustion engine, the mechanics of flight or how to figure a pitcher's ERA. A man can tell you he was wrong. That he did wrong. That he planned to. He can tell you when he is lost. He can apologize, even if sometimes it's just to put an end to the bickering.
A man does not wither at the thought of dancing. But it is generally to be avoided. A man watches. Sometimes he goes and sits at an auction knowing he won't spend a dime, witnessing the temptation and the maneuvering of others. Sometimes he stands on the street corner watching stuff. This is not about quietude so much as collection.
It is not about meditation so much as considering. We will imply that your particular hair color is not one of our top-two favorite hair colors. We will inexplicably refer to the restroom as the "little boy's room," even though we have never once called it that, ever—not even when we were a little boy. But we are not to be held accountable for these things. You must be more generous than that. Bear with us. And when we are not bumbling, when we seem in control—a little haughty maybe, a bit asshole-ish, a little cold—you must also bear with us.
Think of the burden we carry into the conversation. Our fathers and grandfathers fought in wars. Some of them not by choice. These were men with heavy souls. These were men who believed they earned the right to be an asshole every now and then. These were the men who taught us how to comport ourselves. We weren't coddled by these men. They didn't text us selfies on a business trip and tell us they missed us! We do not carry their burdens, but their darkness has shaped us.
It is worth noting that there are not two kinds of men—the blundering and the arrogant. There is one kind of man, who occasionally blunders and occasionally is a dick and occasionally is his best self. What mostly determines which version of us you will encounter during any given conversation is one crucial variable: you.
So you have a lot of responsibility here. You must be clear. First: what is "the alternating current of the flesh? Men love power tools. Second: gay men do not exist in the Esquire universe. Nor, apparently, do black women.
When his woman bends to pick up her underwear, he feels that thrum that only a man can feel. He does not rely on rationalizations or explanations. He doesn't winnow, winnow, winnow until truths can be humbly categorized, or intellectualized, until behavior can be written off with an explanation.
He doesn't see himself lost in some great maw of humanity, some grand sweep. That's the liberal thread; it's why men won't line up as liberals. A man doesn't rely on vague metaphorical criticisms while simultaneously accusing his opponents of vagueness. Oh wait. A man resists formulations, questions belief, embraces ambiguity without making a fetish out of it.
A man revisits his beliefs. That's why men won't forever line up with conservatives, either. Ok, this actually makes me mad.
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