The "Man Gene"
I was dumbstruck today when my father, MY FATHER, attempted in all seriousness to try and convince me to go see the newly released movie “Shall We Dance” starring Richard Gere, Jennifer Lopez, and Susan Sarandon.
Pardon? At the time, I didn’t know who or what it was sitting opposite me in the car in the passengers seat this afternoon, but I was confident that it was sure as fuck NOT my old man! No fucking way! Had the earth been suddenly over run by alien pods from another planet today, and I have just managed to continue slipping unawares through the dragnet or something?
Surely that repugnant creature seated across from me scratching his balls through his denims and flicking cigarette ash out the car door window was not the same tree from whence my fruit hath dropped?
My REAL father wouldn’t have allowed himself to be dragged, even by wild horses, to the screening (public, private, or otherwise) of ANY Jennifer Lopez movie…PERIOD…much less a schmaltzy “feel good” romance chick flick involving ballroom dancing!
This is the same man who has seen every single James Bond movie at least a zillion times, and honestly believes that Jean Claude Van Damme is underrated and under appreciated as an actor worthy of serious Oscar consideration. So exactly how he equates Richard Gere box-stepping with J-Lo as a credible cinematic work on the same level as he would any action packed knock-down-drag-out Kickfest cookie-cutter movie complete with massive explosions, fast cars, judo chops, and scantily clad women…sure beats the fuck out of me!
Maybe that alien pod beside me in my fathers form has also taken up needle-point, joined Oprah’s Book-of-the-Month Club, and has begun collecting the most recent volumes of Richard Simmons ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ exercise videos through mail order. I think I can recognize the symptoms; the writing is on the wall. First, it’s J-Lo shimmying in high-heeled dancing shoes; next it’s Barbara Streisand Cryfests on Sunday afternoons into a steaming cup of Chi tea.
Maybe the time has finally come I suspect to take ’ol Pops for a long walk in the woods with a rifle…and one of us isn't going to come home again.
Either way…today there was a massive and sudden shifting of testosterone in my family’s male line *. Maybe “manliness” and “good taste” simply skipped a generation and bypassed my father altogether and was instead passed indirectly on to me in order to hold the torch high for all low-brow Steven Segal and Sylvester Stallone blockbusters everywhere…then, now, and in the future! To automatically rail against anything below an AA-14 rating or that does not include either muppets, machetes, gunfights, Charleton Heston, or bikinied women with daggers strapped to their thighs somewhere in their 90 minute plotlines.
It’s just not civilized cinema otherwise.
One day, when men ** rule the cultural world once again, there will be a mandated "Nipple Quota" enforced by the International Film Board. A globally recognized law that ensures that every movie created will have either an exposed nipple, an explosion, or a midget in costume every 15 motherfuckin' minutes! Then, truely there will be movies with "something for everyone"...even the MAN of the house!
But for the time being, as of today, I inherited the "Man Gene" to keep alive in our family and pass on to future gerations of Nash males. Clearly, my father wasn't entirely up to the task.
Oh, the shame of it all...
* And, it may be pointed out, considering the massive freakish genetics involved in creating my immense schlong, we’re talking about a shifting of testosterone that would otherwise capsize an Aircraft Carrier like it was a child’s toy floating in a plastic Mr. Turtle pool.
** And I mean real fuckin' MEN...no girly men named Jai, or claiming to be a "Culture Vulture" will be accepted. You can keep your Queer Eyes for Scotland Yard. (Get it..."Queer Eyes" ~ "Quiries"?)
Pardon? At the time, I didn’t know who or what it was sitting opposite me in the car in the passengers seat this afternoon, but I was confident that it was sure as fuck NOT my old man! No fucking way! Had the earth been suddenly over run by alien pods from another planet today, and I have just managed to continue slipping unawares through the dragnet or something?
Surely that repugnant creature seated across from me scratching his balls through his denims and flicking cigarette ash out the car door window was not the same tree from whence my fruit hath dropped?
My REAL father wouldn’t have allowed himself to be dragged, even by wild horses, to the screening (public, private, or otherwise) of ANY Jennifer Lopez movie…PERIOD…much less a schmaltzy “feel good” romance chick flick involving ballroom dancing!
This is the same man who has seen every single James Bond movie at least a zillion times, and honestly believes that Jean Claude Van Damme is underrated and under appreciated as an actor worthy of serious Oscar consideration. So exactly how he equates Richard Gere box-stepping with J-Lo as a credible cinematic work on the same level as he would any action packed knock-down-drag-out Kickfest cookie-cutter movie complete with massive explosions, fast cars, judo chops, and scantily clad women…sure beats the fuck out of me!
Maybe that alien pod beside me in my fathers form has also taken up needle-point, joined Oprah’s Book-of-the-Month Club, and has begun collecting the most recent volumes of Richard Simmons ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ exercise videos through mail order. I think I can recognize the symptoms; the writing is on the wall. First, it’s J-Lo shimmying in high-heeled dancing shoes; next it’s Barbara Streisand Cryfests on Sunday afternoons into a steaming cup of Chi tea.
Maybe the time has finally come I suspect to take ’ol Pops for a long walk in the woods with a rifle…and one of us isn't going to come home again.
Either way…today there was a massive and sudden shifting of testosterone in my family’s male line *. Maybe “manliness” and “good taste” simply skipped a generation and bypassed my father altogether and was instead passed indirectly on to me in order to hold the torch high for all low-brow Steven Segal and Sylvester Stallone blockbusters everywhere…then, now, and in the future! To automatically rail against anything below an AA-14 rating or that does not include either muppets, machetes, gunfights, Charleton Heston, or bikinied women with daggers strapped to their thighs somewhere in their 90 minute plotlines.
It’s just not civilized cinema otherwise.
One day, when men ** rule the cultural world once again, there will be a mandated "Nipple Quota" enforced by the International Film Board. A globally recognized law that ensures that every movie created will have either an exposed nipple, an explosion, or a midget in costume every 15 motherfuckin' minutes! Then, truely there will be movies with "something for everyone"...even the MAN of the house!
But for the time being, as of today, I inherited the "Man Gene" to keep alive in our family and pass on to future gerations of Nash males. Clearly, my father wasn't entirely up to the task.
Oh, the shame of it all...
* And, it may be pointed out, considering the massive freakish genetics involved in creating my immense schlong, we’re talking about a shifting of testosterone that would otherwise capsize an Aircraft Carrier like it was a child’s toy floating in a plastic Mr. Turtle pool.
** And I mean real fuckin' MEN...no girly men named Jai, or claiming to be a "Culture Vulture" will be accepted. You can keep your Queer Eyes for Scotland Yard. (Get it..."Queer Eyes" ~ "Quiries"?)
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