The Man

// The (Snow)Man

By Joey Camire .
12.20.09 // The Man

View Comments / Dec 20.09 / The Man / by Joey Camire

// In His Own Words

By Alex Aloise .
12.19.09 // The Man

The Man from alex aloise on Vimeo.

View Comments / Dec 19.09 / The Man / by Alex Aloise

// Caring Isn’t Creepy… Just Not Cool

By Jake Dubs .
12.18.09 // The Man

Everything you need to know about being The Man can be summed up in this pin:

I bought it for $1 in a consignment shop in Venice, CA last weekend. I was at the checkout counter buying a $35 non-refundable, not particularly ugly Christmas sweater for an Ugly Christmas Sweater Party, and it caught my eye.

I know it’s supposed to represent the Super Furry Animals song of the same name—a track rockingly chronicling how the police, the corporations, rich people, the government and the mass media ‘don’t give a fuck about anybody else’—but I’d like to suspend the literal meaning of the pin and instead give it my own.

Being The Man, cool and awesome and nerveless, isn’t just about being cool and awesome and nerveless.

It’s about not giving a fuck.

It’s about not caring what other fools think. About doing your thing. It’s about going from “Fuck you” to “Fuck it.” About wearing something or listening to something or watching something or liking something other people don’t, and being The Man about it.

From one non-Man-aspiring-to-be-one to all you other non-Men-aspiring-to-be-one, my advice is simple:

Don’t give a fuck.

Just be The Man.

View Comments / Dec 18.09 / The Man / by Jake Dubs

// Barbara, The Woman.

By Sarah Pappalardo .
12.17.09 // The Man

Barbara, the Woman from sarah pappalardo on Vimeo.

View Comments / Dec 17.09 / The Man / by Sarah Pappalardo

// The Man is Your Mom

By Julie Matheny .
12.17.09 // The Man

Those of us who are unemployed can’t really get down on The Man.  Sure, we listen to our friends who hate him, talk shit sympathetically with them on gchat, and attend an occasional Happy Hour to remind ourselves that he exists.  But in reality, we don’t have to deal with him.    It’s hard to get angry with something so intangible and removed from your daily life.  To me, the man has always been an abstract concept, one perpetuated by hippies and malcontents worldwide.

But to those of you out there enjoying some time off from the day-to-day grind, I must warn you.   The Man is closer to you than you think.  In fact, he might even be sleeping in the room next to you.  Yes, fellow multiple-degree-holding, in-transition-twenty-somethings;  I’m talking about Your Mom.

Of course, your Mom wasn’t always The Man.  And she doesn’t just become him overnight.  In the beginning, you guys are actually on the same team.  Your first few weeks at home are pleasant, filled with all the hugs, food, and free laundry you can stand.  She listens patiently as you explain to her your job search process.   She’s sympathetic to your use of sports metaphors that rationalize needing time to “train”, and your subsequent refusal to “settle” for a time-consuming job you just don’t want.  You can count on her for the repetition of such supportive phrases like “things take time,”  “you’ve worked so hard, don’t settle,” and, my personal favorite, “do what you love.”

But every Mom has a breaking point.  A “say when” moment in which sympathy gives way to impatience.  My Mom had her’s while dressed in a red suit on a typical weekday morning.  I have always thought there’s a correlation between the number of power suits a woman owns and her inability to put up with bullshit.  And when a woman who owns ten of them catches you

remote-handed on the couch watching your beloved Tuesday marathon of Law & Order: SVU, you realize that you’ve committed the cardinal sin of living at home: you’ve let her catch you in the act of being unemployed.

This is the day your life changes.   This is the day she stares at you coldly and says the three words you both hoped to God she’d never have to say:  “Get a job.”

It’s all over now.  Your brief life of reflection and televised sexual tension between police detectives gone, now poisoned with The Man’s unceasing mandates which result in your painful transformation from accomplished daughter to personal assistant.  She has become your boss, making you do things she could easily do herself but doesn’t quite feel like it.  And I’m not talking about about the easy stuff every decent son or daughter should do, like the grocery shopping or the taking of the family dog to the vet.  I mean the “really? fucking really Mom?” moments in which you find yourself staring at the over-50 lingerie section at Nordstrom going, “Are pantyhose the same as stockings? Are stockings the same as tights?” which reminds you of the last time you wore them, during your 3rd grade class picture day where you skinned your chin during recess running around chasing falling leaves because it was fun.   And as you give the sales lady your mother’s credit card, it dawns on you that this childhood memory is a metaphor for your life.  You head home in her car, now more than ever feeling the need to watch Benson & Stabler solve a double-rape homicide in sixty minutes. Instead, you walk in the door and give The Man her hosiery.  She is smiling.

“I got you a part-time job” she says.  I follow her heels into the kitchen.
“Mom, I already told you I’m not working at Starbucks.”
“It’s at a non-profit championing the Deaf.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
She does not laugh.  I look to my dog for applause.  Nothing.
“You start Tuesday.”

Damn the man.

View Comments / Dec 17.09 / The Man / by Julie Matheny

// Theman.

By Ben Cheney .
12.17.09 // The Man

View Comments / Dec 17.09 / The Man / by Ben Cheney

// ESSENTIALS

By Jordan Childs .
12.16.09 // The Man

(THE AUTHOR IN NO WAY CLAIMS TO POSSESS ANY OF THE ABOVE TRAITS. ALTHOUGH HE PRETENDS SOMETIMES AND IT’S REALLY QUITE SAD.)

View Comments / Dec 16.09 / The Man / by Jordan Childs

// Friday nights are for Christine

By EricaPressly .
12.15.09 // The Man

We were dancing when I turned and saw a man wearing a wig. It was long and red. Not a natural red, a blatant red. The red a girl would cut out of a magazine, bring to her hairdresser and say, “but not this red”. Bangs were cut straight across the forehead.

“This your first time here?” He asked. He wasn’t dancing as much as shifting his weight and bopping, catching every other beat.

“Beauty Bar or New York. Beauty Bar? Yep. Sure is.”

“Mine too.” Then he asked me, “Do I make an attractive woman?”

He looked like a 50-year-old N.C. State fan had pulled on a wig and a skirt for an approving guffaw from old fraternity brothers. He was overweight and short, and his boobs were a good cup size larger than mine.  He could have used more foundation.

“Very. You’re hot.”

He beamed. “What’s your name?”

“Erica,” I said and fist-pumped my support of the DJ’s mash up of American Girl. “What’s yours?”

“Christine. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. You like wearing women’s clothes, Christine?”

“What?” he yelled over the crowd.

“I said, ‘Do you enjoy wearing women’s clothing?’”

“Oh yes! I love it. It’s the most fun. The shoes, the skirts…I just love it all.” He pulled both hands through tangle-free hair, plopped equal halves down his shoulders and smiled. “Feel my breasts,” he said and grabbed for my hand.

“No, thanks.”

“No really, feel my breasts,” He placed my hand on his fat deposits.

“Hmmph. Feel real. Congratulations.”

“I know. Don’t you just love wearing a bra?” he asked.

“No. Not at all.” And with that, I turned my back. The man had much to learn about being a woman.

View Comments / Dec 15.09 / The Man / by EricaPressly

// Yeah, you.

By Tristan Smith .
12.15.09 // The Man

You know who’s the man? Math. Math, always one right answer, columns, sheets, secret codes trapping us, forcing us to draw perfect angles. Math is hard, mean, strong, oppressive, everywhere. Fuck the man. Fuck math.

And you know who else is the man? Yeah, the electric company. Oh, hey, here’s a bunch of great stuff, oh, yeah, by the way, you can only use it if you have electricity. Yeah, the whole steam industry, all your steam-powered shavers and steam-powered steamers, none of that works now. Fuck the man. Fuck the electric company.

And while we’re at it: motorcyclists, Winter, Taylor Swift, streetsweepers, Gulden’s mustard- guess what, you’re all the man, too. Yeah, that’s right motorcyclists. Didn’t see that coming, did you? Pretending to be rebels but really just intimidating all of us into hiding in big boxy crapfests.

All the other ones should be obvious. Especially the mustard.

View Comments / Dec 15.09 / The Man / by Tristan Smith

// Everywhere and Always – There is No Escape

By Charles Hodges .
12.14.09 // The Man

I see him everyday.  He built the roads, with dreams of toll booths dancing in his head.  At the dentist’s office, he silently demands my copay.  He wants me to get a swine flu shot, wants me to believe that I might not make it past the winter.  But I might not.  Will I?  What if he is right?  After all, he has been around longer.  He does know more than me.  He’s simply asking for a small exchange for my well being for his own advancement.  Do I trust his intentions?  I have no choice.  There’s an abundance of choice.  Whatever, wherever I choose, he is there.  He sells both the leather and leopard iPhone covers.  He sells the leather leopard iPhone cover.  He sells the iPhone.  He sells me cheeseburgers and cholesterol medicine.  As the weather gets colder, he wants to me travel to Jamaica, buy insurance for the trip, buy new luggage on the way, upgrade my room and buy gifts while I am there, bring him one back.  He loves gifts.  He loves when I go to Jamaica.  He wants me to spend.  He wants me to save.  He wants me to save so that others can spend, in some long formula that no one truly understands.  He understands.  I see him when I pay my bills.  I hear him when the sirens wail.  Maybe he is saving someone, so they can continue paying real estate taxes, not death taxes – whatever is more.  He is always someone else to everyone. Like hell, each vision is customized with its dead-aunt rooms, the yellow bird wallpaper peeling away to show the previous owner’s decorative intentions, and on and on and on.  And still, no matter how many times the wallpaper changes, and no matter how many times you pass it down to your children, in the end, he owns the house.

View Comments / Dec 14.09 / The Man / by Charles Hodges