Ain't nothin' but mammals
When Operaman and I went to see the film Keeping Time we had a conversation in which I voiced my suspicion that he might be gay — not that there's anything the matter with that — which turned out not to be the case. I told him I was a little disappointed, because it'd been a long time since I'd had a gay male friend, and I learn so much from them.
About men, that is.
Gay or straight, they're all men, and they aren't so very different in their behaviour. The difference is, while the gay man will tell you things, the straight man will tell you nothing. You are therefore forced to learn by observing them in their various habitats.
The other day I learned three things about men from three straight men.
When your friend AC, whom you've known for twenty years, moves into the condo next door to you, which you have mixed feelings about, but that's neither here nor there right now, it gives you a rare opportunity to observe the single man engaged in domestic behaviour in his natural habitat. As far as I can remember, Marlin Perkins never featured this species on
The single man, realizing the first things he will need to unpack are the kitchen and bathroom necessities, will be unable to locate them because he hasn't labelled his boxes.
The single man will then proceed to open several boxes, and, upon spying his shower curtain will hang it up, and next — since they were in the same box — will lay down the bathmat and hang the towels.
What the single man does not do, which makes him a very different animal from the single woman, is take a sponge and a bottle of Mr. Clean to the bathroom and engage them in their intended purposes.
Neither will the single man engage said sponge and companion inside his fridge before placing the beer in it.
You observe these activities and decide, the single man has his priorities straight.
Later, you go out to a bar at the Eaton's Centre with your three karaoke buddies, all members of the single man species, however, two are of the genus unattached man, the other of the genus girlfriend man.
You and the three single men share a cab home, and you squeeze into the back seat and say, jokingly, "It's OK, I can sit on Sparky's lap."
When confronting the single man thus in the wild, expect to be challenged to keep your word.
Later still, you are at home, in bed, alone, and the phone rings. It's another member of the species, a particular single man, one that you know very, very well, but whose genus you can't quite classify. And yet, before the day ends you learn one more thing:
When a single man calls you all the way from Australia, where he's been for two weeks because some Big Ass American Software Company has sent him on a prognostication mission, well, that's something.
* * *
Soon, Postmodern Sass will review the Gang of Four concert in Toronto last night. In the next story, Sass learns more about the species.
About men, that is.
Gay or straight, they're all men, and they aren't so very different in their behaviour. The difference is, while the gay man will tell you things, the straight man will tell you nothing. You are therefore forced to learn by observing them in their various habitats.
The other day I learned three things about men from three straight men.
When your friend AC, whom you've known for twenty years, moves into the condo next door to you, which you have mixed feelings about, but that's neither here nor there right now, it gives you a rare opportunity to observe the single man engaged in domestic behaviour in his natural habitat. As far as I can remember, Marlin Perkins never featured this species on
The single man, realizing the first things he will need to unpack are the kitchen and bathroom necessities, will be unable to locate them because he hasn't labelled his boxes.
The single man will then proceed to open several boxes, and, upon spying his shower curtain will hang it up, and next — since they were in the same box — will lay down the bathmat and hang the towels.
What the single man does not do, which makes him a very different animal from the single woman, is take a sponge and a bottle of Mr. Clean to the bathroom and engage them in their intended purposes.
Neither will the single man engage said sponge and companion inside his fridge before placing the beer in it.
You observe these activities and decide, the single man has his priorities straight.
Later, you go out to a bar at the Eaton's Centre with your three karaoke buddies, all members of the single man species, however, two are of the genus unattached man, the other of the genus girlfriend man.
You and the three single men share a cab home, and you squeeze into the back seat and say, jokingly, "It's OK, I can sit on Sparky's lap."
When confronting the single man thus in the wild, expect to be challenged to keep your word.
Later still, you are at home, in bed, alone, and the phone rings. It's another member of the species, a particular single man, one that you know very, very well, but whose genus you can't quite classify. And yet, before the day ends you learn one more thing:
When a single man calls you all the way from Australia, where he's been for two weeks because some Big Ass American Software Company has sent him on a prognostication mission, well, that's something.
Soon, Postmodern Sass will review the Gang of Four concert in Toronto last night. In the next story, Sass learns more about the species.
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