Here´s a cold hard fact that you must now chew and swallow: if you are reading
this, you are not macho. Period. Case closed. Real men do not read anything
other than Guns And Ammo, Sports Illustrated, or Shaved Beaver.

Do not mention Fire In The Belly. Do not clutch your copy of Iron John. Sit your
soft little ass down and listen up. Understanding macho means that you don´t
possess it. I have proven myself to be the pussy that I am by writing this piece.
(I´m wearing a powder blue cotton print shirt and peach panties as I type) [sic]
Ernest Hemingway, you say? Wrong. Ernest lived a very macho life and wrote
some very macho stories. But Ernest threw it all away by blowing his head off
with a shotgun. Very unmacho. Real men do not commit suicide. Real men know
just how much life sucks. Real men grit their teeth and take it bill after bill, war
after war, tumor after tumor. You don´t greet Death, you punch him in the throat repeatedly as he drags you away. I think John Wayne said it best when he said,
"Fuck Death and the lung cancer he rode in on."

Macho is a very slippery thing. You don´t read about it, you don´t write about it,
you don´t even know the correct spelling of the word. In a vain attempt to keep
some semblance of masculinity, I didn´t research the roots of the word while
writing this article, but I can only assume that "macho" comes from "machismo,"
which sounds a hell of a lot like machine. Being macho implies a tough, hard,
block-like approach full of pistons and rods and axles and other big steel-type
stuff.

It´s hard to live by the old macho code these days. They´ve chipped away at it
over the years, slowly but surely. Drinking has been reduced to a few beers or a
couple of whiskeys, if that. Otherwise, your AA friends begin to stare across the
table with that "I personally think you have a problem and that all alcohol should
be banned so that I won´t feel the urge to drink myself into a naked stupor but
I´m not gonna say anything" look on their faces. No mess, no mauling, no mistress,
no mas.

From time to time, people try to use macho as an image builder. Bush tries to
make himself seem like a card-carrying Mace Club member. He´s not. The last
macho president we had was FDR. FDR - a man stricken by polio, stuck in a
wheelchair, fighting the Nazis all the while smoking 3½ packs a day. "The only
thing we have to fear is fear itself!" Yeah, and staircases, of course. And soccer
and dancing.

I think the death of macho is easily located on a very recent map. Sometime in
the late ´70s - right around the time the Village People released Macho Man and
Barry Manilow sang Copacabana and Robby Benson was mewling his way into the
hearts of teenage ultra-virgin, men made a serious mistake. We started talking to
each other. We stopped punching each other and began discussing why we wanted
to punch each other. I´ll bet my right nut that if I had done some research, I
would have found a dramatic decline in facial cuts and brain contusions starting in
1977. Now we´re supposed to be sensitive. We are supposed to share our feelings
and cry at funerals and care about our hair. We´re, in short, supposed to be
women. Hello, my name is Shirley. Touch me in the morning.

I believe in equal rights. I believe that women should get equal pay for equal jobs.
I believe women should have control of their bodies and be in positions of power.
I believe we should have the same size shoulder pads in our suits. But I also
believe that men should be men and women should be, well, women. Women should
be soft and smart and mysterious. And men should have their own tools. I pine for
the sheer stupidity of the old macho days, when men would brandish hammers and
build huge, bulky cars that sucked up gas and tore open the ozone layer and
crushed small animals beneath totally useless but totally cool-looking tail fins.
When men were apes with good shoes and a dental plan. John Wayne, John Huston,
Bill Holden, Bob Mitchum, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Lee Marvin, Sam Peckinpah.
Men who drank and fought and puked and ate raw meat right off the bone and
drank some more and fought some more and puked again and kept on drinking. Men
who died of massive heart attacks or sudden brain seizures or who just plain
fucking blew up. Men who had cancer six or seven times. Men made out of leather.

My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off his thumb with a power saw,
duct-taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital smoking a Camel
unfiltered on the way. My dad´s theory was simple: no pain - no fucking pain. My
dad smoked five packs a day, worked three jobs seven days a week, ate beef for
breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One night in 1985, he ate a big steak dinner with a
side order of bacon and extra steak fries. He ordered some coffee, sat back, lit
up a cigarette, and exploded.

I don´t wanna hear about Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even Arnold caved in. In
Terminator 2, he was all of a sudden Mr. Caring Guy, protecting the kid and
hoping the earth wouldn´t end. Bullshit. There was even a sequence at the end of
the movie where a huge truck full of flammable liquid tears down a highway for
about three minutes and then doesn´t blow up. A sign of the times if ever there
was one. Every real man knows the one golden rule of macho movie making: if you
see a truck on-screen, blow it up. In Thelma & Louise, the women saw a truck. What
did they do? Susan Sarandon pulled out her gun and blew the truck way the fuck
up. Another sign of the times. Arnold´s tromping around praying for the earth to
save itself and Ms. Davis and Ms. Sarandon are drinking and shooting and screwing
their way all over the macho west. Citizen Kane? A masterpiece. But every real man
knows it would have been better if a huge mack truck with the word Rosebud
emblazoned on the trailer drove through the front gate of the mansion and then KAA-POWWWWW!

Another movie matter I´d like to get off my girly little chest: asses. Part of this
new male code has men baring their butts on-screen the way women used to do.
Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner, Michael Douglass, and of course, Arnold. Hey if I
wanted to see Kevin Costner´s ass, I would´ve married him. You never saw Bob
Mitchum´s ass. I am in a macho movie called Gunmen, and I can guarantee you
that you never see my ass on any screen but if you do, it will not be shaved. It
will be hairy and hoary and very, very white.

Our macho movie idols have changed forever. No wonder they end up baring it
all. Listen to the names - Mel, Kevin, Michael, Arnold. In the old days movie stars
had real names: John, Bill, Duke, Buck, Chuck, Rip. Kevin sounds like your skinny
Irish cousin with the big Coke bottle glasses and a heat rash; Mel, the guy in
charge of aisle five at Woolworth´s. ("Excuse me Mel, where are the light bulbs?")

It´s getting very bad, boys. We don´t blow up trucks anymore. Hell, we don´t
even drive trucks anymore. We drive simple little Japanese cars with air bags. In
the old days we used to rip out the seat belts and fly through the windshield ready
for action. "Thrown from the car." Remember that phrase in accident reports?
Always the sign of a very macho driver.

We seem a little more sorry, a little more plump, a lot more ladylike around the
edges. If you really want to reclaim your macho self, if you really want to be a
macho, macho man, stop reading this article.

If you are still reading, you probably need a little more help. Forget Robert Bly
or Fire In Your Prostate. Don´t go on a Male-Bonding Self-Discovery Weekend,
which is just another term for Circle Jerk as far as I´m concerned. Here, instead,
is a guide:

BALLS, A.K.A. COJONES: You should have several. Preferably brass or steel.
Extra large.

CRYING: Never. Ever. Over anything. Not death in the family, not a bullet in the
chest. You may tear up ever so slightly in one eye only when watching a favorite
sports legend retire. You may tear up in both eyes only when kicked, accidentally
or on purpose, in the COJONES.

KISSING: See SPORTS.

HUGGING: See SPORTS.

SPORTS: Once all men within reach are dressed in a team uniform, it is perfectly acceptable to kiss and hug and grab each other´s ass. This is probably because all
men are latent homosexuals and prefer male company to female company. But if
some guy points out this fact to you, punch him directly in the throat. (Optional
retorts: "Prefer this!" or "Fuck You!" or "Shut the fuck up!")

HEALTH: Never go to the hospital or visit a doctor. If you have a stroke, keep
drinking and act like you prefer to use only one side of your body. If you cut off
a limb while using a power tool - so what? That´s why there´s duct tape and staple
guns. If someone tries to drive you to the hospital after a heart attack or maiming,
punch him in the throat. (Optional retorts: "Drive This!" or "Fuck you!" or "Shut
the fuck up!")

DIET: Meat, cigarettes, meat, booze, meat, and coffee. In case of aneurism or alcohol-induced coma, see HEALTH.

FIGHTING: At all times, over anything. Never hit a woman. Or a child. Or a bus.
Never hit a priest until he takes off his collar. (If it´s the pope, wait until he
removes the large hat.) Clergy will often provoke a punch in the throat with their
"violence doesn´t prove anything" pontifications. (Optional retorts: "Prove this!"
or "Fuck you, Father!" or "Shut the fuck up, Padre!")

DRINKING: No falling down. No puking - unless to empty the stomach in order to
continue drinking. No slurring of words. Tell a few war stories: "See that scar? I
was in ´Nam and I ate a grenade and it blew up in my colon." If your aim is off
due to alcohol, it´s acceptable to punch someone in the head or solar plexus.

SEX: You´re probably too drunk or just plain stupid to have sex but pretend you
get a lot, i.e. "You should´ve seen me last night, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Absorb this info and you should be on your way. If you have any further questions,
call 1-800-COJONES. Remember: We´re men. Big, boxy, sweaty, ignorant men.
We have penises. Well, we used to have penises. Either way, I think Billy Martin,
the late Yankees manager, said it best when he said, "Hey, I can drive."

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