Once upon a time, men were creatures that chopped wood shirtless in back yards with a double-bladed ax, a can of beer and a constant flow of pure testosterone that automatically waxed his moustache for him. He was a being that ate steak and drank whole milk and would not stoop, for any reason to tweeze an eyebrow. This creature may no longer exist in L.A. because the social climate is inhospitable, as evidenced by the local (ok, local to this party I was at) debate about whether men should go see Sex and the City. Most argued that they could, should and would likely enjoy it if they went. But I held firm that I didn’t want to go simply because of the subject matter (four bickering harpies fucking themselves with shoes or something), and suddenly, I was the demon in the room, the pig, the Neanderthal, the redneck and when it became glaringly clear that no iota of machismo will be tolerated in this town, and I wept a small tear. A tear of solid steel

I’m not a sexist person, I’m not even that much of a man’s man. I can’t change my oil and I couldn’t frame you a house. But in a town where there is no wood to stack and no livestock to butcher, please, let me retain these small vestiges of masculinity – by allowing me to avoid chick flicks without all the social persecution. Some women reading this are probably thinking, “What an asshole.” But it’s hard to tell, because I can’t hear you all the way back there in the kitchen, woman. Yeah! Men!

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