It's just that guys are jerks. And the more guys who gather in a room, the more the jerk factor shoots upward. In fact, with the addition of each single guy, the jerkiness factor increases exponentially.
Want proof? Go to a bachelor party. Walk into a cop bar. Peek into a men's locker room. Hell, the jerkiest religions in the world are those that relegate woman to the status of quadrupeds. Ever hear of a Catholic priest named Mary (outside of Halsted Street, that is)? Orthodox Jews say a prayer every morning thanking god that they weren't born women. And, of course, in the strict Islamic world, women would be taking a giant step up to achieve the status of sheep.
Guy-ness even pervades art. I usually keep my utter distaste for hip-hop and rap music quiet. To be honest, I don't want to open myself up to the charge that I'm a bitter old prick who hates anything the kids are listening to nowadays. While it's true I am a bitter old prick, I love a lot of new music. The Decemberists. Feist. My Morning Jacket. Radiohead. The list goes on. But I loathe hip-hop and rap because it's so guy. Hip-hop guys are always getting laid, drinking expensive Champagne, wearing precious metals, rolling in dough and calling every female on the planet up to and including flowering plants that contain the ovule-bearing structure, the pistil, bitches. Hip-hop and rap are way too guy.
I found myself surrounded by guys at Dick's Pizza the other night. One of those things. For some unknown reason, there wasn't a single woman in the house. There were the two bartenders, Hank and Rock-star Zach. There were Old Gus, Dinesh, All-American Allen, a couple of strangers and your faithful reporter. It was a sausage fest.
Old Gus is the epitome of senior guy-ness. He drives an aircraft carrier-sized Buick. He carries a came with an ornate gold knob. He was married a long, long time ago but he left his wife after a month and has remained a happily dispeptic bachelor ever since.
Dinesh comes from India. Once I asked him how the average Indian views Pakistanis. Normally a reserved man, Dinesh became an orator. He launched into a half-hour examination of the many socio-political, cultural and religious issues that divide the two nations. But as he went on, his anger mounted. He finally concluded with the statement, "D'ey are no goot! D'ey are pieces of sheet!" He couldn't resist, in other words, being a guy.
All-American Allen, whom I've introduced previously in this space, is a staunch Republican. You know, the party of white guys.
Bartenders Hank and Rock-star Zach are reasonably decent fellows although Zach plays lead guitar for a local band that gets a lot of radio airplay around these parts. Ergo, guy.
On the evening in question, the jowly, ever-outraged face of Lou Dobbs loomed above us on the three giant flat screens over the bar. Lou Dobbs is a king among guys. As if there weren't enough to send Dobbs's blood pressure skyrocketing, he'd found a video of an unfortunate incident on some big city bus. As captured on the bus's security cameras, a young man walked on, paid his fare, took two steps toward the handicapped seats and suddenly, without provocation, began whacking the shit out of some poor blind woman. Oh, the steam was pouring out of Dobbs's ears.
The gang of guys at Dick's was transfixed. We watched as several fellow riders tackled the assailant and threw him off the bus. Dobbs called them heroes. But my barmates weren't in a mood to laud heroes.
"They shoulda held him and called the cops," Rock-star Zach announced. "I hope they put him in jail and show that video to all the other guys in jail every morning. Then he'd get what's coming to him!"
"They shoulda beat him bloody!" All-American Allen proclaimed.
"I know what I would have done to him," Old Gus said in a loud voice, "I would have stuck my cane up his ass right then and there!"
"D'at guy ees a piece of sheet," Dinesh said in a louder voice. "D'ey should shoot him in d'e forehead!"
There followed a three-minute orgy of can-you-top-this with the two strangers joining in. I listened patiently until the orgy died down a bit, then spoke.
"Has it occurred to anyone that maybe, just maybe, the guy's mentally ill?"
The bar became silent. Either the guys were wowed by my intellect and sense of compassion or they'd exhausted all their rage. Aw, I'll stop kidding myself. They'd spewed all the bile they could muster. They were spent.
Hank sidled near me just as a different video of some thugs pummeling an old man in a playground flashed on the screens. "What's wrong with people?" Hank asked.
I pondered for a moment. "People?" I responded. "Or guys?"
