The kid tried like hell to be liked and get accepted into this one group.
A homie got cancer and it’s metastasized. He’ll kill me if I write a piece about him. I’ll probably do it anyway.
The war in Gaza? I guess throw in Hezbollah while we’re at it?
Look, we’re Things Men Carry, and if I said this war was one of those things I carried around this past year I’d be lying. Gaza’s not a thing I carried around anymore than I did Ukraine. But it doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion about them. Throw enough of anything in my conscious and I’ve got no choice but to think about it whether I want to or not. Think about something enough and I’m bound to form an opinion about it, too. That’s kinda how it works, I think. And some people aren’t going to like it, either, is also how it kinda works.
Besides, I gotta have an opinion on these kinds of international affairs to be a legit men’s journal, though, ya ready?
I’m gonna read We Could Have Been Friends, a Palestinian Memoir by Raja Shehadeh. With my kid actually. It might very well be the very first book on the subject, though I’ve read dozens of treatments on the colossal mess that is the Middle East in the New York Times. But yeah, my opinion on the Middle East in a nutshell: Arafat fucked up. He should’ve taken the deal brokered by Clinton. Plus I’m Catholic, Jesus is my homie. Quit hiding behind women and children and get out of those fucking tunnels, Hamas. You too, Hezbollah, cut the shit.
True story: I text an Iranian friend just recently, and I say, What the fuck (to this recent development in Lebanon). She texts me back:
I’m sure that’s bound to rattle a few cages.
And go Ukraine.
I can’t be a legit player-contender in the world of men’s journalism today without an opinion on today’s politics, either. True story: Things Men Carry is undecided for the first time in my 55 years. The earth is warming. We have to do somethings. For starters, jabronies to my right, you can stop watering your goddamn lawns in summer dry season. Come on, man!
On the flip side, we want our balls back. They’re being confiscated more and more every day by the jabronies to my left. A homie shares this story of a co-worker he’s talking with at work, for example. He’s explaining something to her, but no.
“You don’t have to man-splain it to me,” she tells him.
Man-splain.
Oh yeah.
Oh fuck yeah. It’s happening. And it’s nothing short of mind control; and when it’s not mind control it’s censorship; and when it’s not censorship it’s a disease; and when it’s not a disease it’s a fascism; and when it’s not fascism it’s Putin’s Russia, which is the same damn thing. This woke train is all of those assholes. Little wonder why my Iranian friend, a former bleeding liberal, and I, and at least half the country are considering you know who this November. Look no further than this.
And to you, Ms. Moran, I’ve not read your book What About Men? yet, for the record. I probably should if I’m to continue to brag about how informed I am. I figure between the absurd amount of dating I’ve done plus the inordinate amount of time I stare at the wall, chewing mentally on the human condition, I’m pretty informed. Not to brag, but I think I’ve just about cracked your code.
I’ll leave your overture to us alone since I didn’t read it. But I did read other pieces by female authors this past year on how we should be men. And every time I did, I did the same thing: I bristled. I think it’s best if you stay in your lane. Things Men Carry’s got this, promise. Look!
Sixteen billion years later.
But I’ll read your book, Ms. Moran, I promise.
What else this year?
Well, we almost were blessed with a guest piece from a favorite author. No, not Andre Dubus III, though he’s next on our schmooze list. I don’t think anyone can write about violence the way he can. I’m stoked to pick up his new work, Ghost Dogs: On Killers and Kin. Would you homies appreciate some book reviews this coming year?
And no, it wasn’t favorites Harry Crews or Larry Brown who almost wrote to us with something they carry, either. They’re both dead. But I started putting together a compilation of short stories and essays by these and other giants. I hope to pull it off. Shit, I already got a giant who’s offered to write the foreword. You’ll love it, homies. You’ll love him. The whole book.
Shit, I almost forgot Jess Walter. I gotta get around to schmoozing him, too. The Cold Millions is a great read!
Dang it, there’s David Joy too.
But no, this almost piece given to us was going to be by a Southern favorite who smokes a lot of cigars when he writes. We were hoping to run that carcinogenic relationship here, but the nerve of some other journal paying him for the piece. We get it. We’d be some lucky-ass bastards if he told us something else that he carries.
It was also fun writing about some very special men in my life. I may even have started the healing process of forgiving the old man, finally, I don’t know. Check out March, see for yourself.
And my mother in August. My sweet sweet mother. Gone way too damn early.
Guess it’s all I got homies. Wish me luck in my next work endeavor. I may actually have to break out the steel tips and sea bag again. Dang it, my foot fungus was finally starting to get better, too. Besides, I can’t even go on the spinning rides at fairs anymore without hurling. How the hell am I supposed to go back to fifteen footers off the (boat’s) quarter, plying the Gulf of Alaska or down the Pacific Coast?
I guess I didn’t mention that, did I?
So yeah, homies, spread the word about what we’re doing around here. That way I can maybe start making money off this sumbitch and do cool shit like pay other writers. And stay home.
Fired after 14 years. Correction: 14.75 years. I’m fighting it, but still, what the . . .
Fine, I’ll trust You.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 