Aggression’s in the air…

I almost got into a fight the other night.

You say: Yeah, so what.

I don’t get into fights. I’ve been punched (in the face, aggressively) once. That was by a good friend of mine when we were both drunk and in college and I was delving too far into my honors psychology courses and he was being a bit tender. We were in my car; in his driveway. I’d dropped off our other friends and he was crying. Yes, “pussy,” I know… but sometimes, a guy’s got to cry (and not just at the end of sentimental sports movies or when Germany looses the Euro 2008). So I says what I says, he pulls back, pretends to punch me, I don’t flinch (I trust my friends) and then two minutes later – WHAAM! in the kisser.

My response was to give him a hug.

Where did my parents go wrong?

I’m sure you’re hanging your head in shame at me right now.

That’s cool.

So, I’ve had a rough couple of weeks, drinks-wise. I have a series of stages I try to slowly work through. First, I try not to drink too much on a regular basis. Second, if I do drink, I would like to keep it to less than five a night on the weekends. Third, if the previous two stages don’t work out, I try to keep my boozing to a discreet period. Say the weekend, where I usually black out by 10pm. Fourth. By this point, I generally give myself over to that damn booze bag monster living inside me and do whatever I want. Fifth, I try not to do any other drugs while drinking. Sixth…

So, I was up to stage The Fifth this past week. I’d spent every weekend night in a drunk vagueness. I’d met tons of people

(I’m a happy drunk… is that Rue McClanahan?) and been to a few of my favorite places, seen some of my favorite people, hooked up in ways only I find myself hooking up in (I have scars and bruising right now), and I kind of continued drinking through the week, but at more moderate paces. One night was due to a work event and a lot of Peroni and passable white wine on a hot night.

Another night was because I was horny and wanted to hook up. Friday rolled around. Off work a bit early… go to the gym? Ah… yeah, the tail-end of a sinus infection, damage done during the violent hook up, and an unrelated healing back injury… another weekend off the gym is good. Nature? Early, but not early enough to get somewhere and do anything productively natural. Go home and sleep…?

So, I drink. I bounce between the two bars in one of the pubs I frequent. At one is a behemoth of a woman — not… fat. Not like you’re thinking. She is taller than I (I am unarguably tall) and about half-again my width (I am arguably fit… if I go to the gym on a regular basis). While I’m trying to watch baseball, she’s trying to pick me up. Is it just me, or do all women of a certain size have a personality problem? I like aggressive women, but I don’t want a woman to make threats on my penis. Which this woman did within five minutes of vaguely listening to her.

At the other bar are three Welsh rugby player. I love Wales and I love rugby. These guys and I did not particularly hit it off, especially after I tried to get one of them to have sex with Behemotha

in the other room. Around 10pm (about four and a half hours after my first drink, and without a proper lunch or any dinner to speak of), I wandered up to Mexican.

I’m a bit wasted, I’m anticipating my vege burrito with chips and fresh salsas. I’m totally blissed out. I eat half the burrito, I run out of salsa, I go to get more and some zanahorias en escabeche, and when I return to my table, some dude’s poking at my meal, starting to pack up my burrito.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? [I push him]

Hey man…

THAT’S MY FUCKING BURRITO!

Man, I’m sorry… I just came down here from Santa Ba…

I DON’T GIVE A SHIT. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?

And as he starts to walk away, I get in his face and so many things flash through my imagination. I consider clocking him and kicking his face in. I can almost see the scene. I am also suddenly conscious that the restaurant is quiet. That does not stop me from having a flash of picking something up (what, I don’t know) and knocking him out with that.

I follow him for a bit, yelling at him as he goes. I go back to my table, consider the filth left behind and realize I’ve put myself at worse danger eating other things than what’s before me, so I settle in and ignore that I was a giant asshole played against a fantasy of me marching his sorry ass up to the counter and forcing him to buy me another burrito… and if he didn’t… then kicking the shit out of him. I was very consumed with imagining terrible things done to this guy.

It doesn’t occur to me until later that a year ago, I would have let the guy take my burrito without saying anything, chalking it up to helping someone less fortunate than I. I, as recently as the end of 07, tried in vain to find a homeless person to give a doggy bag of lunch to a bum, and not finding a single bum in Downtown, stood on the street corner, considering where I could stash the food so it would be protected from cleaners, yet still be available to some homeless sob.

But all that, gone.

I don’t get into arguments; I haven’t play wrestled in years. Yet this behavior? Tsk tsk tsk.

Earlier that day, I had a flash of getting out of my car and beating the crap out of some teenager… that I remembered a bit later that night, also. His mom picked him up off a busy street corner in a mini van, stopping traffic in all directions and keeping me from making my left turn before the light turned red. Then, she wanted to drive at less than 5mph (with no one in front of her) and at the next stop light, she popped the shag wag into park and opened her door, just as the light was turning green. I raised my arms in the classic “What the f?!” pose

and the teen, upon doing a bit of a Chinese fire drill with moms, mimicked me and said something I didn’t catch. It wasn’t “Yeah, my mom’s a nut job, but trust me, me driving will be better for everyone.” He also then took his time getting in, giving me the hairy eyeball the entire time. That was the first trigger of aggression in me. I so wanted to kick his ass, I even grabbed the latch to open my car door, but of course didn’t.

Cooler heads prevailed, though I did cut him off within five seconds and didn’t feel guilty about it.

As with the previous considerable me, my friend comment on how nice a driver I am. “You want in?” I say. “You got it, get in there buddy.” Somebody is tailgating me even though I’m going 80mph in the fast lane. “Sorry sir, let me get out of your way.” Somebody lets me in, I give a wave. Now… that all is slowly fading too.

Why?!

I hadn’t seen Wanted yet. I wasn’t reminded that any white guy who isn’t the big fucking gorilla motherfucker of all he purveys is worthless. I wasn’t reminded of all the same things, in a much more enjoyable way, conveyed via Fight Club when I was still soft-headed enough to buy into some degree of the boring white male bullshit. Raised progressively by the schools I went to (and a family a bit in the background), I knew women could be anything they wanted to be, and so also the other “minorities” defined by the Anglo Males for Dominance Over All Society (AMDOS). But, is it possible that as a result of the proliferation of feminist and queer theory from the womb, that there persists an undefined manhood?

Being a Man seemed pretty easy for everyone up until my, and my friends’, parents generation. What’s a Man before then? Work hard; be aggressive; be honest; if you have to lie, have conviction in the purpose of your lies; don’t be a homo; find a wife; have some kids; sweat; build a house; get a better car… am I spouting Tyler Durden?

Anyway, you know how many times I’ve discussed what it means to be a man since I started growing body hair? One, two, three, four, five… more than a couple dozen hands worth. Did any of us get anywhere? No. More than half of my buddies are bona fide men, no question in their minds. A smaller percentage still ponders. The smallest percentage don’t give a shit.

The day after my burrito incident, I got a voice mail from one of my best friends, a man fitting into the largest group I just mentioned (grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, fucked and fought most of his youth and 20s and now has more money than anybody else I know – and he earned every penny). We haven’t spoken since Thanksgiving and the message he leaves: “It’s fucking hot and sticky in the City, man. I was walking around and wanted to talk, so I thought of you. Hit me back when you get a chance. I want to tell you about the cabbie I strangled last night.”

Tags: drinks, fights, friendship, male aggression, mexican food, scary women