It wouldn't make much sense to start rambling
on about hazardous work sites without illustrating how easily men can
be influenced by women’s affection or neglect.
For example, feminists have
successfully argued that men's lust for thin female bodies has resulted
in some extreme cases of fatal anorexia among women. A duplicate experience
for men could be how women's appetite for money has resulted in some
extreme cases of fatal accidents in the work place among male employees.
In my opinion, both points are valid. The trouble is, only women's views
have achieved public recognition.
With an hour to kill on my
lunch break, I casually stroll through the brightly lit corridors of
the shopping mall. As I look around, it occurs to me that I could easily
spend the rest of my life without ever needing a good 95% of the items
sold in this place. Yet everywhere I look it's mostly women snapping
things up left right and center. I can't imagine what that form of craving
must feel like. These people seem to have expectations beyond my wildest
dreams.
I buy lunch, set down my
tray, and dig in. While eating, I pause to consider the invisible forces
at work all around me. In order for this standard living to exist, it
stands to reason that somebody would have to pay the bills. Christ,
it would take years to pay for all of this. Why would anyone want to
do that? In a job like mine, about the only way to make that much money
is to cut corners and do things quickly. That means ignoring vital safety
procedures while taking calculated risks within a very slim margin of
error. Sooner or later you're bound to make a mistake, and that's when
serious accidents happen. So why would anyone want to put themselves
in that much danger ?
Pondering the hidden forces
compelling men to take dangerous jobs for more pay takes me back to
my own experience. It
started in high school. There I was, this skinny, ugly, poor kid from
a broken home trying to fit into the crowd. The first thing I noticed
was that most of the girls around me were drop dead gorgeous. They
were the physical embodiment of heaven in my world of loneliness and
it soon became apparent that they were completely out of reach. These
girls seemed to gravitate toward older boys with good looks, muscle,
fighting ability, money, a car, popularity status, or some combination
of success potential. They went through an available selection of boys
like Baskin Robins ice cream flavors. In the fierce competition for
female approval, only the strongest males broke ground.
I was not so fortunate. Allow
me to list of the following defects I took to school every day; Frizzy
tangled hair, zits, crooked ugly teeth, bad breath, skinny arms and
legs, hopelessly out of style clothing, and five pubic hairs to speak
of. In other words, weak, frail, and ugly as sin. I was diagnosed with
post-traumatic stress disorder and petrified of violence most of the
time, so being a tough guy was out of the question. I didn't have a
car, money, or popularity status. I wasn't a jock or a rich kid, and
lousy grades implied that I wasn't too brilliant. I suppose music could've
been an option, if only I chose to play something else instead of drums.
A guitar is portable enough to lug around, but drums require a vehicle.
So much for being a starving musician with success potential.
About all I could do right
was play the class clown by annoying the teacher for the amusement of
other classmates. The teachers didn’t like it much, but at least
it persuaded the other students not to pound the crap out of me after
school every day. I got plenty of beatings from my older brother at
home, so I really didn’t need any more at school. Apart from that,
my presence was relatively insignificant.
But my relative insignificance
couldn't have been summed up any better than the day I walked through
the high school parking lot. There he was. The tough guy with the black
leather jacket sitting in his suped-up green Plymouth Duster, receiving
oral sex from the pretty girl in math class. She looked up at me, spit
out, told me to "f___off", and quite casually bent down to finish the
job. I may as well have been a passing squirrel for all she cared.
As I got older, I pretty
much lost any hope of being in a relationship with a woman. The message
of my youth was "access denied", and I felt left alone to live and die
in the dark. At least my dismal financial situation guaranteed that
I'd be too preoccupied with survival to afford the luxury of wondering
when someone might take an interest in me. However, I did notice one
thing; it seemed that most of the guys who paired up with attractive
women were reasonably good looking themselves, and there were very few
exceptions to this rule.
But the point was made far
more eloquently by a behavioral research study once I heard about.
Apparently, this psychology
professor used a hidden video camera to study how people were treated
differently according to their appearance. Two specific males were selected
to participate in the experiment, and a lecture hall of full time students
became the laboratory. Both males were identical in every respect ranging
from body build, height, eye color, personality profiles, success potential,
you name it. The only difference? Jack possessed handsome facial features,
while John was rather homely.
On Mondays and Wednesdays
Jack would attend classes, while Tuesdays and Thursdays John would show
up. The two were never seen together. About three weeks into the course,
an obvious pattern began to emerge. Proximity ranges between Jack and
other female colleagues drew closer, while John was kept at a distance.
Some women engaged in subtle physical contact such as touching Jack's
shoulder or arm. Occasionally someone would pat him on the rear or play
with his hair. Eventually Jack was invited to a party with some of the
women, and became quite popular with the group. Their fascination with
him formed at least one inescapable conclusion. Jack could potentially
have a relationship with one or more of these women while John remained
in the "let's just be friends" category.
One morning, the professor
asked the class if any one thought they might be capable of treating
or mistreating people based on physical appearance. Some men rejected
the possibility while others openly discussed their preferences, much
to the scorn of many female colleagues. The women adamantly denied susceptibility
to such "shallow" behavior.
At that point, the professor
plopped a tape into a VCR and began playing footage from the hidden
camera. Despite obvious resistance, the women could not dispute the
resulting footage. Or so I thought. For
the next hour or so, discussions centered around various personality
traits which seemed to make Jack more attractive than John. Neither
Jack nor John were in the room to contest these evaluations. "Jack is
more intelligent, funny, outgoing, positive, has more strength of character,
moral fiber, etc."
That's when the bomb fell.
John stepped into the front of the class and began peeling the latex
makeup from his face to reveal another identity; He was also Jack. You
could've heard a pin drop. Within minutes, these women invented a new
strategy. They now insisted that "John" behaved more poorly than "Jack"
because he knew he "appeared" ugly and felt insecure about his features.
I honestly had to wonder
if there might be a school of evasive answers somewhere I didn't know
about, but at least I got the straight goods on a problem I've dealt
with most of my life. It made cheap character assassinations a lot easier
to ignore, while shedding new light on women’s "moral superiority".
Another glimpse of women's
desire for good looking men came from my job as a taxi driver. The privilege
of being a fly on the wall offered many opportunities to study female
behavior up close and personal. As far as these women were concerned,
I was a non-person whom they weren't going to see again so they weren’t
too concerned with what I overheard. I may as well have been part of
the steering wheel to them and judging from the gossip, they obviously
preferred good looking men.
From that point on, physical
appearance became a priority that clouded my awareness of other factors
I should have paid more attention to. Looking
back on my twenties, I recall how women expressed more of an interest
in me when I was gainfully employed, but no interest when I was out
of work. Whether it was cab driving or video production, the quality
of women's attention was directly proportional to the amount of money
I made or success potential I appeared to have. The trouble was, living
in a frail and ugly body every day of my life obscured my understanding
of how money factored into the equation. Thinking
it was all about looks, my introspection was limited to questions like;
"Why is she watching at me that way? How come she decided to stay with
me after the meeting to help me work on a few extra details? Why did
she call me at home only to show up looking like something off the cover
of cosmopolitan magazine? Why is she making herself more available?
Why is she rubbing her breast against my arm? Hey! Did she just put
her hand on my thigh?" Incredibly naive as I was, I made a point of
studying the way I looked with hopes of another engagement. Was it my
hair? My cologne? mouthwash? The right clothing? What? I tried desperately
to understand what women found attractive, and made every attempt to
resemble that image.
By my late twenties,
I went on an all out military campaign to change my appearance. First
on the list were my teeth. They were a combination of fangs and bucks
that made me look like Dracula's ugly brother. The high price tag put
braces out of reach, so I got them pulled out and settled for a fixed
bridge of straight teeth. Then I studied clothing. I went to just about
every shopping mall in Ottawa looking for the right combination to match
my profile, and finally settled for an outfit that worked. Then came
weight training. With
the dedication of an NHL hockey player, I pumped iron until I was blue
in the face. I kept it up through the winter and by late spring, I looked
pretty good. It didn't change my personality much, though. I still felt
the same as before, only now I looked better. But as much as I hoped
it would happen, I was still overwhelmed by the degree to which women
responded to my new appearance. I lost count of how often they gyrated
their heads in my direction as I walked down the street or made physical
contact with me. I was more than flattered.
So when am I going to be
in a relationship, I wondered? The answer eluded me. I couldn't understand
why I was still being left out. It seemed like the only domain in which
I could work as hard as it's humanly possible with little or no reward.
Almost by accident, I picked
up a copy of Warren Farrell's book entitled "Why Men Are the Way They
Are". I finally got the answer I could never figure out on my own; yes
I have to look good, but good looks alone aren't enough. I also need
a steady income, or possess some form of income potential. That's when
it hit me full force. I felt hurt. I couldn't understand why after playing
fairly by every rule, I still wasn't considered worthy of a partner.
Even if I'm just as attractive as her or more, I'm still expected to
provide access to material wealth. But with no intention of having any
kids of my own, this particular expectation seemed to raise a few questions:
Paying may seem like the
only option to most men, but for me it feels like a socially imposed
mandate with absolutely no relevance to my situation. When financial
security remains a prerequisite for women's love, the very foundation
for love is flawed. Some people might argue that my love is conditional
because I prefer attractive women. What’s missing from their reproach
is something I found out the hard way after I changed my own appearance;
any woman who prefers good looking men has the same conditions for physical
attraction as I do. Her desire for Brad Pitt is no better than my desire
for Demi Moore. But because everyone’s bought the line that her
sex is worth so much more, she can insist on being paid for.
Throw in a selection of men
who practically wait in line to comply with her demands while feeling
grateful for any scraps of affection she may toss down, and we now have
the perfect incentive for my immediate replacement. The moment I refuse
to pay, she’ll drop me and find someone else within an hour.
Personally, I can’t
imagine what it’s like to think along those lines. I would never
expect a woman to pay for me. All I want is what I'm willing to give
and that means my sex should be worth hers, not less. I don't know why
so many people have trouble with this concept. Maybe I should call the
credit bureau and ask them how I ended up with an outstanding debt to
every woman I go out with. Did my parents owe her family?
The foreman nudges my arm
and shows me his watch. Ten after one. Shit! I scramble to my feet and
we head for the elevator. My ears pop as we reach the top floor of a
high rise building in downtown Vancouver. Time for the chair drop. It's
windy up here on the roof. Nice view of the mountains. I suit up in
rain gear, put on my safety harness, and walk to the south edge of the
building. Just for fun, I spit over the side and time how long it takes
to hit the bottom. Half a minute later, it vanishes. Thirty six floors
off the ground, I climb over the edge and step on a piece of wood suspended
from a single rope, four cables, and a Sky Genie. A patch of carpet
keeps the ropes from getting cut by the concrete, and the wood swings
while I manage to get my feet through the cables. I'm now firmly seated
the Boson chair with my safety harness attached to a second rope.
The foreman hands me the
gun and we're ready to rock and roll. It's a bit like sandblasting,
only with water. The process is called pressure washing and it's about
the most effective way to clean concrete. A dirt digger tip kicks out
twenty five hundred PSI of water to remove a layer of sand from the
wall. Chunks fly everywhere including my eyes, and the water pressure
can easily cut through the ropes. Needless to say, I have to be careful.
It's real loud too so unless I want to go deaf, I better wear ear plugs.
Making even strokes is tricky, so I hook my feet underneath the balcony
to avoid getting pushed off the wall by the water pressure. The guy
beside me is junk sick from heroin, but he's giving it his best shot.
Halfway down, my throat starts
getting sore. Nobody bothered to tell us about the caustic soda chemical
we were all breathing in. After the drop, I'm completely drenched and
have to piss real bad. Three hours in a seated position didn't help
any. We pull cables, grab our gear, and pile into the swing stage
for the trip back up. The weight limit is exceeded by two extra crewmen
and support cables strain under the load. The name of the game is "make
a lot of money fast", so we ignore critical safety regulations. With
bills to pay, we can't afford take our time.
I've been thinking a lot
about these men and their limited options of finding companionship.
Every one of them needs and deserves love. But these men learned a long
time ago that the only guarantee of female approval comes from making
as much money as they possibly can. Many of them aren’t smart enough
to find profitable employment in a safe environment, so they end up
on job sites that come within inches of their lives eight hours a day.
No wonder they get killed and injured so often. Without
money, there's no love and without proper education for a high paying
job in a safe environment, hazardous work is the only job that pays.
It’s also their only real chance at finding love.
But if that wasn't bad enough,
powerful feminist lobby groups attack these men around the clock. Polluting
men's need for love by depicting them as evil pours out of the media
every day. It's in newspapers, radio, women's self help books, the Internet,
and just about everywhere else you could possibly stumble across. Personally,
I don't know any evil men. Most of the poor slobs I've met wouldn't
dream of hurting women. They're just lonely people who need and deserve
love in a dangerous and scary world. I
wish a couple of these feminist lobbyists would join me on a thirty
six floor chair drop for a day. I’d gladly show them the ropes.
