Man Stuff

In the past month I've taken on the task of writing a number of essays and articles for men (and essays about women).  I've written articles focusing on men's health issues, work safety, and even a donut article that could be appreciated by either sex--though I have a feeling that men, more so than women, are avid donut eaters.

I've written for outdoor magazines, youth journals, and have churned out a fair number of essays that will require rather unique placement in magazines with names like, "Not Yo' Big Momma's Mag" or "The Strangest Rag You'll Ever Read".  I am also working on an article about fraternities . . . and I've never belonged to a fraternity in my life (and who would pledge me, anyway?).

No, I'm just detailing man stuff right now.  And once I get on a roll like this one, I don't usually stop until I've exhausted every possible man angle my mind can conceive or appreciate.  And I've still got a load of essays about ancient Greek philosophers and Latin poets that I sent out last night . . . Viva la Avianus!

I don't know how much of my man stuff will find paydirt . . . but I'm optimistic.  I was once a monthly columnist for a women's magazine (back when I knew about romance and sex and actually practiced both and could remember how to do it) and during that time I also wrote periodically for Conde' Nast publications--one of the New York biggies that used to love on me in my younger days, but now ignore me in my advanced age when I need to pay for a daughter's college education and wedding.

It's difficult to write man stuff as an old man.  Young editors see me as past my prime.  And women editors simply make fun of me or send me curt emails like:  Who told you this? or You're not married, are you? or I'll bet you were a troubled teen and now have difficulty holding down a full-time job in the fast-food industry . . . am I right, Howie? 

Writing about men and for men is a tough gig. One of the toughest.  Believe me, it's much easier being a woman writing for women.  Men don't read, for one thing.  And women simply want more Oprah.

In a few weeks my man stuff tangent will run out and my eyes will be averted toward other scenery . . . astro physics, perhaps, or how an incandescent light bulb is manufactured.  I might also expand my repertoire to other pastries and begin work on three of four new books. Some of these books will have titles.

But until then . . . I've got to be a man.  And a real man works.  That's man stuff.