CAUGHT IN THE MALESTROM : Suddenly, Men Are Wandering Around As If They’ve Lost the Owner’s Manual to Themselves

We are inundated by images of so many instant celebrities--what scientists call the Andrew Dice Clay Effect--that it’s sometimes helpful to recall Arthur Godfrey. All through the 1950s, there was no more inexplicably ubiquitous personality than the “ol’ redhead.” His folksy meanderings ate up literally hours of network radio and TV time each day, and yet his footprints have vanished more quickly and completely than those of a briefing officer in the Saudi desert.

Godfrey was a peculiar star: He had less talent than Ed Sullivan and Ed McMahon combined, his fits of temper were legendary, and he devoted most of his energy on the air to ad-libbing ads for tea and instant chicken soup.

But, boy, could we use him now. Among a string of novelty hit records to his credit--besides “The Too Fat Polka”--was a pair of schmaltzy narratives, “What Is a Girl?” and “What Is a Boy?” Later generations of boys, growing up without Godfrey’s guidance, apparently are spending a good portion of their adulthoods wondering what it means to be A Man. There is a growing movement devoted to weekend retreats during which men gather to pound drums, adopt the identities of wild animals and hold intensive talk-’til-you-weep sessions to uncover the Warrior Within.

I guess it takes a man to ask this question: What’s the big deal? The women’s movement, at its underwear-immolating silliest, always seemed to be focused outward, fighting the unfair limits society imposed on half of the population. Its model was the civil rights movement; its goal was equality (hating men was just an occasional side dish). The only place you’d hear women talking about wanting to feel “more like a woman” was in commercials for certain very personal products.

Men, on the other hand, seem to be wandering around as if they’ve lost the owner’s manual to themselves. We can’t be John Wayne anymore; we don’t want to be Alan Alda, and Norman Schwarzkopf is a once-in-a-lifetime gig. In step Robert Bly and his followers, telling us that if only we crawl around on all fours, sniff each other’s behinds (in a ritual way, natch) and rail at the unavailability of our fathers, we’ll be “real men.”

So what’s an unreal man? If you don’t own a complete set of screwdrivers, does that make you a traitor to your Y chromosome? (I do own a complete set, but I’m just asking.) Why is it that women who like basketball are broadening themselves but men who sew have something to disprove? More goofily, why is it that women who dress in men’s clothing are cute but men who put on women’s garments are perverts? What is it about our idea of maleness that has to be learned, “workshopped,” even policed lest it slip into something more comfortable?

I used to think the issue was freedom. From schools to fancy restaurants, dress codes told men how long their hair could be and exactly what they should wear. Women were more often trusted to use their own judgment.

But in looking so far inward that it can get a tight shot of its own pancreas, the men’s movement is missing the real point--power. Society wants power-wielders to fit into a narrow range of behaviors because self-expression could interfere with the organization’s goals. So a woman putting on men’s clothing is appropriating the uniform of power. But a man in a dress is truly frightening; he could abscond with the company funds for a blowout weekend in New Orleans. As one result, retired men, who’ve never learned how to dress themselves, break out the white belts and gumball-colored golf pants as soon as they cash in their chips.

But, hey, these are the ‘90s. The old rules need no longer apply. If Arthur Godfrey were here, he’d say something like this:

What is a man? A man is someone who can laugh at Sam Kinison and cry at an AA meeting. A man takes one-fourth the time to program a VCR but twice as long to wash the dishes. Men like: beating the spread, incredibly overpriced athletic shoes, beers of the world. Men don’t like: point-shaving, two-bit dictators, being called Queenie. Men need: stronger deodorants, hair-coloring products that work in five minutes, more horses under the hood. Men don’t need: women who love too much, diets, supermarket tabloids. Men get paid more for the same work, but they die earlier and often leave the money to women. Men spend their college years throwing up and their adulthoods settling down. And if there’s still any doubt, there’s one sure tip-off: If someone is making a humorous reference to how cold the urinal water is, hundred to one it’s a man.

Hope it helps, guys.