Real Man Adventures (23 page)

_______________________________

1.
Song lyrics have been redacted because our request to reprint them here (for a fee) was denied by Sony’s rights office (in Tennessee). A young lady at Sony was sent this chapter for her perusal, but upon reviewing it, she decided it was not in the best interest of her company to allow us to include any part of the song. It was, she said, her job to protect MGM/Sony.

2.
Sony/MGM was apparently fine with having their song used in this instance.

3.
Well, I did—mostly in the nineties when Calvin Klein was single-handedly revolutionizing the undergarment market, convincing all men that other men and women alike would only want to fuck them if they wore Calvins—take advantage of the discounted underwear at Century 21 on a few occasions. But I soon realized that Jockey boxers were just as good, and saved my money for vital stuff, like monthly AOL dial-up fees.

4.
An inadequate word for it.

       T
HE FOLLOWING IS AN
open letter to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, written by Bonnie Fuller (editor of the website “Hollywood Life: Your Celebrity News, Gossip & Style BFF”). It appeared on January 4, 2010, and it is reprinted here exactly as it appears on the blog.
¹

Brangelina—what are you doing to poor Shiloh Jolie-Pitt? Your 3½-year-old daughter is getting dressed in boys clothes so often by you
that the
New York Post
even described her today as
your
“son.” And no wonder. She was photographed in daddy Brad Pitt’s arms, heading in to the Broadway show
, Mary Poppins,
on Jan. 3, wearing a boy’s (literally) Burton ski cap and black puffy jacket
.

In recent photos she’s been decked out in a fedora, tie, camouflage pants, boy vest, pirate sword, navy knit skull and crossbones hat, black jeans, gray jackets, black and white skull socks and sneakers. Even the stuffed animal she carries is blue
.

Never ever is Shiloh dolled up in anything remotely girlish. Her blond hair is hidden under hats or left unbrushed and pushed to the side of her face
.

Her sister Zahara Jolie-Pitt, however, is allowed to have her girly touches. HER Mary Poppins hair was pulled into a purple barrette and a pretty bracelets
[sic]
escaped from under the arm of her coat
.

And you’re not dressing your little boys like girls!

So Brad and so Angelina—what’s up with the cross-gender dressing for Shiloh? Did YOU both want another boy, not a girl? Maddox and Pax weren’t enough? Aren’t you worried that you’re going to confuse little Shiloh? Give her gender identity issues? Isn’t it hard enough to grow up without your parents dressing you like the opposite sex?

A shrink says yes
.

“Angelina has said she was bisexual in public—this is her bisexuality coming through. She’s saying “I’m not going to teach my daughter gender—let her pick,” believes psychologist, Dr. David Eigen
.

But will it confuse her? “Yes,” says Dr. Eigen. “She is being guided into a bisexual role. Her mother is projecting this onto this particular child—she has chosen her as her favorite. I think this is an issue.” Such an issue that Shiloh is already insisting she be called by a boy’s name,
“John.” Brad apparently told Oprah that Shiloh insists on being called “John, I’m John,” he explained, “It’s a Peter Pan thing.”

Peter Pan Thing, my ahem! Brad, does Shiloh even know what the color pink is? Has she even seen it? Why do you let little Shiloh be dressed this way?

“All I can say is that Brad must be whipped if he allows this,” believes Dr. Eigen
.

Wow! Brad you’re whipped! Now, come on—time to get up your gumption for the sake of your daughter and let her be a girl, if she wants to be
.

—Bonnie Fuller

AN OPEN LETTER TO BONNIE FULLER FROM SHILOH JOLIE-PITT

_______________________________

1.
Accompanying the item is a reader poll posing the question, “Do you think it’s wrong to dress Shiloh like a boy all the time?” Current results: 42 percent voted “Yes! She’ll be gender-confused,” while 58 percent voted “No! Who cares what she wears—she’s probably a tomboy.”

R
IGHT THIS MINUTE MY
wife is on a movie set in Louisiana, spending three straight days with Kevin Durant, one of the biggest stars in the NBA, who has been cast in a film while the league is in a lockout. She’s writing a story about the guy for a leading sports magazine. Just a second ago a text popped up from my wife containing a photo of Durant sitting across a table from her at Hooters, beside a smitten female fan who’d stopped by his booth to pay homage. Later, another text pops up: him shooting some baskets solo in an otherwise empty LSU gymnasium.

You know what else my wife has done during her twenty-year career as print journalist?
¹

She was flown over Los Angeles by Harrison Ford in his helicopter.

Rode around a racetrack with Carl Edwards in his NASCAR car, and saw him get undressed in his trailer.

Accompanied David Beckham around New York City for several days, and watched him get naked too.

Tossed footballs back and forth with Santonio Holmes, Reggie Bush (who showed her the oxygen chamber in his bedroom), Victor Cruz, and a few other players I can’t remember right now.

Watched an NBA game with Jay-Z.

Talked about girl trouble with Dirk Nowitzki and Dwyane Wade.

Shopped for jeans with Liam Neeson.

Discussed books and poetry and a lot of other intellectual bullshit with Viggo Mortensen (who later sent her a bunch of expensive
artsy-fartsy books and journals that he wrote or made or collaborated on or something, which are still sitting up on our bookshelves).

Chilled with Shaun White on his bed.

Toured with
American Idol
.

Hung out on a movie set with the Rock, or whatever his original name was before he went back to being cool with “the Rock.” (He sent her a couple dozen roses and chocolates after. Roses and chocolate,
really?
)

She has spent days upon days, nights upon nights, fancy dinner upon fancy dinner, with the likes of Jude Law, Matthew Mc-Conaughey, Orlando Bloom, Mark Wahlberg, Steve Martin, Nick Lachey, Simon Cowell, Ewan McGregor. I’m omitting dozens. Not to mention one in particular I’m leaving out specifically because she ended up briefly dating the douchebag (after the cover story came out).
²
I used to like the guy (or at least be neutral about him and his stupid fucking oeuvre), and now I positively despise the dude, and would gladly punch him in the cunt if given even a momentary opportunity. I change the channel immediately if his smug-ass face comes on the TV screen, glance away if he has a new movie being advertised on the sides of buses. Because I am that weak, that big of a pussy, and even though they dated for a short time something like twenty fucking years ago, I simply cannot bear the thought of that asshole FUCKING MY WIFE.

And since I came into her life, do you know where I have been when my wife is out of town doing her job by spending time with rock stars like these? I am at home making chicken quesadillas and bag lunches and carpooling and arguing with our older child about wearing mascara to school. Checking math homework, matching Tupperware tops to bottoms, doing several rounds of back tickles before bed. Also laundry, arranging playdates with the kids’ friends’ annoying mothers who keep me on the phone way longer than necessary to plan one fucking sleepover. Picking up dog shit in the yard, putting up shelves in the pantry, going to the grocery—and spending any free minutes when not doing all of the above sitting in my tiny, claustrophobic office, writing my stupid little books that about twenty-seven people will ultimately read.

For her last trip before interviewing Kevin Durant, my wife was sent down to Austin, Texas where she stayed at the home of Jesse James for the better part of a week.
³
He’s got giant fucking muscles, is rich as shit, still has his hair, and he forges cool stuff out of metal in a personal workshop on his compound. One day they’re shooting massive amounts of ammo out of massive illegal-looking weapons together on his acres of land (and sending me videos of it). The next day she’s playing with his cute pit bulls, going out to get Mexican dinner with his family, talking to his tattooer girlfriend; his daughter is hanging out in my wife’s guest-house bed. The guy makes fucking whole motorcycles and cars from scratch, gorgeous fucking vintage pickups, the kind my wife has always wanted, and
he’s just driving her around town in one of them, here, there, taking care of business—and I’m back home transferring a load of whites from the washer to the dryer, when she texts me a photo of him with a welder’s mask on, making her a one-of-a-kind beer bottle opener with his signature on it (we don’t even drink beer)… and I think, what the fuck can
I
do?

No, really: WHAT CAN I DO? This guy is the founder and CEO of a company that pulls in something like $200 million a year, and he makes things out of metal using his two hands… and I can daintily peck out a few words on a keyboard from time to time, and scarcely make enough cash to buy gas for the pickup he’s driving my wife around Hipster Town, U.S.A., in for the better part of a week.

Most days I’m cool. I’m proud of my wife, respect what she does, and actually find it kind of amusing that she spends time with all these famous alpha dudes for a living. And that some of them have flirted relentlessly and have wanted her and had no problem making that fact known—and that she has (except that once) said no to them, that she has instead ultimately chosen ME.

But on darker days, when I am lonely and I start thinking about it too much, I don’t do as well with the fact that while I am at home being SOFT, she is out there having dinners and cocktails and over-the-top adventures with men who are (generally)

Richer.

Stronger.

Taller.

Larger.

Better looking.

More culturally relevant.

More famous, thus more handsome.

More masculine.

Harder.

In my small place, my fear corner, I am certain that the latter is a problem I am powerless to thwart. A problem that might fly under the radar now, but that will eventually boil up and over when it turns out I am not enough for her. Even though she doesn’t care about any of those things—I know her, I know she doesn’t care—I am afraid she will someday, simply, suddenly want a real man.

And I will completely understand.

Because she has made me the man I am today. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be a man if she were to kick my sorry ass to the curb; I’m just saying I would likely be a very different kind of man. A worse one.

_______________________________

1.
Since she is probably going to kill me for including this chapter, I should probably add that my wife is not some twatty Hollywood celebrity reporter writing about who wore which dress better to the Oscars. She turns in smart, considered, in-depth, and always completely unique profiles of the dudes she is assigned to write about. And she is just about as low-key and discreet as it gets about being with them. Über-professional, and usually unimpressed until there’s good reason to feel otherwise. (She also interviews female celebrities and athletes sometimes, though in truth she is pretty much a specialist on capturing men—
awesome
.)