It takes a real man to love Michael Bolton. Any man can claim Frank and Dean and Sammy. It takes a real man, a man who knows what a man is and how to be one, to enter Michael Bolton fandom.
Life can be complicated for men, I know it has been for me. What defines us? What do we base ourselves upon? Shall I take Julius Caesar as my role model? John Wayne? James Dean? Marlon Brando? Michael Jackson? Who should we look to in order to know that we have truly become man?
This simple question plagued me for years. I knew who I wanted to be, but is that man that I envision manly enough for mandom? I had no idea. So, I searched for inspiration, and I found it everywhere. I found that to be a man, one must never know pain. I knew pain. My number one driver, with the nice graphite shaft, showed me pain. As I smashed it angrily into the ground, shards of it drove themselves into my hand. I could not bend my index finger as I had shards of graphite imbedded where my joints should bend. I lie on the couch singing "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" until my girlfriend arrived to drive me to the doctor, who, by the way, had to slice my finger open to get the remnants of my manly rage out. Surely, lying on the couch as one's girl comes to the rescue is not manly. My conclusion at that point, "I am not a man."
Thus my search continued. I found that a man must own a fantastic car. So, I bought a 1969 Cadillac Hearse. It had muscle, what with the Caddy 472 under the hood, but it also had a gas problem. I had purchased the oil company's best friend. I was putting gas into this beast every other day. I had no money. Surely, a man that could not treat his lady or his mates was no man I wished to be. So I bought a Honda. My conclusion at that point, "I am not a man."
I continued my, as yet, fruitless search. I found that a man should feel no emotion. I felt emotion. As she had saved me from my driver, I realized that I wanted to spend forever with this girl of mine. I asked for her hand, she said yes, we cried. I cried. My conclusion at that point, "Am I a man?"
My confusion only growing, I trudged on. I found that a man should sacrifice fun for responsibility. I decided that it would be responsible for me to make a living at some trade or another. Flying seemed manly. I flew, and I loved it. It was fun. I tried being a cop, that was fun. Fun is not responsible, is it? My conclusion at that point, "Is anyone really a 'man'?"
Then it occurred to me. What if I had been a "man" all along? I am certainly no John Wayne, but then again, even John Wayne was no John Wayne. Why should I shoot for an ideal that I don't even want? I want to feel pain, it lets me know I'm alive! I want to own whatever car appeals to me. I want emotion. I want fun. I want to do whatever I want to do. To hell with being a man, I am me.
I drive a big, comfy, "grandma" car because it is great for road trippin'. I fall for Meg Ryan every time I see "Sleepless In Seattle." I am flooded with emotion whenever Diana Krall's sweet, jazzy voice fills my living room. I love roller coasters and "Shrek" movies. I love "Wallace and Gromit." I am impulsive. I am not responsible. I dream of Paris. I will travel the world before I even think about settling down on anything. I hang out with the right, and the wrong people. I live my life like Jimmy Buffett, not like Bill Gates. I am a fan of Michael Bolton. I am a man. I have created a new form of manliness.
I do not care what others think, I live what makes me happy. James Dean and Marlon Brando are fine, they lived how they thought they should live. That is the essence of being a man. I will live my life how I see fit.
Brooks Vanderbush lives in Antigua, Guatemala, where he is a public relations professional with Safe Passage (safepassage.org). He also survives on his writing, as he is a freelance journalist. He is a graduate of Elk Rapids Schools.
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