Marty Beckerman

My Job Application to Marvel Comics

martyb — Tue, 08 May 2012 19:17:57 +0000

When I was a kid, I wanted to write and draw comic books. Actually, I did write and draw comic books — stick figures pissing/shitting all over each other — which I'd then Xerox and sell to my classmates for a quarter. (I often wonder how much I've progressed in life since then.)

But I had greater aspirations: writing Uncanny X-Men for Marvel Comics. As much as I liked the company's other heroes — Spider-Man, Iron Man, Thor, Captain America, and the Goddamn ~~Batman~~ Punisher — my favorites were Cyclops, Wolverine, Gambit, Nightcrawler, and Jean Grey's enormous boobs.

At 10 years old, I knew that I had plenty of competition for the gig, so I decided to make a direct appeal. After school one day, while my parents were still at work, I dialed the Manhattan telephone number listed in small text on the title page of every Marvel comic book. (I grew up in Anchorage, Alaska. Long-distance calls were seriously long-distance, and cost more than my allowance.)

A company operator picked up and asked to whom she should route my call.

"My name is Marty, and I want to write X-Men!" I explained. "Can I talk to the editor in charge?"

In retrospect, I have no idea why she connected me — a boy with a dream — to one of the most powerful men (if not the most powerful man) in the industry. I can only assume that she lost her job a couple minutes later.

"Yeah?" the editor said in a gravelly, businesslike voice.

"Hi!" I chirped. "I want to write X-Men! How can I do that?"

(Long, awkward silence.)

"Who gave you this number?"

"I found it! Inside X-Men! My name is Marty!"

"Right..." He took a deep breath, clearly thrilled to spend his workday humoring an overenthusiastic child. "You can mail sample material along with a self-addressed stamped envelope to—"

"How much money will I make?" I interrupted professionally.

"Jesus, kid, I don't know. Maybe $13,000 if you're lucky?"

My jaw dropped. My eyes widened. My heartbeat quintupled.

"Oh my God," I shrieked. "I am going to be SO RICH!!!!!!!"

"Sure you are," the editor sighed. "Just stay in school, and... uh... don't do drugs, all right?"

Click.

Unfortunately I lost interest in comic books a few years later. My art skills had plateaued, and — after the much-hyped death (and return) of Superman, the much-hyped crippling (and physical therapy) of Batman, and the much-hyped declawing (and re-clawing) of Wolverine — I realized that superhero plot-lines had no real drama, no real meaning, no real consequences.

Except, of course, when stick figures piss/shit all over each other. Got a quarter?

Five Reasons Every Bro Should Love Birth Control

martyb — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 01:36:20 +0000

A single hot-button issue has dominated our national discourse lately: is the birth control pill wrong? You might not care about politics, which is normally a sign of mental health. Apathy is the best, right? Who wants to spend life getting angry over meaningless bullcrap? Personally, I’d rather pound tequila shots at the bar than watch C-SPAN. Actually, I’d rather pound antifreeze shots than watch C-SPAN. But in a democracy, bro, some issues are too important to ignore. Specifically, issues that concern your dong. If you’re a man and against contraception, you need your heads examined. Both of them.

Last week, a bunch of congressmen nearly granted employers the right to deny women coverage. Presidential candidate Rick Santorum — who believes sex is only for “procreative” purposes — ranted that the pill is “not okay.” And Rush Limbaugh slandered a Georgetown law student as a “slut” and “prostitute” just for speaking her mind on the topic. (He later apologized, but maintains that insurance companies shouldn’t pay for contraception, as opposed to Viagra and mountains of Oxycontin.)

This is sexism that backfires. Misogyny that maims. Chauvinism that hurts males too.

The birth control pill isn’t wrong; it’s goddamn amazing. This should be a self-evident truth, like how all men are created equal and have certain unalienable rights. (For example, the right to get laid without becoming fathers.) But apparently it’s 1960, not 2012, so this needs clarification. Allow me to explain the facts of life to guys who don’t know what’s good for them.

Read the rest at BroBible.com

How to Defeat Your Bully: The Art of War for Peanut-Allergic Kids

martyb — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 23:17:41 +0000

Welcome to Basic Training.

As much as I enjoy getting hate mail and death threats—I'm currently keeping a canister of Planters on my body at all times for protection—I didn’t get a ton of pleasure from reading countless stories of horrific Emergency Room visits from parents who read my latest incoherent diatribe, "Your Peanut-Allergic Kid is a Little Goddamn Sissy (By a Manly Man Allergic to Pollen and Cats)."

Some of those visits proved fatal. Have you ever compounded the grief of someone whose toddler died from anaphylactic shock? It doesn’t feel particularly awesome!

Also a shock: my tear ducts are capable of producing liquid.

I've searched the grimy labyrinth of my soul—who knew I had one?—and decided to restore my karma, so I don't wind up like the last guy who mocked peanut allergies and then had a peanut-allergic baby. How am I going to do this?

Easy: by teaching these kids how to deal with insensitive pricks like me.

1. Become a Smartass

There are two types of bullying: physical violence (we'll get to that in a minute) and verbal teasing, which a quarter of peanut-allergic kids receive. Bullies aren't the most clever wordsmiths—usually their vocabulary is limited to "retard" and various homophobic slurs—but they're mindlessly persistent. For example:

Bully: "Hey, shithead. Why do you smell like shit, shithead?"

You: "Please don't call me shithead."

Bully: "Whatever you say, shithead."

This is a losing strategy. You can't ask for mercy; bullies don't understand the concept. And I know from experience: back in elementary school, the bigger kids called me "Marty Farty" every day. (Also, since Back to the Future reigned supreme at the box office in the '80s, I was asked "you chicken, McFly?" ad nauseam.)

Last Halloween, owning my childhood trauma.
(I am also farting.)

Instead of accepting the bullies' sadistic taunts, I learned that wisecracks were the best defense mechanism. You have to fight fire with fire; it's psych 101 that bullies tease others because they feel insecure themselves (*cough*). And luckily they have an Achilles' heel: traveling in packs.

Like wolves, only more bloodthirsty.

You see, bullies prefer to stick together, because making fun of someone is boring unless other people laugh. But if you can make the Beta Bullies laugh at the Alpha Bully with a better insult than he can muster, you win.

Alpha Bully: "Hey, shithead. Why do you smell like shit, shithead?"

You: "Because your mom forgot to clean her ass today."

Beta Bullies: "Ha! Ha! You suck at bullying, Alpha Bully."

Alpha Bully: [spontaneously combusts]

2. Learn Karate (Or Better Yet, Ninjutsu)

It's so adorable when you rip a bully's pancreas out.

You've delivered your wisecrack zinger. One of two things will now happen: the Alpha Bully (who didn't really combust) will either leave the scene with his tail behind his legs, humiliated in front of the Beta Bullies, or—desperate to regain dominance—will assault you. The choice: fight or flee?

Here's the thing: if you flee, you'll just have to flee another day, and another, and another.

"The line must be drawn here! This far, no further!"

The problem with today's parents is they believe self-defense is always wrong, because hitting is hitting is hitting. This is complete bullshit. An unprovoked attack is always wrong—for example, the Iraq war—but the world is a dangerous place and you have to make a stand when threatened, preferably with a roundhouse kick to the spleen.

One of the most glorious moments of my childhood came when a bully took a swing at me on the playground. Thanks to years of karate lessons (fun factoid: I made purple belt, but wasn't promoted to brown because I was too violent), I instinctively grabbed his arm, placed my leg in front of his, and—even though I was a runt—used his own momentum to fling him over my shoulder. He crashed to the gravel, utterly defeated, and the other kids cheered for my act of bravery.

My bully never messed with me again, and—if you use your martial arts skills as a last resort—neither will yours.

3. Don't Let Them Get Under Your Skin

This is difficult to do when a bully is wagging peanut butter in your face, which happens to a third of peanut-allergic kids, and is why they should learn karate/ninjutsu (see above). But ultimately the only power that bullies have is the power you give them.

Bullies are like electronic devices.

Schools can and should educate children about peanut allergies if a classmate is affected, because society has a duty to protect its most vulnerable members. Unfortunately, kids have always been cruel little monsters to one another. Some of them pick on their peers for any perceived weakness—whether it's health-related, height-related, weight-related, or for no reason at all—and at some point you just have to ignore them.

The first parent who contacted me after publication of my article had a strange request: he wanted me to explain to his peanut-allergic son over the phone why I wrote it, because "I refuse to shelter him from the world, both the ugly and the beautiful."

I declined the invitation—a bunch of adults didn't understand that it was dark comedy, so how would a nine-year-old?—because I assumed it would ruin the kid's self-esteem forever. (Just like how many of the outraged parents assumed that my sarcastic ramblings would endanger their children.) And believe it or not, I want to make people laugh, not cry.

This is the email I received back:

"Thanks for the reply Marty, and understand the pass. As for my son, he has read it — and simply replied 'what a dick.' But again I know he will always run in to these types of things and he sure as hell better learn to brush the dust off his shoulders."

That kid isn't a little goddamn sissy. That kid is my goddamn hero.

The Nerve Posts

martyb — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 03:20:39 +0000

Tales of a Groomzilla

martyb — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 02:13:02 +0000

“This photographer has zero talent,” I told my fiancée as we examined the sample wedding album. “I could take better photos with an iPhone jammed up my rectum.”

OK, I’ll admit it: I have become a groomzilla, the increasingly common (and dreaded) masculine version of a micromanaging bride. Oh, I don’t care about the flowers and table linens; I have no requirements of the cake beyond chocolate of some kind. But I’m an equal partner in our wedding day, much like 80 percent of other modern grooms, if Bridal Guide magazine is to be believed. And as the date swiftly approaches, I’m starting to melt down.

“What do you want for dinner tonight, honey?” my fiancée asked earlier today.

“DINNER?” I howled through my teeth-bleaching Crest Whitestrips. “Protein powder, just like we had for breakfast.”

Hey, I just want to look good on the most photographed day of my life. I’m in the best physical health since college — thanks to daily cardio/resistance/starvation — and the worst mental health.

Read the full article at Salon.com

9/11/11

martyb — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 19:29:31 +0000

"Wow, I can't believe it's been 10 years since Dick Cheney orchestrated 9/11! Where does time go?" —conspiracy theorists

Last night I walked the streets of Manhattan, ruminating over this godforsaken bloody decade. (Felt kinda out of place with all the drunken horny people stumbling out of various clubs, but who can blame them?)

I was in D.C. for September 11th, the poisoned letters, the beltway sniper, and a bomb threat against my college dormitory. The threat was called in right after 9/11. We had to evacuate campus for half a day, when campus had just felt like our oasis of safety in a capital under attack. I don't know whether the person was ever caught, whether he was a nutcase or an idiot frat boy, but it became clear: freshman year would not be carefree. Dread was the new normal. We had been robbed of our youth. Not many deep sleepers at American University that night. Some of them would later contract anthrax symptoms from handling USPS mail.

A classmate had one parent who worked at the WTC and another at the Pentagon.

During the sniper attack spree a white van, which police thought the killer drove at the time, followed me for five quiet suburban blocks. My pace grew brisker and brisker as I zigged and zagged; I assumed I was in the cross-hairs, assumed I had seconds to live, assumed I wouldn't get to see graduation. And then it drove away. I had been afraid over nothing. Panic and paranoia. And yet it felt so real, that death was stalking me, that death was stalking us all. At random.

Columbine had been the worst thing imaginable to us. Now Columbine was everywhere.

Panic and paranoia became the national conversation, became the foreign policy, became the consensus reality. It wasn't long before the calls for revenge started. Against who? Nobody knew. But we wanted it, and the politicians took infinite advantage. A decade later you want to remember the tragedy of the day outside the context of what came later: the Iraq disaster, the torture, the witch hunts, the propaganda network, the religious fervor. You want to but you can't.

(We've already had nine anniversaries; ten is just a number to which we ascribe meaning. Why are multiples of five extra somber?)

I can almost remember how scared I was, as an 18-year-old kid, but I can't let myself remember my fear 100% because then I'd remember how easily it turned to blind fury, how easily it was exploited for power and profit. It's easier to joke about those years now—the earnest siege mentality, the WMD-preventing duct tape on windows in perfectly safe rural towns—than revisit the genuine emotions, because you learn to either laugh darkly or shit yourself. And who wants to wear adult diapers forever?

Nevertheless I'll try to think about the day itself, before we absorbed the shock, before it was politicized, before it was made a rhetorical cudgel, before it tore us apart, before America stopped being America. Before we said "9/11." Before we knew the meaning of it.

How to Make a Phone Call (in the Age of Facebook)

martyb — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 12:01:11 +0000

Facebook is great for reconnecting with people from your past, and shuddering at how fat they’ve become. (Until you remember how fat you’ve become.) But here’s the irony: you’re so in touch with everyone that you’re in touch with no one.

With all those mundane updates from your friends—their shopping purchases, restaurant check-ins, Netflix reviews, relationship statuses, and awful political rants—why bother interacting with them? What is there to talk about, except what they’ve already posted on Facebook?

Look, we’re the final generation that will remember the world before the Internet eliminated the concept of distance. Your buddies and family members are available 24/7 on Skype and Gchat, right there on your screen, never out of digital reach. When you’re at work, you’re comforted by their simultaneous procrastination; when you have insomnia at some godforsaken hour, you’re comforted by their mutual lack of sleep, assuming they haven’t gone idle. Even if you don’t ping them for a quick convo, you could, and that’s what matters. So you feel connected, tethered. Their avatars are reassuring 48×48-pixel beacons of comfort as you stare into the unfathomable abyss of your disembodied electronic existence.

But do you actually know these people anymore? When is the last time you talked with them? Really talked? About life, the universe, and everything? Not just via instant messages and 140-character @replies and depraved sexting?

Even though we know every detail of our friends’ lives now, thanks to the “like” button and Foursquare, we know less about them. We have smartphones, but not smart phone conversations. It’s downright offensive to call people, because you’re wasting precious time they could use to play on the Internet. So here’s a much-needed primer for how to talk with the ones closest to you:

1. Dial Their Number

Actually, just click on their name, because the only phone numbers you remember anymore are your parents’ and 911, neither of which you should call unless there is an emergency.

2. Say “Hello”

They will probably ask why you are calling, because it is such an uncommon gesture, typically reserved for when you’ve been arrested or someone has died. (Tumblr is more appropriate for death notices anyway.) Assure them everything is fine; you’d just like to “catch up,” which is something that people used to do, much like treating disease with leeches and sacrificing children to pagan deities.

3. Ask About Their Lives

This part of the conversation will be tricky. You already know what they had for breakfast that morning, and they know you know what they had for breakfast that morning. (Don’t play coy, or you’ll insult your friend by appearing to not read his or her vital updates about breakfast.) Expect to hear “So, uh, what’s up with you?” countless times during the next few awkward minutes, and then: “Oh yeah, I guess I already asked that.”

4. Tell Them About Your Life

But omit the depressing part about how you feel alienated from everyone you’ve ever cared about; it’s just going to creep them out further.

5. Recognize When the Conversation Is Winding Down

You don’t want to extend a call beyond its natural endpoint, or else your bored/irritated friend will never answer the phone again. (And you might actually be in jail then.) The laughs will begin to get smaller, the gossip will begin to get less salacious and damning. Find a graceful exit—you have to meet someone for dinner, or your battery is low, or your bladder is about to rupture—and then say, “It’s been great chatting, talk soon!”

Except you won’t.

Why Men Love Charlie Sheen

martyb — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 16:30:10 +0000

(Note: this was written in the week that Sheen was cool and hilarious. Before he ruined his own joke. #losing)

This is Charlie Sheen’s world. We’re just living in it.

Go check your Facebook or Twitter feed. Everyone is linking to stories about him, quoting his diatribes, and either celebrating or condemning him. It’s most likely split by gender: ladies deriding Sheen as a “pig” and “asshole,” guys praising him (correctly) as the most hilarious person on earth. He’s instantly become a hero to millions of educated, courteous young males who would never emulate his antics — nor watch Two and a Half Men, for that matter — yet admire him with irony and sincerity.

Sheen’s appeal isn’t exclusively the wild hedonism; no one particularly envies the barhopping mental invalids of Jersey Shore. Nor is it the crazy hyperbolic quotes; Charles Manson had plenty of those, and only sociopaths want to live vicariously through him. (To be fair, both Charlies express identical mannerisms during TV interviews.)

His appeal is that, while most guys — especially post-college — must reign in their ids and demure to society’s expectations to advance rung by rung up the soul-crushing ladder of corporate mediocrity, Sheen has reached the ultimate apex of manhood eternal: doing whatever he wants and speaking the complete truth, consequences be damned. (Even if the complete truth, as he perceives it, is “I got tiger blood,” “I have a 10,000-year-old brain,” and “I’m an F-18, bro.”)

Yes, he’s a self-styled decadent rock star on par with Keith Richards, and it’s always fun to giggle at an addict. But something deeper is going on; he’s clearly an intelligent man with vivid self-awareness and greater discipline than most of us can muster. Sheen isn’t cool because he did a bunch of drugs over twenty years; he’s cool because he did a bunch of drugs over twenty years, stopped cold turkey to make money — to prove a point — and then refused to apologize, to define himself as a slave, to honor the typical recovery narrative. He blasted Alcoholics Anonymous as a “cult” for convincing its adherents of their own powerlessness; he proclaimed that his decades-long bender was “radical” and “magic.” In a world that wants men to apologize for simply existing, Charlie Sheen is a man with zero regrets.

Is it unfair that Sheen is perceived as a badass (kind of) role model — a Henry Miller, a Charles Bukowski — while Lindsay Lohan, like Courtney Love and Zelda Fitzgerald before her, is perceived as a pathetic, mentally ill train wreck? Is this a sexist double standard? Perhaps, but Sheen controls his appetites, not the other way around. He shows up to work, despite insulting his boss as a “contaminated little maggot” and demanding a fifty-percent raise to his ludicrously exorbitant salary. He is master of his domain, indulging in anarchic chaos yet exercising Olympian self-control if he so desires. He doesn’t take shit from anyone and laughs his way to the bank. This is why we love him the way we love famous outlaws from Billy the Kid to the Catch Me if You Can impostor. Neither of whom got away with it, actually, but still.

Whereas Robert Downey. Jr. resuscitated and redefined his career by cleaning up to portray Iron Man, Charlie Sheen became the real-life Tony Stark. Whereas Johnny Depp depicted Jack Sparrow for the Walt Disney Company, Charlie Sheen is a real-life swashbuckler for the hell of it. Like Downey and Depp, Sheen is a great actor, or at least used to be; Wall Street and Platoon were great films, and perhaps he would’ve earned an Academy Award if he had played by the rules, had honed his craft to perfection instead of living his life to extremes. Now his talent is squandered on a middle-of-the-road sitcom for middle America. And yet, he has become something greater than a potential Oscar winner, something greater than a lucrative sitcom star, something greater than himself.

Charlie Sheen is no longer a mere thespian, nor a mere playboy; he has become a modern icon of unfiltered, untrammeled masculinity, an embodiment of Nietzsche’s Übermensch who no longer needs the Hollywood hype machine; he has achieved orbit. His publicist refuses to work with him anymore, yet Sheen is booked on every major media outlet in the country. He is the prime topic of American conversation, not for his crimes, not for his work, but simply for being Charlie Sheen. Not like the fame matters to him beyond the godlike amusement of generating spectacle, because he is the essential self-contained man.

He no longer needs the Hollywood hype machine; he’s taking his message, whatever it is, directly to the people. Within a couple hours of joining Twitter on Tuesday, Sheen had over 200,000 followers eagerly awaiting his first tweet with baited breath. It was the online controversy of the day. (All that anticipation and speculation for… for… a photo of him with chocolate milk?!) Call him a maniac, call him a mess, but also call him a consummate showman. You couldn’t pay for entertainment this good, because we’re part of the act. Charlie Sheen wouldn’t be “winning” without us watching.

This doesn’t make Charlie Sheen a good person in the Christian sense — he’s obviously a deranged, self-destructive narcissist — but Christ, he makes deranged narcissistic self-destruction look fun. Yes, yes, he needs major psychological help and is probably going to kill himself sooner rather than later. And his alleged violent streak toward women is genuinely troubling, not admirable whatsoever. But every honest man on earth would nevertheless trade places with him in a (chemically accelerated) heartbeat. And he knows it. “Sure, I did a lot of things in excess,” Sheen told Playboy in 2001. “But … who the f*ck wouldn’t? What red-blooded young American male in my position wouldn’t?”

This is not because we all want to overdose on narcotics, terrorize hookers in an obliterated hotel room, and sleep with ten women per night. (Okay, we all want that last one.) It’s because we want to bend reality to any form we desire, like Genghis Khan or Alexander the Great or Thomas Jefferson, which Charlie Sheen has manged to do through sheer nihilism. “I was still, in my mind, above the law, a functional, socially acceptable maniac,” Sheen said a decade ago. “F*ck you and your AA. Give me some Valium.”

In our daily lives, we feel incredible pressure to deny our selfish drives, to moderate our controversial opinions, and to base our choices upon the feelings and reactions of others. These good manners allow society to persist, allow us to coexist with one another, yet force individuals to disappear within themselves, to disappear within each other, to be forgotten by the Sands of Time. The man who can discard these civilized hindrances, however, and unleash his pure id — despite the risks to life, limb, and dignity — becomes a legend. And that’s how you conquer death, which is the manliest accomplishment of all.

Take it from Charlie Sheen: “Dying is for fools. Dying is for amateurs.”

My Day on a Porn Set

martyb — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 21:56:24 +0000

I've spent evenings with male strippers and female hookers for the sake of journalism, but these platonic misadventures were lackluster compared to the day I spent on an L.A. porno set, observing the workplace's daily grind.

I was too cheap to rent a car, so a friend courteously drove me to the unmarked warehouse in the San Fernando Valley. (He's gay, and thus wouldn't normally care about watching hetero porn, but luckily he'll try anything once.)

The producers, whom I promised anonymity, requested that I deliver a Summer's Eve Douche box to the starlet of today's cinematic endeavor. "She already took the enema," explained one of the pornographers helpfully.

They gave me a tour of the massive studio, which housed numerous sets: a bedroom, a bathroom, a dorm room, an executive office, etc. An enormous naked dude strode across one of the sets, getting himself ready for action. Apparently even fluffer jobs have taken a hit in these tough economic times.

While every red-blooded American man would leap at the opportunity to work in porn, the vast majority of us are unqualified. "You have to be able to get hard on cue," said one of the producers. "You have to be able to fuck for hours." Most first-timers, full of macho arrogance, are embarrassed to realize they can't perform in the presence of onlookers, or can't last two minutes with a woman attractive enough for the industry.

Soon a naked actress sashayed over to meet the masturbating actor. They quickly introduced themselves to each other, and seconds later commenced copulation. Witnessing the scene unfold is a vastly different experience than watching the final product on a screen; it's mesmerizing instead of arousing, surreal instead of sensual, jaw-dropping instead of pants-dropping. You're unable to believe what's transpiring a meter in front of your eyes -- I should've worn a poncho like the audience members at a Gallagher concert -- but you're also unable to avert your eyes.

"Beautiful, just beautiful penetration," the director said, impulsively choreographing the positions: "mish" for missionary, "cow" for cowgirl, and "scissors" for... uh... scissors. The actress wailed and moaned with seeming pleasure while on camera, yet between shots -- with the dude still inside her -- maintained a neutral, businesslike expression. A true thespian.

After thirty enthralling minutes, which became 45 and then 60 (considerably less enthralling) minutes, I had an unlikely epiphany. "I never expected to say this," I told my friend as the actress gurgled on the actor's manhood, freshly withdrawn from her rectum, "but this is boring."

"You feel that way too?" My friend laughed. "I thought it was just because I'm gay!"

You can only watch two people get it on for so long before it grows tedious. And unsavory. For example, the producers shared that menstruation is no excuse for skipping work; actresses insert a makeup sponge to hide the blood. (Good luck masturbating ever again!) In slightly less disgusting news, the talent will "cancel the shoot over a yeast infection."

"I hate Vanilla Coke," the actress suddenly shrieked, throwing a plastic soda bottle across the room. And then belching, which was not particularly sexy. "Is there any normal Coke here?"

She also said degrading things about herself ("I'm such a worthless piece of shit whore," "I'm a dumb bitch who deserves this") even between scenes, which is plain sad. Just as the carbonated beverage was too vanilla for her, I was too vanilla for this situation.

Consenting adults should be able to film whatever they want, and other adults should be able to view the result. You wouldn't eat sausage, however (no pun intended) if you saw the manufacturing process. The depersonalized fantasies that comprise your spank bank should remain exactly that, because the reality? Is sorta gross.

But it's never too late to submit a job application. If you have a couple minutes.

My Day in Jeggings

martyb — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 18:25:25 +0000

Conan O'Brien in acid-wash jeggings was a disturbing sight, but not as disturbing as Tim Gunn's proclamation that such ultra-snug denim is "not just [for] ladies." Fashion-forward men from the catwalks of Milan to the boutiques of SoHo have embraced these body-hugging abominations.

CoCo's gender-bending experiment, however ludicrous and satirical, will only spread the unholy gospel. Long-limbed Conan did it as a joke, but my editor wanted to see if a normal guy could actually pull it off. (As if a "normal guy" would ever don jeggings in the first place.)

Anticipating the day when every red-blooded American male has a walk-in closet overflowing with jeggings, I decided to sample these uncannily form-fitting bottoms, which I never could've foreseen as a teenager in the 1990s when my generation's "sagging" horrified old people for some reason. And let me tell you from experience: our wide-legged '90s past is way less horrifying than our inevitable Lycra® future.

Jeggin' Selectin'

The first challenge was to actually find a pair. I assumed that decadent Italian brands such as Prada and Versace were guaranteed purveyors, but Prada's spokeswoman informed me that "Prada does not produce or carry male jeggings," and Versace's refused to dignify my call with an answer. So I visited the (relatively) downmarket store Forever 21 instead, and asked the clerk where specifically I could find jeggings.

"For women or, uh, men?" she asked. "Because we don't have men's jeggings."

Fair enough. I would have to cross a sacred barrier.

"Women's," I said. "I'll try the women's jeggings."

"You're the first man to ask about them..." She looked at me as if I were some kind of demented freak, which is pretty understandable, I guess. "Actually we're out of stock. They're so popular, it's crazy... popular with women, I mean."

I began to wonder if I'd ever find jeggings. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be; perhaps I wasn't supposed to wear tights. (Deuteronomy 22:5: "[N]either shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.")

Luckily I went to American Eagle instead of heeding the Bible. The friendly staff led me to their veritable mountain of in-stock jeggings, and approved of my quest. "All the guys here wear jeggings," chirped a helpful American Eagle saleslady. "My gay friends wear them with their Uggs. You look like a Size Six. Want to try some on?"

"Absolutely," I said. "Should I use the men's fitting rooms or the women's?" (I honestly wasn't sure.)

Preparing to Launch

Before I entered the fitting room, the saleslady warned me: rocking this look requires extreme comfort and confidence with one's body. It was possible I'd learn some things about myself that I'd never be able to unlearn. This sounded as daunting as a NASA rocket launch, except that astronauts don't have to withstand as many Gs of pressure.

Alone with my shame inside the dressing room, I removed my ho-hum, loose-fitting jeans and (quite literally) forced myself into a pair of $49.50 jeggings. I had to yank the cuffs down to my ankles and yank the waistband up to my pelvis, which caused plenty of awkward stumbling and hobbling around the confined space.

Once the pants were in place, however, the material conformed to my body like a technological wonder substance from an advanced civilization. I hate to admit it, but they were kinda comfy.

Of course, I was concerned about the Bulge. If you search the Net for "meggings," pretty much every result discusses the Bulge. If you wear these things in public, you might want a lawyer to explain the local indecent exposure laws.

But I followed HowCast's advice for men's jeggings aficionados: "Wear boxer briefs to contain your bulge... If necessary, use double-sided tape to hold your package in place." (Or a stapler. Ha! Ha!) Subsequently it wasn't grotesquely prominent, which is perhaps a sad admission.

Far more exposed than my family jewels: the high-definition curvatures of my thighs and backside. As Tim Gunn himself said on Conan, "You know whether a guy's leg is more like a chicken leg or a ham hock by virtue of that leotard..." There's no hiding a single particle of cellulite. (Good thing I'd exercised obsessively in the week prior. And by "obsessively," I mean "twice.")

"They look great," the saleslady said when I exited the fitting room. "It really works on you!"

A male colleague of hers concurred that jeggings are ideal for the modern man. "I love wearing them around the house," he said. "They do wonders for the tush."

Strutting Around Town

Satisfied by their flattery, I paid for the merchandise and took my wondrous tush outside. The first thing I noticed: jeggings provide no insulation. The freezing temperature and ferocious wind pierced the paper-thin fabric, whereas my traditional jeans always keep me warm. I felt as if I were naked in a meat freezer, except without any delicious meat.

Despite the frigid onslaught, I summoned the fortitude to interview complete strangers about my anatomy.

"What do you think?" I asked two college-aged women on the street. "Is this an attractive look for a guy?"

"No way," said one of them as I spun in a sexy circle. "It's just showing too much."

Her friend agreed: "Way too much."

It's possible they were lesbians. But most of the bystanders had a different reaction: ambivalence. They gave me a half-dozen jaded variations of "how are these different than skinny jeans?" Whereas I expected to shock people with my new androgynous wardrobe, I merely looked like a random twenty-something New York City hipster.

If I wanted a focus group of real Americans -- the kind possibly shocked by pants without pleats -- I'd have to journey into the dark heart of Times Square. Upon arrival I asked a middle-aged woman from Pennsylvania for her salt-of-the-earth opinion.

"No, no, no, no," she said. "Why would you wear something like that?"

Another female tourist was equally critical: "I don't think so ... I'm not a fan."

But her husband, a spectacularly rotund gentleman, examined my jeggings-defined physique and offered this delightful verdict: "If I were skinny, I'd wear those too!"

How to Decide If You Should Wear Men's Jeggings

Are you in peak condition? Take a good, hard look in the mirror. If you've packed on the holiday pounds -- nothing washes down pumpkin pie quite like a glass of egg nog, right? -- wait until you've fulfilled your hit-the-gym New Year's resolution. Or else you'll make an ass out of yourself in more ways than one.

Can you part with your phone? Jegging pockets are too shallow for a mobile device. And a thief could easily grab your wallet. So you'll need to... uh... accessorize. As reporter Joshua David Stein explains, "The perfect accompaniment and necessary corollary to the majegging is the murse." (If you felt bizarre purchasing women's pants, just wait until you purchase a handbag.)

Exhibitionist or introvert? You won't get many gawks and stares in an eccentric fashion capital like New York, but elsewhere you'll make a big statement. The mesmerized reactions could lead to major discomfort, if you care what others think.

Check the forecast? As mentioned earlier, jeggings won't shield you from the brutal cold. Beauty is painful, of course, but -- under the circumstances -- shrinkage is even worse.