The other weekend snugly in bed with my other half, she opened the weekend social section of one rival paper. To her liking, she took hold of the back pages with a very interesting article written by an old varsity friend, about the modern man. In all its glory this piece made a few startling remarks about what it is about the modern man, and quite frankly the fact that she was white made me more appreciative of my deep rooted cultural hypocrisy.
Anyhow, the piece was going on about the new man and his vanity for underwear, not the “ordinary Joe’s” we are so accustomed to, nor is it the Butch or Rambo style or even closest to the jock strips that Daniel Graig had in Casino Royale, even though it did look damn “ah”. I meant to say cool.
Now these particular “undies” happen to be the G-string. Yes the one and the only piece of cloth that for long has been the haven of men objectifying tantrum fantasy of women appreciation and sexuality.
In essence, it entails that man too wear g-strings, and hordes of them do, so I heard. Part of it is being in touch with your feminist side and many thanks to the revolutionised global consumerism of being the modern man. I think part of it is being completely crazy. For no sane man from the rugged terrains, hills, valleys, mountains and tonga’s of Africa shall dread being seen with his behind firmly hugged in that scant cloth material.
There are few things I feel should be left untouched and be the domain of our female species only. This much brings me to the so much posed question as to what makes the modern man.
Back then when the NBC was still the arsenal of “celebrity-dom” I used to envy the lucky continuity announcers on the telly and how I wish that could have been me. Until I got my chance I was one of the few lucky ones being called in to try my luck. According to the NBC personal grooming crew I was not Television compatible, I was eighteen, full of just awaken endomorphism and acne. So for TV I was whiskered off to Justine for a facial, to reduce the acne blemish and all that. I felt strange, but my NBC appointed P.G thought of reassuring me that even Boys II Men and Barry White do this most often.
Ever heard of, “You do as you told if you want that job”? That is exactly what I kept doing, applying moisturiser, using exfoliating cream, blemish and acne control, foundation and daily facial cleansing with all sorts of oil. In the end I never got the damn job.
If you can deduce from my rumblings that I completely feel disenfranchised with the notions of the modern man, then you guess right. Back then I was raised in the straight and narrow, and the first thing that was hummed in my “medulla oblongata” was: ” Men do not touch lady’s stuff, and vice versa. Guys play with toy-cars and Girls plays with Dolls.” That explains why I did not pierce my earlobes for a big fake diamond stud.
So it brings me to this modern man, I do cook, even though situations forced me to learn how to cook. Three siblings all females and me was my lot. But does that make me modern? By my own standards, no! What bothers me is this: The gentleman that sleeps on white linen and changes it everyday religiously applies hand cream from his “better pack” permanently stashed in his car. Got a steady supply of menthols to freshen breath, reads inspirational books, does yoga and aerobics at the local gym and wears G-strings. All this reminds me of the advertisement of the Hilux Bakkie, which locked its owner out after he emerged out of a boutique with a fresh new Freddy Prince punk hairstyle and lily pink shirt. That is not tough, and rightfully said you don’t do tough. It is sissy like.
Therefore and rightfully, when my sweetie sold me the idea of a fresh pair of g-strings as a Valentine gift in February, just for the fun of it, I gave her one strange Wamboe look, and threatened her with no marriage!
Like I said some things are better left for the attention of the opposite sex.
Lastly, my apologies for last week’s column. Due to typographical and wireless communication errors you were forced to read an inconclusive article. It won’t happen again, at least not for a while. On the other hand thank goodness January is over. Have a nice Sorry Ngo and no g-strings please.