Throwin' Bows & Shit Like Dat

Sometimes I feel so sad for men. For me, my friends, for them, for us, we Penis People. We fail so miserably at being ourselves, at liking, then loving, then embracing our Selves.

We master the Art of Cool Pose by the age of ten or twelve, and by then we’ve surrendered all our sensitivity and Realness to this faux state of: Cool.

We resort to being Cool Fools with attitude who pimp and pose, as if we’re in full control. We demand respect (when we don’t even respect our damn selves), and we tend to forget we have tongues and brains, and so, we throw bows.

Throwin' Bows is the subject of this blog.


I work in a bar. I see people lose or relinquish that person they were when they first entered the place. They get ripped, blitzed, blasted, wasted, stupid, ill, and if someone calls them on their behavior, on their drunk-azz braggadocio act, they are so quick to see RED! And then, with astonishing quickness they are red to go, red to blow, red to start throwin dem blows!


Yes, there was one of THOSE encounters last evening. One of those that ended in blood, a broken nose, a superficial knife wound, the arrival of cop cars, and the red waltzing beams of ambulances on the scene.

But this one was different, because the person throwin bows, the main bow-thrower was a cat I call my friend. At least, I considered him one.

Has a college degree, and decent gig, and no prior history of thug-like activities. Until now.

And now I look like the damn fool who invited his damn azz to the spot, to the soiree because I though we were damn cool like that. I was the fool who set him up, who served him two freebies, and who THOUGHT, erroneously, he’d be a MAN, a laid-back-in- the-cut, have-himself-a-good-time with good people in a sedate social setting and conduct himself like a GENTLEMAN.

Was that too much expectation on my part? Perhaps it was. I was not watching him, wasn’t monitoring his words and actions. I was not on Red-Alert, or babysitting watch, was NOT clockin his every move... and didn’t feel I needed to be.

Dumb! STOOPID! DUMB! Foolish ME!


Apparently, when my back was turned, somebody ‘stepped to him wrong.’

Don’t know what was said. Don’t know what was applied. Don’t know jack, other than, HE swung on some guy. And he, my friend, my boy, my quasi-homey is the one with the broken nose.

Somehow, if history repeats that same old tired refrain, I supposed this will all morph into being MY fault.

But this is what we men do. We lose the ability, the class, the common sense to excuse our boldly masculine-frontin’ asses away from potentially volatile situations. We’d rather puff-up, act out, draw attention, draw a crowd, and then draw blood. That’s what we men do. Yes, some mad women do it too… which is even wilder and sadder.

But that’s not the subject here.

It’s men.

Or I should say males: Penis People, who from the outside resemble MEN… but who in actuality are foolish little boys with fragile baby egos, with G.I. Joe Complexes, and these quick-to-snap-like-a-bitch tendencies that some believe make them tough, make them strong, make them invincible, but they're wrong! Homey you’re dead wrong!

Sometimes I feel so sad for men. For me, my friends, for them, for us, we Penis People. We fail so miserably at being ourselves, at liking, then loving, then embracing our Selves.

And if only we learned to RESPECT ourselves, we could become one hell of a species.


One.