Confessions Of A Lapsed Metrosexual (1.0)


When I Was 17 Years-Old … For A Pretty Girl I’d Dated Briefly In High School … 

Which should’ve been a clue to The Universe that I was a Different Cat, Dancing To My Own Beat and Some Girls Just Don’t Like Quiche.  

So, its been a few decades since I’ve claimed rightful status and destiny as a Real Man (*) and ascension into the realm of Sapiosexuality.

And, championed My Fabulous Journey in disproving a silly urban myth about Male Masculinity popularized in Bruce Feirstein’s Bestselling Tongue-In-Cheek Book, Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche (1982).



My Truth Is …

“I Prefer An Italian Frittata – Or A Spanish Omelette – Over A French Quiche … I’ll Leave Interpol And The European Union To Get Crackin’ And Figure Out This Mystery.”

As You Know The French Adore Me – more than they Love Life ® or buttery croissants dipped in a warm bowl of Café au Lait overlooking La Rive Gauche in the Spring – Oui, I’m Certified 2.0% By Ancestry – And, hey, wouldn’t you know it, the eggy dish originated in Lothringen, Germany.

Says the Good Folks of  The term Quiche is French for the German Küche, which is a diminutive form of Kuchen, meaning Cake … Boom!



If You Missed It … You’re Lucky … 

Big Hair.  Bad Fashion.  Beatlemania.  One of the these is false.

However, as I’ve prognosticated in my Nostradumbass 2020 Predictions for The Next Century:

“In 67 years on a Pop Quiz About the 1980s a student named Ludwig “Wiggy” Apple-Sony 9.0 will answer Beatlemania and be awarded a Doctorate In Revisionist History from Amazon University online.”



You may want to refresh by reading “My Sexual Orientation Needs No Explanation” as a requisite to the following …

“The term ‘Metrosexual’ was coined in 1994 by English journalist Mark Simpson.”

My vain derailment into Metrosexyism predates popular nomenclature by over a decade.

Jusaying, not bragging (much), what?



The Right Answer … 

“A Healthy Lifestyle Meant Simply Taking Care Of One’s Complete Self … Beyond Manscaping the Exoskeleton.  Racing to nowhere on The Peloton.  Looking like Muscly Skeletron from Planet Krypton.”

Though I identify as a practising, devout Hypo-Christian – The Vatican And I Aren’t Talking At The Moment – Spiritual Fluidity is Me.  Emotional Presence.  Intellectually Cognizant.  No, I don’t always Get It Right … 

And, also, my monthly subscriptions as a 20-Dumbthing to GQ and Muscle & Fitness magazines engineered my leanings toward a body conscientious mindset a bit too much.  These days, its about Wholeness – Body, Mind, Spirit – Wellness.



I Read Ernest Hemingway …

Acknowledged – and conflicted about – Papa Hemingway on the 1920’s ideals of Manhood – Man’s Man Code – the strength of simple, true prose in his novels, and unwavering masculinity of his formidable Era of Men, though I wasn’t about to go on a Big Game Hunting Safari in Africa killing Rhinos.  No.

Or, jump into a boxing ring to trade punches with some gamely, mustachioed pugilist to settle an old score.  Queensbury Rules, Good Sir.  Or, Tango To Death with a 1,500 lb. Bull named Murciélago in Spain.  Or, drink Absinthe into Oblivion.

“So, If I’d Lived In The Era’s When Governments Conscripted Young Men To Go Fight In Another Evil Bastard’s War … I Would’ve Impolitely Declined As A Conscientious Objector … And Done False Penance Sentenced In Prison …”

Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay

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