By CP Staff
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Chris Parker
By Jesse Marx
By John Baichtal
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Jesse Marx
By Olivia LaVecchia
Do you know anyone who actually reads Gear? I don't. Nor do I fantasize about seducing Russian stewardesses hungry for First World lovin', or cutting the rug at the hottest clubs in Barcelona. On the other hand, I haven't yet moved to the earning bracket where I can realistically consider skiing in Aspen or golfing in South Carolina, the particulars of which endeavors can be gleaned from the pages of Men's Journal or Esquire. But for decades (Esquire dates to the 1930s, Playboy to 1953), millions of men and boys have sought such counsel on all these matters, filling a dependable nook in the magazine world for those who feel called to learn what to do and how to be. "New Magazine Offers Astute Literary Criticism, Tits," goes the headline in The Onion's This Stupid Century, and, indeed, man-pulps have raked in the bucks by drilling four generations on how to use Hemingway as a retail lifestyle: Be tough. Buy smart. Get laid.
For some reason, these projects flounder on TV. Probably it's sublimation: Guys have watched "guy shows" like The A-Team or Nash Bridges in droves to follow the protagonists' manly clues, but they punch the remote as soon as anything addressing them as guys comes on. So whether it's the embarrassing specter of men admitting confusion in public or just some flaw in the execution, thus far men behaving badly (much less men behaving well) haven't dented prime time. Ur-guy Hugh Hefner failed not once but twice with variety shows a decade apart, both of which staggered through single seasons before being put down. Maybe boys really do want to be heard and not seen.
Still, that legacy doesn't deter newcomers from scaling these peaks. Even with recent years seeing the eclipse of the classic "guy show" in favor of the fussbudget (Seinfeld, Frasier) or the sensitive professional (E.R., Law & Order), two new cable shows have dared to bare their manhood for America. Whoever does read Maxim--and there must be quite a lot of you out there, judging from its leap from import-only status to 600,000-plus American subscribers in little more than a year--can surf the testosterone spray on Comedy Central's The Man Show, which trails in the coveted wake of South Park on Wednesday nights. The slightly older fella who wants some meat can eat all he wants from FX's X Show, airing five nights a week at 10:00 p.m. Neither program having quite licked the guy-show thing, they're alternately juvenile and boring; each boasts the old-school charm and stunted intimacy of a locker-room wedgie.
Both shows invite viewer identification with carefully selected everyguy hosts. Women's shows evoke empathy: Oprah has made millions with girl talk and those soulful eyes. She could be your friend. The men's shows, in contrast, try for chumminess: These guys suggest frat brothers or drinking buddies, slumping next to you on the couch to catch some tube. As such, neither show disenfranchises the nervous viewer with accomplishments or ravishing good looks. Call it revenge of the omega male. These are guys, you can tell, who weren't big men on campus. Their eyes and bodies have known rejection. Even the quasi-famous are sidekicks: The smirky Man Show's Jimmy Kimmel reads questions on Win Ben Stein's Money; his partner Adam Carolla plays second fiddle on MTV's Love Line.
Then there's the Woman Question. On The Man Show they're wholly decorative, "Juggies" pole-dancing or bouncing on trampolines. Whereas The X Show, despite TV screens in the background that feature leotard-clad women doing aerobics and a weekly spokesmodel "competition," dares to invite real women as guests. But on both shows, women aren't just a foreign country or even a dark continent; they're a race apart, aliens whose physiognomy and mental processes are so utterly incomprehensible that you shouldn't bother trying to unravel them--unless, that is, you aim to get some. In which case all is forgiven.
The putatively freewheeling Man Show, "30 minutes of beer-commercial fun," can't or won't luxuriate in manhood as Hef defined it (high style, suavity, continental polish). So instead it wallows, trading in sexual resentment and undirected aggression that smears everyone. Equal parts frat party and Springer, it equips every goateed baseball-capped dude in attendance with a brewski. It's enlivened by stunts like some guy in the audience being offered $100 to eat a stick of butter. (He does so, looking appropriately nauseated, and is rewarded with two beers.)
In other segments, Kimmel mooches food from diners at an amusement park or plies a drunk college kid with deviled eggs. In a creepily pathetic bit, Carolla takes his mom on a date and tries to get to second base. And audience members turn in buds with excessive back hair or ask for dating advice about women they'll never get to go out with. Then we head to commercial breaks serenaded by a tipsy Bill Foster, allegedly the world's fastest beer drinker, banging out toonz on the organ, while the crowd barks and the dancers hit the poles. For cultcha we get "edgy" bits such as Household Hints From Adult Film Stars, with silicone goddess Jenna Jameson in a tight T-shirt, showing you how to make popsicles. When she takes them out of the freezer, oops, she's not wearing a bra! Right on!