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Guest
Guest
Jon Carroll - December 2, 2003 - ©2003 San Francisco Chronicle
It would appear that we are going through a virility crisis, or at least our nation's advertising agencies believe that we are. American men, it would seem, need a lot of extra help in feeling manly and useful and connected.
I could dodder on for a thousand words constructing a theory about why this should be true -- soulless clerical work, declining birth rates, unattainable role models -- but actually I have no clue. I will assume that the advertisers have done the research, and we see the results on our TV screens.
Why, yes, I have been watching a lot of football. I need my hit of virility just like the next stoop-shouldered keyboard worker.
I will skip over the ads for Viagra-like drugs -- look, now he can throw the football through the center of the tire swing; his, how shall we say,
spiral has gotten tighter -- but I don't mind those so much. At least they're connected with a real problem that might affect a guy's self-image.
What really concerns me is the fetishization of trucks. It has been weird for a few years now, but it's getting way out of control. Rugged guy, work boots and plaid shirt, sweat beading his brow, pulls a snowplow up a mountain behind his truck. The truck is photographed from below, making it look huge and scary. There's always a close-up of the tires going over rough terrain.
And the music. "Oh, one guy stands between humanity and the end of the world, one guy. And he's got a truck that will save the women, that guy. And they'll want to kiss his body when he finishes saving the world, that guy. But he doesn't care because he's got his truck, that guy." OK, I made that up, but I am not exaggerating.
Meantime, an announcer with a voice deeper than the Mariana Trench says, "King cab, 560 turbo-diesel engine, erect steel bed construction, snow-proof engine mount. Does your truck have that kind of power?"
I'll admit it -- my truck does not have that kind of power. Sometimes my truck just wants to read a Michael Crichton novel and take a nap. But if I changed trucks, I would be summiting every peak in the Rockies, every day. And when I conquered those mountains, they'd want to be conquered again. That's worth $42,000 I don't actually have, because my credit is good. It's a small price to pay for eternal truck power.
Sure, this kind of dopey symbolism is all over the place -- the other day I saw an ad for a razor "that really knows about women." And my toothbrush really knows about men, and I have a hammer that really knows about kangaroos.
But trucks are not just symbols; they're vehicles. They get crappy gas mileage, they block parking spaces and highway sightlines, they damage roadways. Now, OK, if someone actually makes a living, say, hauling horse trailers, or driving to remote forest fires, or pulling boulders out of muddy streams, fine. Man, the tool-driving animal.
But most truck owners do not have jobs like that. They do not even take vacations that involve wilderness interactions. Everything they do they could do in a Honda Civic. They know that. So why are they willing to pay four times as much for gas in a vehicle that won't hold more than three people?
Because they have a movie going in their heads. They are the heroes, and these are their vehicles. Sure, they look like accountants, but they're really roustabouts, roustabouts who fight fires, roustabouts who fight fires set in backcountry ski areas, roustabouts who fight fires set in backcountry ski areas in trucks that have tape decks constantly playing the "Carmina Burana."
Coming soon: testosterone IV drips, free in every vehicle. Stay strong, bro. Peace out.
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Tough tough tough tough, tough tough tough tough, the wheels are tough, the seats are tough, the valves are tough, and you're one tough guy driving this tough truck.
Virility Crisis
It would appear that we are going through a virility crisis, or at least our nation's advertising agencies believe that we are. American men, it would seem, need a lot of extra help in feeling manly and useful and connected.
I could dodder on for a thousand words constructing a theory about why this should be true -- soulless clerical work, declining birth rates, unattainable role models -- but actually I have no clue. I will assume that the advertisers have done the research, and we see the results on our TV screens.
Why, yes, I have been watching a lot of football. I need my hit of virility just like the next stoop-shouldered keyboard worker.
I will skip over the ads for Viagra-like drugs -- look, now he can throw the football through the center of the tire swing; his, how shall we say,
spiral has gotten tighter -- but I don't mind those so much. At least they're connected with a real problem that might affect a guy's self-image.
What really concerns me is the fetishization of trucks. It has been weird for a few years now, but it's getting way out of control. Rugged guy, work boots and plaid shirt, sweat beading his brow, pulls a snowplow up a mountain behind his truck. The truck is photographed from below, making it look huge and scary. There's always a close-up of the tires going over rough terrain.
And the music. "Oh, one guy stands between humanity and the end of the world, one guy. And he's got a truck that will save the women, that guy. And they'll want to kiss his body when he finishes saving the world, that guy. But he doesn't care because he's got his truck, that guy." OK, I made that up, but I am not exaggerating.
Meantime, an announcer with a voice deeper than the Mariana Trench says, "King cab, 560 turbo-diesel engine, erect steel bed construction, snow-proof engine mount. Does your truck have that kind of power?"
I'll admit it -- my truck does not have that kind of power. Sometimes my truck just wants to read a Michael Crichton novel and take a nap. But if I changed trucks, I would be summiting every peak in the Rockies, every day. And when I conquered those mountains, they'd want to be conquered again. That's worth $42,000 I don't actually have, because my credit is good. It's a small price to pay for eternal truck power.
Sure, this kind of dopey symbolism is all over the place -- the other day I saw an ad for a razor "that really knows about women." And my toothbrush really knows about men, and I have a hammer that really knows about kangaroos.
But trucks are not just symbols; they're vehicles. They get crappy gas mileage, they block parking spaces and highway sightlines, they damage roadways. Now, OK, if someone actually makes a living, say, hauling horse trailers, or driving to remote forest fires, or pulling boulders out of muddy streams, fine. Man, the tool-driving animal.
But most truck owners do not have jobs like that. They do not even take vacations that involve wilderness interactions. Everything they do they could do in a Honda Civic. They know that. So why are they willing to pay four times as much for gas in a vehicle that won't hold more than three people?
Because they have a movie going in their heads. They are the heroes, and these are their vehicles. Sure, they look like accountants, but they're really roustabouts, roustabouts who fight fires, roustabouts who fight fires set in backcountry ski areas, roustabouts who fight fires set in backcountry ski areas in trucks that have tape decks constantly playing the "Carmina Burana."
Coming soon: testosterone IV drips, free in every vehicle. Stay strong, bro. Peace out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tough tough tough tough, tough tough tough tough, the wheels are tough, the seats are tough, the valves are tough, and you're one tough guy driving this tough truck.
Virility Crisis