Man Is Weak
“Crude matter,” as Yoda might say.
Man could never inspire a reverse Gold Rush, galvanizing professional athletes and action models and puffy entourages by the busload. All leading and following, money hustling and couch touring, just so they might get a chance to break away from the group and stand in one of his great cathedrals. Man alone can’t promise profound satisfaction. Only fleeting amusement.
Man is cold.
Chilly. “And chilly ain’t never been cool,” as Carlin might say. Man could never be cool enough to keep his distance — yet warm enough to revive a still crippled island economy whistling its summer swan song. Man could support local waitresses and gas station attendants, baristas and bartenders, shop owners and photographers during an eight-hour shift. But he probably wouldn’t bother.
Man is obvious.
“Unoriginal male energy, all cock, no balls,” as Bukowski might say. Man could never be this cunning. Tricking an entire subculture into thinking he’s ugly and boring and obsolete — and then blowing everyone’s mind with roaring, spitting truth. Man isn’t capable of revealing an outer sandbar with South Pacific shape, unearth rolling carpets reminiscent of the Gold Coast or take a Pipeline-like injury toll — all in a single day of surfing. At a beachbreak. On the East Coast.
No, it takes a woman to do that. —Matt Pruett