The Non-Expert
Tightie Whities
Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. This week ROSECRANS BALDWIN helps a college student celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by embracing less-clichèd stereotypes of white guys.
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Question: My dorm is having a St. Patrick’s Day party on Saturday. What is required to be an Irish for a day.—Dominic Kloch
Answer: Wear a beer? How the hell should I know? Irish are cliché; an Irish is like 16 Ambien on my toothbrush. People are so uninspired this time of year, maybe it’s winter, maybe it’s that even in New York City, everyone here is a bleating glazed imposter of something formerly humane.
Dominic, wherever you are—I imagine you standing in 60 square feet of your own refuse, analyzing Blake—I’m guessing you’re white, and you’re not intelligent. When your diminutive brain thinks about stereotypes of white guys, it’s limited to the geek, the jock, the prep, the gay, and the hick, never mind the Irish (who are somehow all at once). But there are a number of other wonderful white men in this country you’re ignoring, and who might be fun to impersonate tomorrow.
Effeminate Georgian Lawyer
Married, two children. Considers BMWs gauche. Absolutely not going to start seeing a couples therapist. Thinning hair that’s tamped down by the same pomade his father used. Carefully chose the font for the numbers on the front of his house. President of the local Sewanee alumni chapter. Plays golf but doesn’t mean it. Slight paunch he moans about, and his highlights are never the way he wants. Fantasizes about “Army of One” recruitment pamphlets. Turns pink and his eyes go squishy when he’s drunk. Cheats at squash. Racist in groups to engender his father’s absent love.
Urban Advertising Bull
Magazine sales executive who nails this intern, that intern—shit he’ll nail your intern if you let her near him, direct quote. Extremely fashionable, but loathe to talk about it; if forced, he’ll proceed proudly, loudly, and with curse words. Gym rat, but always unclean. Tans for a hobby. Doesn’t read, but knows every Gore Vidal book, especially the dildo scene from Myra Breckenridge. Looks you in the eyes, then the shoes. Knows he’s not funny, but still tries. Bad, seasonable haircuts charged to his expense account. Receives boxing equipment catalogs at work. Previously Buddhist, currently into Asian horror movies. Divorced from an early marriage. Hates his parents. Owns but rarely wears a pair of white Dolce & Gabbana jeans with dragons on the butt cheeks.
Organic Southwestern Contractor
In college, peeled the TO and TA off the back of his truck so it read “YO” instead of “TOYOTA.” Married, with five dogs. Would rather brew his own beer (he does) than drink “American pisswater.” Subscribes to Esquire, Cook’s Illustrated, National Geographic. Changes his own oil, but dreams of subways. Has enough business to refuse clients who won’t go green. Eschews modern fabrics. Anti-Semitic, though he doesn’t know why. Manages the local co-op. Swinger. Formerly dreaded, he now wears a crewcut, plus a pair of Prada sunglasses he bought because no one would expect him to. Owns a blue blazer to wear to funerals. Owns more carabineers than books. Hates rice but feels guilty about not cleaning his plate.
Oregonian Once-Extreme Athlete
Aging mountain biker with shopping fetish seeks same, but never finds him. Out and proud for long enough to be over it; don’t get him started on his niece using Will and Grace as an in-road to asking about gay sex. Moderately Protestant, deep in debt, considers himself “too generous” with his friends though his friends disagree. Refuses to wear his “tech gear” out to the bar after a weekly climbing session. Regrets buying two months’ worth of classes on how to roast coffee. Somehow ended up working in human resources. Constantly contemplating graduate school. Will turn 40 next month. Knows more straights than gays in the real world, though the reverse in Second Life. Snickers junkie. Goes solo on service vacations. Dying to be a pampered housewife. Tells jokes about Canadians on dates.
Earned-It New York Old Boy
Born poor in Miami, now lives rich in Scarsdale. Pays a driver to ferry him to Old Greenwich for work, down to TriBeCa for dinner and a Korean handjob, then back home to tuck in the kids. Stays awake wondering how to join the Knickerbocker Club. Once traveled to London to buy shoes. First parent he knows of to have bought his children Blackberries. Diet Coke addict after learning Bill Clinton is one. Tears up watching nature shows. Works out in the basement at four in the morning. Training to become a Wagner fan. Feels progressive for allowing his wife to have sex once a year with her high-school boyfriend in exchange for the Korean handjobs. Same guy who tells him what contemporary art to buy also turned him on to Young Jeezy. “Networks like a mo-fo.” Anticipating a mid-life crisis, he withdraws a thousand dollars in cash every month and hides it in the secret comparment he paid to have installed in his M3.
Question: My dorm is having a St. Patrick’s Day party on Saturday. What is required to be an Irish for a day.—Dominic Kloch
Answer: Wear a beer? How the hell should I know? Irish are cliché; an Irish is like 16 Ambien on my toothbrush. People are so uninspired this time of year, maybe it’s winter, maybe it’s that even in New York City, everyone here is a bleating glazed imposter of something formerly humane.
Dominic, wherever you are—I imagine you standing in 60 square feet of your own refuse, analyzing Blake—I’m guessing you’re white, and you’re not intelligent. When your diminutive brain thinks about stereotypes of white guys, it’s limited to the geek, the jock, the prep, the gay, and the hick, never mind the Irish (who are somehow all at once). But there are a number of other wonderful white men in this country you’re ignoring, and who might be fun to impersonate tomorrow.
How to Be an _____________ for a Day
Effeminate Georgian Lawyer
Married, two children. Considers BMWs gauche. Absolutely not going to start seeing a couples therapist. Thinning hair that’s tamped down by the same pomade his father used. Carefully chose the font for the numbers on the front of his house. President of the local Sewanee alumni chapter. Plays golf but doesn’t mean it. Slight paunch he moans about, and his highlights are never the way he wants. Fantasizes about “Army of One” recruitment pamphlets. Turns pink and his eyes go squishy when he’s drunk. Cheats at squash. Racist in groups to engender his father’s absent love.
Urban Advertising Bull
Magazine sales executive who nails this intern, that intern—shit he’ll nail your intern if you let her near him, direct quote. Extremely fashionable, but loathe to talk about it; if forced, he’ll proceed proudly, loudly, and with curse words. Gym rat, but always unclean. Tans for a hobby. Doesn’t read, but knows every Gore Vidal book, especially the dildo scene from Myra Breckenridge. Looks you in the eyes, then the shoes. Knows he’s not funny, but still tries. Bad, seasonable haircuts charged to his expense account. Receives boxing equipment catalogs at work. Previously Buddhist, currently into Asian horror movies. Divorced from an early marriage. Hates his parents. Owns but rarely wears a pair of white Dolce & Gabbana jeans with dragons on the butt cheeks.
Organic Southwestern Contractor
In college, peeled the TO and TA off the back of his truck so it read “YO” instead of “TOYOTA.” Married, with five dogs. Would rather brew his own beer (he does) than drink “American pisswater.” Subscribes to Esquire, Cook’s Illustrated, National Geographic. Changes his own oil, but dreams of subways. Has enough business to refuse clients who won’t go green. Eschews modern fabrics. Anti-Semitic, though he doesn’t know why. Manages the local co-op. Swinger. Formerly dreaded, he now wears a crewcut, plus a pair of Prada sunglasses he bought because no one would expect him to. Owns a blue blazer to wear to funerals. Owns more carabineers than books. Hates rice but feels guilty about not cleaning his plate.
Oregonian Once-Extreme Athlete
Aging mountain biker with shopping fetish seeks same, but never finds him. Out and proud for long enough to be over it; don’t get him started on his niece using Will and Grace as an in-road to asking about gay sex. Moderately Protestant, deep in debt, considers himself “too generous” with his friends though his friends disagree. Refuses to wear his “tech gear” out to the bar after a weekly climbing session. Regrets buying two months’ worth of classes on how to roast coffee. Somehow ended up working in human resources. Constantly contemplating graduate school. Will turn 40 next month. Knows more straights than gays in the real world, though the reverse in Second Life. Snickers junkie. Goes solo on service vacations. Dying to be a pampered housewife. Tells jokes about Canadians on dates.
Earned-It New York Old Boy
Born poor in Miami, now lives rich in Scarsdale. Pays a driver to ferry him to Old Greenwich for work, down to TriBeCa for dinner and a Korean handjob, then back home to tuck in the kids. Stays awake wondering how to join the Knickerbocker Club. Once traveled to London to buy shoes. First parent he knows of to have bought his children Blackberries. Diet Coke addict after learning Bill Clinton is one. Tears up watching nature shows. Works out in the basement at four in the morning. Training to become a Wagner fan. Feels progressive for allowing his wife to have sex once a year with her high-school boyfriend in exchange for the Korean handjobs. Same guy who tells him what contemporary art to buy also turned him on to Young Jeezy. “Networks like a mo-fo.” Anticipating a mid-life crisis, he withdraws a thousand dollars in cash every month and hides it in the secret comparment he paid to have installed in his M3.
—Published March 16, 2007
