Prologue Draft of Dudebro! The Life and Death of a Modern Gentleman

Man is tough.

Man can kill. Man can make weapons of stone from soil they harvest, and ore from mountains they climb and claim. At the highest peaks of the Earth they shout, “I AM HERE! HEAR ME ROAR!”, and with flags and rifles they descend from these peaks, devouring everything that lay beneath and leaving only ashes and bone and rubble.

What is this evil?

The nature of Man, the truest itch, is to seek out prey/females/enemies and conquer them. To establish their dominance, draw imaginary squares in the dirt and, with weapon in hand, declare, “THIS IS MINE! ALL WITHIN THIS SQUARE BELONGS TO ME!”

It cannot be understood. It cannot be measured or studied or lectured. If any effort at a definition were truly sought, it would need to start with the amoeba. The single-celled organism that always reaches and sometimes grasps, but when it has a thing, it consumes – physically, mentally, emotionally – all aspects of the being. What is the reason? What is the why? What can the six honest serving-men* tell us about the nature of this act?

It cannot be understood, though, it can be accepted. Accepted as the moon pulls tide and the sun grows grass, as the wind breathes life and the water purifies. It is the action that simply “is”. The first and deepest-written code in all living thing.

The mechanism that unconsciously compels us to survive. As Plato put it – to Be.

How did we get this power?

To exist with such a nature, it is expected that in the process of devouring and conquering and owning, that Man be cruel.

Who made us like this?

Man can rape. Man can pillage, can burn ethereal tributes, can cut off limbs. Man can laugh doing this.

Still, man is generational.

War can make a man ravenous. Combat connects a man to his truest nature, shreds the cords of democracy and mercy, family and friends and barbeques and fireworks. His greatest adversary is fear, and if it cannot be quelled then he cannot survive. A man must pack his bags and place them into boxes in his subconscious and, from there, can focus on the one thing that matter – kill or be killed.

This generation of man, these survivors of foreign conflict, will have families and raise children. Their sacrifices will ensure that their sons will not have to endure such despair, and thus a new generation of man is born. One with a far clearer notion of repose.

Peace can make a man docile. They can follow regulation, obey law, work and sweat and ache to build up economies and empires. They can read and learn and build – establishments for dining and eating cheeseburgers and fries and bacon, houses for sitting and eating nachos and watching the game, factories for manufacturing and for shipping goods. It’s true - they can be chill sometimes. They can build technologies that connect us all and teach us about others around the world in attempt to heal and understand. Wiki sites, social media, podcasts, television – all in an attempt to connect with others.

Where did it start?

That is the rhetoric. That is the history. But, is it so? Still?

Man is tender.

Holding a newborn child, their little fingers wrapped around your one. The tears that fall, the warmth that grows from the heart and spreads to all limbs, blurring the mind and halting the truest nature. The first smile, the first laugh, the first words. The first time being a father.

He held her hand in his and danced, twirled in a sea of dandelions until dizzy without a clue as to what he was doing. He felt her laughter on his cheek, smelled her hair so deep it seeped into his marrow, and for those moments he was truly free.

She whispered in his ear and kissed him. Just a peck and she was gone. Danced and twirled away, into the past so far now out of grasp it hurts to even laugh.

His buddy put his hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. It meant something to him, him being there and all. He couldn’t help crying – a parent dying is serious. A signal to the end of an era, a new beginning to stand tall and face the odds of society, that hurricane of bills and debt and prison and drugs and alcohol and marriage and children and the only weapon he has is his integrity.

His own hands. And a buddy there to carry him when his legs go limp.

When does it end?

Man is tough. Man is tender.

There once was a man named Icarus. He dreamed of escaping Crete, so his father built makeshift wings out of feathers and wax. His father told him how to win, how to succeed, how to beat the game. Don’t fly too high, don’t fly too low. Fly straight as an arrow. Off you go.

Icarus began his flight with his father’s words in mind; but the temptations below were too enticing. He danced with the girl and she danced with his best friend. He boozed and binged and slept on the floor, with pizza and chicken wings and beer as new décor. He shot up dope and floated off…came back. He smoked this sticky green bud that make him feel weird. He was beside himself. Then outside himself. Then the universe chewed him up, spit him back out.

He spent a lot of time on park benches after that, watching the baby waves of the river rise and fold.

Icarus resumed his flight and found his path, but the temptations above were too deceiving. He spent almost $100k at an institution to obtain a $30 8x10 with his name on it (frame not included). Then, he got a big boy job, made big boy moves. He got a girlfriend, turned her into a wife, then turned her into a mom. He drank the drink and became a tool (essentially), but he was making a ton of money and he was doing the right thing. He worked and went to school plays and bought anniversary presents and Christmas gifts and went to the mall and walked around “just looking” at stuff.

And then, it just happened. One day, Icarus awoke and he didn’t know who he was. The boy he knew, the one who liked basketball and card games and doing sick tricks on his bike and chasing after girls and drinking beer at bonfires, had disappeared.

He was domesticated.

Where did it go? That inner urge to push the envelope, break down boundaries, conquer and create and design and develop. The delusion of grandeur to be praised and be worshipped, to rise and to fall (only to rise again of course) and become the best. The toughest! The strongest! The greatest!

Why is this happening?

And so, Icarus lost his cool and flew too high. He flew for adventure, for excitement, for the unknown! He flew higher and higher and grew older and wiser. He flew so high he touched the sky – and then the sun burned his feathery, waxy wings off and he fell to his death.

Only, he didn’t really die.

Icarus fell into the ocean and he let the tides carry him. Up and down they moved him, against his will and watching his every move.

The tide would rise, and he’d start to drown.

He could see the beach.

He’d swim to it.

There on the sandy beach he could see it all. Wife and children, work and bed, cheeseburgers and fries. He’d get so close, and the tide would wash him away.

Always reaching, never grasping.

Forever chasing yesterday.

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I truly believe that if we as human beings, adults with ideas developed by contending cultures and belief systems, cannot open our minds and hearts to subjective fiction and art, we are destined to fade away. I’d say that subjective works are the main factor separating us from the animals, but animals are pure poetry in motion and I’d never place humans on their pedestal.

Dudebro! The Life and Death of a Modern Gentleman is a book of 165 poems following the birth, life, and death of an American man in today’s society. I am not the man in the poems. This man is not a real person. This man is a fictional character constructed by me whose purpose is to embody the happiness, the struggles, and the anguishes of typical middle-class males. This man’s race can be identified as Caucasian, but that doesn’t mean these poems are representative only of Caucasian men. This man doesn’t have a name. This man is meant to reveal to the reader the mental and emotional processes of a masculine person in the modern era. That is the job of a writer. To write, in words, a fictional narrative in a calculated and controlled realm that is based on and representative of the world around them.

This book is a celebration of masculinity. Today, there are many individuals and groups fueled with blatant rage that feel compelled to attack masculinity. There are plenty of cases to support their anger; however, it is important to note that term “masculinity” in and of itself should not have negative connotations attached to it.

As a society, we love masculine figures. We welcome characters from epic fantasies and superhero movies into our home as role models for our children. We pray for and praise soldiers, the men and women coming home from war as heroes willing to give the ultimate sacrifice on our behalf. We buy beer and cocktail shrimp and those little pocket pizzas you put in the oven and cheer for our favorite NFL and NBA teams. We fear and respect our grandfathers and fathers as leaders of the household. We honor their commitment to protecting us, feeding us, and teaching us.

That is Dudebro! It is a book that allows the reader to walk in the shoes of our sons, brothers, and fathers – to see what they see and feel what they feel. To be masculine does not mean to be cruel. It does not mean big muscles and shot-gunning beer and objectifying women. To be masculine means to embody the core values and strengths of a man, including but not limited to honor, integrity, compassion, and empathy.

Now, a little background on the title.

I grew up in a lower middle-class, primarily Caucasian neighborhood. I won’t go into details, but due to various reasons I was not popular, in high school I had little to no friends, and I was constantly bullied with name-calling from jock-types. I drank a lot of booze and I skipped school to avoid these kinds of people.

What the world needs to understand is that those people, those white-privileged, rich, upper-middle class athletes and untouchables, are not dudebros.

There is no real definition for dudebro (probably because it’s not a real word). As a combination of two words, it is commonly written as "dude-bro". That is why I've made my own "dudebro" term, because what I'm writing about is different. What I see on the internet is incorrect. The descriptions identify an individual who is cruel and privileged, mean-spirited and overly ignorant.

I’ll write it again. That is not what a dudebro is.

When I was a junior in high school, my father worked construction on the Island (as we called it). The shore houses are worth millions, and the people who own them liked my dad because he never cheated them and always gave them his best offer. Well, sometimes the old man would bite off more than he could chew, and in the summer, I’d have to go with him on weekends and help him with side projects.

One Sunday morning, we were up on the fourth floor of this mansion putting up cabinets, and I went outside to the deck to see the ocean. The sun was rising, and everything was orange. I put up my hand and shaded my eyes and I saw two surfers in the wake, scrambling to get out there. They paddled out and my dad and I watched them for a bit. They killed it out there.

A few hours later we were in the front of the house packing up. I was carrying a drill to the back of my dad’s truck when I heard someone call my name.

“Yo, dude!”

As the two dudes got closer, I realized they were guys I knew from school. Let’s call them, I don’t know, Sal and Alan.

Here’s a quickie of how we communicated:

Me: “Yo, what’s up guys? We saw you out there, you were killing it!”

Alan: “Dude, the waves were epic, bro! I kept wipin’ it dude, but Sal was shreddin’ the barrels hard!”

Sal: “Bro, once I paddled out passed the bar the waves were mackin’, dude!”

I’ll spare you the rest.

This is my definition of dudebro:

: a combination of dude and bro; a surfer or a skater

: a term used to typify a middle-class male, usually someone in their twenties

That’s it.

You will find that this book chronicles the life and death of a man, and is divided into six chapters: infancy, boyhood, pre-teen, teen, young adult, fatherhood, and the elderly years. Preceding each chapter will be some flash fiction to help transition each chapter and provide details of my inspiration. The six flash fiction pieces will be written in their own individual styles, each based on the renowned techniques of six of the Great American Writers: Eliot, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Twain, Hemingway, and Steinbeck.

Many of the male Great American Writers’ works have been included in this new category of “dudebro literature”, or “dudebro lit” for short. These works often have a strong male protagonist who embodies particular masculine traits that a small handful of modern American critics find to be “toxic” or “harmful”.

This book, and all my writing, is deeply inspired by the six American authors above.

There is no such thing as bad art.

Only bad interpretation.