by Chris Haire
I may be a beer-swilling, slobby, slobbering, hairy-ass brute, but I wouldn't call myself a manly man — at least by Charleston's dandified standards.
For one, I don't wear pastel polo shirts.
Two, I would never ever wear a bow tie.
Three, I don't listen to frikkin' Hootie and the Blowfish, Cravin' Melon, Edwin McCain, or any number of Southern soft-rock acts who built there careers slapping the backsides of freshmen 15 sorority sisters.
Four, I don't need to tie a shoestring to my sunglasses to keep them on my face.
And I will never ever go to a Tupperware party, not even if they're serving brats and beer.
I hate to say it, but I am not a real man, not here in the Holy City.
Unlike the fellas profiled in a Post and Courier article last week:
A half-dozen men with ball caps and beer cans hovered around Kemper Dickinson as he unloaded a steaming mass of brats onto a kitchen table already brimming with pig and cow products.
The grill outside Dickinson's West Ashley home sizzled and popped with still more sausages, their casings sweating under the heat of the fiery coals. The closest thing on hand to a vegetable was a tray of jalapeno peppers swaddled in bacon.
Welcome to a Man Cave gathering.
These testosterone-laden get-togethers, dubbed "MEATings," are popping up around the country thanks to Man Cave Worldwide, an organization dedicated to letting men be men. Well, that and selling meat, barbecue tools, beer mugs, camouflage duct tape and a host of other products for the ultra-casual male. It's like a Super Bowl party with gear. Think Mary Kay with marinades or Tupperware pitching poker chips and mini-keg dispensers.
Only further adding to my shame is Mark Sanford, who asked his wife Jenny, for permission to go see his mistress.
If this is what it means to have balls, then please by God, I don't want them.