Q: Why can’t men just share their feelings?
A: Do we look like women to you? Why is it so hard to understand we’re different? How are we supposed to share what we feel when we have no idea how we feel? Drop a brick on my foot. I’m mad. The Bears covered the spread? I’m happy. My dog died. I’m sad. Doesn’t that about cover it?
My girlfriend Kelly wants us to spend more time together. Lately, I have been playing a lot of golf — not an activity conducive to relationship-building. I did spend most of the spring, playoff-bound, in front of the TV. She wants to rent a movie. Of course, there’s ESPN’s Friday Night Baseball and NBC’s Wimbledon wrap-up at 11, but what the hell, it’s Friday night, I’ll score some points and watch the movie.
She picks One Fine Day, starring George Clooney and Michelle Pfeiffer. I was sure this was going to be a girl movie. A girl movie contains lots of talking, no stabbings, blown-up buildings, or car crashes, and a happily-ever-after finale. Kleenex nearby is required. Still, I was hopeful Michelle might take a shower or something. My teenage daughter and Kelly — never allied on any subject — both loved One Fine Day. This would definitely be a girl movie.
The Chronicle gave it three stars. “Pfeiffer demonstrates she can do comedy without compromising her sexy allure.” Hmmm, a shower scene seems possible…. Doesn’t sound too bad. I noted, however, the reviewer was female.
The plot had these two fantastically-attractive-yet-still-everyday people, meeting and falling in love, as near as I could tell, because they were both late (dad’s fault, of course) bringing their kids to daycare. The precocious little kids, along with befuddled parents, whiz from one exotic New York location to another, doing cute kid things like screwing up an important business deal for mom, wrecking the career of the dad, spilling ice cream, and whining for an entire day. The classic way to fall in love… and they did it without beer or drugs!
The reviewer, the girlfriend, and the daughter loved these little touches. It seemed sorta stupid to me, but hey, I’m a guy, so what do I know? The movie was okay, I guess, about on par with arena-league football. But, this wasn’t enough for Kelly. She became increasingly exasperated when, not only did I not get the little on-screen jokes, but much worse, I didn’t even understand they were jokes. After the fourth or fifth under-appreciated bon mot between the now-deeply-in-love couple, she threw the remote control and told me to, “leave the damn room.”
I knew I’d fucked up. I didn’t know how or why, but as I tell my kids, who says life is fair? I was allowed to watch the rest of the movie but the room became real quiet, except for sniffling, and a few withering glares.
The next night, we joined some friends to watch the Tyson/Holyfield fight. In direct contrast to the One Fine Day night, I was now in my neighborhood. A blood sport, two big guys kicking the shit out of each other, the host was grilling up kilos of red meat. For refreshment, cold beer and hard liquor — no wine in sight. As the fight approached, the men gathered together, discussing upper-cuts, reach advantage, past fights, and — to demonstrate we weren’t complete morons — the philosophical shadings of Evander Holyfield’s fervent, very personal relationship with God.
I thought, when the fighting began, the women would yip and yap about why do people want to hurt each other and other Clarksville political posturing. To be totally honest, if these females didn’t live in Austin, if I wasn’t completely drop-dead-certain at least two, if not all four, of these woman would immediately pen-off vengeful letters-to-the-editor, calling me a filthy liar, demanding my piggish head in the form of a new sports editor with some modicum of integrity, if I was not certain all this would come to pass within a week, I’d make up a wonderful, humorous little tale, like I usually do, making the women look as silly as I felt not understanding the stupid movie.
In fact, with the sole exception of not grasping the purpose of the round-card-carrying-babe, in the six-inch stiletto heels, they didn’t behave any differently than the rib-swilling men. No complaints about brutality. They had favorites: some for Tyson, some for Holyfield. As fight time approached, they, in anticipation, inched up further in their seats. They vigorously cheered vicious body shots, and screamed at the indifferent television set when things weren’t going their way. It was Kelly who immediately noticed, before anyone, what happened in the ill-fated 3rd round. “He bit him! I swear to God, the fucker bit him!” she squealed in astonishment, as the rest of us were trying to figure out why Holyfield was hopping about the ring like a deranged kangaroo.
Perhaps I need to come to grips with what women have been telling me all my life. They are smarter than us. Then, I ponder One Fine Day, and I think, maybe not.
This article appears in July 18 • 1997 and July 18 • 1997 (Cover).