Manifest. Man I fest. Man fest. Man festival.
The spawning of an idea?
There are Italian festivals, film festivals, music festivals, even garlic festivals.
Why not a “Man Festival“?
I’d like to go to a “man festival”, at least so long as it issn’t populated by manly macho a-holes. Not that I have anything against many machoness. It’s just when you add a-holeness . . .
Man festival? Yeah, like man stuff, man fun and man education.
Man education? Sure, like a more “by design” version of the stuff we men “learn” in ad hoc fashion, the man-stuff we “learned” by observing our fathers or uncles. The stuff we’re supposed to know by osmosis or by listening to man-talk. All the stuff we think we figured out by being spectators and role playing and . . . doing a lot of “fake it, until you make it” behavior. The messy disorganized learning of socialization.
So our Man Festival could have an educational component AND a good bit of humor attached to it, as in “Anyone ever hear of Defending the Caveman“?
Yeah, but “Man Festival???”, you say.
Sure, why not? I’m not talking pure unadulterated testosterone, us-versus-”them” crap. I’m talking maneducation with a bit of manfun.
For example, I’d like to learn how to ride a hog, as in ride a Harley or a big bike. At least some basics. That’s manly and most bikers I know aren’t a-holes. It’s a fantady that I have, having ridden a few smaller bikes, about maybe doing a long-haul bike trip with my brother or maybe a friend or two. So, maybe the Man Festival has a corner where you can get an into to ATV riding or big bike riding or biker education.
I might like to learn how to help someone get out of a tough spot . . without getting . . . Well, I’d just like to know better how to help someone in trouble, because – as men – aren’t we supposed to come to the aid of those in trouble . . I guess, if they didn’t really bring it on themselves.
I wouldn’t mind learning a bit more about how to grill and barbeque, because there’s something about me that is drawn to fire and beast pieces and putting food on the plate every now and then. Man-beast stuff. Caveman maybe.
Maybe I could have been a better father if . . . but, you know, you always know you didn’t do everything right. And, no, I’m not going to do it all over again thank-you very much.
I’d like to learn how to a whole bunch of manly things . . . better, some even a woman might be able to teach.
So, not be be politically incorrect, but where’s the Man Festival?
I know I can pick up this stuff here and there, but really, would it be possible to have a “man festival” without inevitably bringing out or attracting to the show the inner a-hole of mankind?
Man Festival! Everybody . . . I wanna hear you grunt!
And, no, grunting is not an expression of man’s inner a-hole.
It’s an expression of our lingering inner caveman. An admission that we’re not yet that evolved that we don’t feel a certain fondness for or kinship with the caveman. A feeling imbued with a slight longing from simpler days, when work consisted of defending the family against attacks by real beasts versus attacks by investment bankers on our savings . . and most days were spent wandering about the woods . . with spears . . 