Oh you get me ready in your 56 Chevy

Why don’t we go sit down in the shade

Take shelter on my front porch

The dandy lion sun scorching,

Like a glass of cold lemonade

I will do laundry if you pay all the bills

Where is my John Wayne

Where is my prairie son

Where is my happy ending

Where have all the cowboys gone

Paula Cole, Where Have all the Cowboys Gone

Is the millennial male drinking too much soy milk, full of estrogen, because it’s hip, tricked into believing it’s better for the environment, or because some health guru told them to? Does it even matter? I sense Paula Cole’s disappointment in Cowboys after Brokeback Mountain. What became of real men? Did the Y2K bug trick computers to redefine men and the calendar bug only a deception as software transformed the John Waynes and the Marlboro men of the United States into femme metrosexuals?

These boys’ tools mix computerized techno beats. They traded their tool belts and hammers for mixing boards and a few beats of what used to be a good song before they added the dance overtone to it. Now they spike their hair with glue and dance all night hoping their feminine side will get them laid.

I miss the 80′s more than ever. We didn’t just have a strong, manly President, who the halfrican will never compare to, we had bad boys with guitars who weren’t afraid to play them loud and created huge carbon footprints with their wealth. I wish I didn’t watch Metallica’s Some Kind of Monster. Lars Ulrich traded the bad boy life for art auctions–sellout!

Country music still had the outlaws–Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Johnny Cash. They weren’t pretty boys like Kenny Chesney. Men were men. Liberals hadn’t brainwashed them with vanity and outlawed Joe Camel. Men, drenched in sweat, competed among themselves in Michelob commercials. They didn’t get beat by their hot girlfriend jogging at lunch for an ultralight carbohydrate beer. They played to win and they drank real beer.

My friends race bicycles for beers at RAGBRAI (The Registers Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa), sprinting at high speeds to cross each Iowa city limit sign first. We play hard, and we sweat harder. We play to win, and we wear our asphalt burns and our Campagnolo chain ring gouges with pride. Scars real men brag about.

The media ogled over Obama’s pecs, and not a word from Schwarzenegger describing him as a girly man. The governor seeks future power, so I will say it. One too many Starbucks soy lattes and a resume lacking dirty-handed work, Obama is a girly man in more ways than one. Has he ever sweated off the basketball court?

The Obama physique isn’t manly. He’s looks like a pre-puberty boy preparing to sprout his first chest hair. Wanna bet he visits Jean Pierre for wax treatments?

It’s interesting the transition between the sexes in the last 60 years. The mainstream media often defines hip, sexy, and beautiful. Obviously, Obama has that current look. Men have gone from the Marlon Brando–tough, chauvinistic, cool, in charge not whipped, rough and rugged, hanging out with the boys drinking beers at the bowling alley–Stanley Kowalski character in Tennessee William’s A Streetcar Named Desire to Obama’s sagging breasts. Brando was manly. Obama’s far from manly.

All forms of pop culture have seen this Brando to Obama decline in manliness. We have gone from girls screaming for Elvis shaking his pelvis to girls throwing their bras at Lance Bass–the manly to fluff boy transition. At the same time, women have become more manly. They have taken control, often running their homes, because men have become soft. Many of them have picked up the tool belt and learned how to fix things around the house. They go to health clubs, lift weights, sweat, smell, talk like men used to, and search for biceps and abs. It’s no wonder women have become sexually experimental among themselves. They are obvious looking for traits that men chose to leave to get in touch with their feminine sides–pushing the limits of metrosexuality closer to homosexuality. I wonder if Paula Cole gave up hear search for a cowboy, especially after watching Heath Ledger’s back break on some mountain.

Originally Published at Bungalow Bill’s Conservative Wisdom
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