Leather guy, indian chief, construction dude, cop …

When that Carhartt and Xtratuf-clad icon of machismo, the Alaska fisherman, walks into a cafe and orders a skinny decaf strawberry latte, I feel like I have to hawk and spit, scratch something indiscreet, or maybe objectify the next woman I see, just to even up the karmic score.
The example above happened to occur this week, but don’t make the mistake of dismissing this as an “isolated incident.” Not three minutes after I witnessed that order, I hit the boat docks to watch crews stocking up. As one guy set off for supplies, his buddy yelled, “Don’t forget we’re out of tarragon.”
Tarragon? On the tough streets I lie about coming from, men don’t know what tarragon is, any more than they can identify mauve or chartreuse.
I hope they at least put it in a container labelled “rust flakes” before sprinkling it in their Alfredo sauce. Even writing about that incident makes me want to take apart a transmission or throw a handful of Doritos at the Mariners.
It’s just that a lot of us feel a little adrift these days, since the whole sensitive guy thing proved unsustainable after we sat through all those “Sex and the City” episodes. We really had no choice but to end the charade when it came out on DVD.
Let's face it — the macho movie icons have let us down lately. Where is today’s Duke or Bogey? Even the Fonz has more street cred than Brad Pitt. Maybe Clooney has some suave, but the wardrobe for suave costs too much, and Armani is a non-starter in Kodiak.
Not that I would recognize anything Armani, of course. I’m a little embarrased to even know the name. I assume they sell mauve shirts.
So fishermen, the next time you go to a cafe, remember that impressionable wannabes may be listening. For heaven’s sake, at least order a double shot with that creme de menthe.
Mirror writer Drew Herman is too cool to worry about his image.