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.

Sophie gxuas la sunon sur nia boato.

It’s all over except for the muttering

With the long drawn-out race finally over, President Obama and Vice President Rodham have only a few months to get things done before the usual, short political “honeymoon” ends — probably in November, or January at the latest.
I don’t hold with the nattering nabobs who have already declared the Obama administration a failure. That’s just blatantly jumping the gun.
I mean, look at everything they have already accomplished. For example, appointing George W. Bush roving ambassador to Little League Baseball and other powerless allies was a stroke of genius, allowing the former figurehead-in-chief to fade away with dignity, a sort of diplomatic St. Jude spreading the joy of photo ops to lost causes around the world.
On the other hand, the Obamameister’s legislative agenda seems to have stalled, and I gotta ask, what is he waiting for? I hear he hasn’t cleaned out his old Senate office, and Michelle hasn’t even changed the drapes in the East Wing.
If I seem impatient, you have to understand what I’ve been through for seven and a half years. As a person whose relationship with reality is as who should say casual, I have had recourse to coping methods usually reserved for reading comic books.
In literary circles they call it “suspension of disbelief,” and you need it to shut down the law of momentum when Iron Man crashes into the earth at Mach 2, shakes it off and changes into a tux in time to dance with Gwyneth Paltrow. With all of Season 4 of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” on DVD to go through, I don’t appreciate having to expend my usually large reservoir of suspendable disbelief on Karl Rove’s applications of the U.S. Constitution.
Welcome back to the real world, President O.

Copy editor Drew Herman’s vote counts as much as yours.