Boy, it’s a good thing the world has Justin Abarca to tell us all about 40 things every self-respecting man over 30 should own!
Great frelling gads is this list stupid. A small number of practical items is sprinkled amongst a sea of metrosexual pap and advice that’s even outright wrong. A tailored black suit is supposed to be the mark of a real man? Black is for funerals; navy or charcoal is the way to go, or at least so say others with more knowledge about this than myself (and by extension, Justin). And not everyone can afford tailoring. The cut in that photo, by the way? Not manly.
I’m not a man if I can’t afford to buy stocks? Dude, get your head out of your butt. That’s like 98% of America. I’d follow that last sentence up with my favorite eight-letter pejorative in the “-head” family, but sadly I don’t think it applies.
I must own nice cologne, even though wearing it would kill my wife? I need a French press, when I don’t drink coffee?
And let me get this straight: I’m not a man if I don’t have a flask, a full glassware set, a double-hinged wine key, a bar set, or a few high-quality bottles of booze? Seriously, Justin, get help. As a teetotaler myself, I have no reason to own any of these things. They’d be useful to a connoisseur, certainly, but not to any average Joe.
A record player? Really? Leaving aside that my musical tastes intersect pretty much not at all with vinyl (childhood Christmas albums excluded), I’ve always been too much of a perfectionist to give a pass to a technology with so many hisses and pops. I really have nothing against vinylphiles at all, but that’s strictly a matter of taste. They are no more the masters of good taste than myself, neoclassical fetishists, or people who intentionally buy the music of Nicki Minaj. Also, where would I put the thing, and how would I keep cat hair off it?
Probably the most obnoxious thing on the list, though, is that owning a set of books strictly for pretense is somehow the high water mark of personal maturity. Ha! A man should own the “classics”, per some nationwide liberal arts popularity contest, even if he doesn’t intend to ever read them? I have better things to do than populate my shelves with books whose only function is to look pretty. Anyone who’s going to be seriously impressed by that, or seriously bothered if I fail to display the appropriate pseudointellectual plumage, is not going to be my friend.
If Justin had ever run his list by a real man, he’d have run away with his monogrammed handkerchief (which surely would have made the list if the wine key hadn’t just edged it out) catching the blood from his nose—not because he got punched, but because his entire physiology would break down in a man’s presence. I’ve seen Hello Kitty notebooks scribbled with loopy handwriting and I’s dotted with hearts that were less girly than this list. I’ve seen conspiracy theories told by smirking Greeks with bride-of-Einstein hair that were more grounded in reality. Justin seems to think the ultimate self-respecting man is a hybrid of Don Draper, a catalog model, that guy in the Viagra commercial whose car breaks down in the desert, and Martha Stewart.
The really dumb thing is, not only is his list depressingly urban and obviously the product of a cloistered life, but it’s not even appropriate for its own environment. How many faux-bro water cooler socialites can really claim they own a full bar set and a record player? It’s so exaggeratedly off-base that I literally can’t imagine how someone else—anyone—could look at the whole thing and say “Yep, Justin, you nailed it right on the head.”
Justin, your man card has been declined.