Resigned White Male Must Wait Till Next Election Cycle

Jerry was having a bad day. On the way to his penile enlargement consultation, he remembered he was out of Rogaine. Plus, he noticed he was wearing one brown sock and one black one. This on the same morning he had to let his belt out another notch.

“One thing after another,” he muttered, just as a woman in an all-terrain vehicle cut him off in traffic. He hit the brakes, and his coffee splashed on his tan pants. “Men are taking it in the shorts, and we don’t like it,” the male caller on talk radio said.

He felt his blood pressure rising, and he remembered he needed to see his doctor in a week or so. He might as well get his cholesterol and prostate tests the same day. He made a note to ask the doctor if the cholesterol medicine could be making him puffy.

The woman in the ATV stuck her head out the window, waved and cheerily yelled, “Sorry!” but Jerry wasn’t in a forgiving mood. “Learn to drive!” he shouted, honking his horn for good measure.

The woman’s three blond-haired children, all of whom appeared to be 5, mugged at Jerry through the back window of the ATV. That’s when he noticed the bumper sticker: “Soccer Mom for Clinton.”

Grrr, Jerry thought.

All of a sudden, he was overcome with how much he hated being 50.

He tried to remember what he’d learned in the anger-management classes his boss had been making him attend. Jerry almost blew a gasket when he found out the class coincided with “Monday Night Football.” That guy’s about as manly as a finch, Jerry thought. Coincidence, my foot.

It wasn’t always like this. He remembered a time, like when he was 48, when things weren’t so bad. He remembered when his opinions counted for something. That was 1994, and people cared what angry white males like Jerry thought.

Instead of the runaround, angry white males finally got some attention. Kicked some butt and took some names. Turned the country upside down by knocking out the Democratic Congress and ushering in the Republican revolution. Gave that pantywaist Bill Clinton something to think about. Practically ran him out of Washington with his tail between his legs.

Jerry couldn’t believe what was happening now. Here was Bill Clinton--not only was he not impeached, he’s clobbering a Republican war hero who wants to cut taxes 15%. Jerry wondered if the country had lost its mind. Or, its memory. To make things worse, Jerry had been watching TV one night and one poll showed Clinton was actually leading among men, 49% to 41%.

Hell, Jerry could think of at least three men he quit playing golf with in 1993 just because they voted for Clinton. At the time, Jerry thought he was in the vanguard of the revolution, but the way things are going now, he wondered if he would be able to round up a foursome in a couple years.

Jerry blamed the media. He remembered how 1992 was the “Year of the Woman” or some such nonsense. Then it was the “angry white male” in ‘94, and now these blasted “soccer moms.” He wondered if any successful country in history had ever been dictated to by soccer moms.

Soccer moms. Jerry started developing a visceral dislike for them. He was proud to say he didn’t know any, nor was he at all sure he’d recognize one if he saw one. He figured they were the kind of people that had made “First Wives Club” so popular, which Jerry’s anger-management facilitator made him see. Talk about a woman’s movie. Jerry thought it made “Thelma and Louise” look like “Shane.”

Jerry wondered how he could be so cutting-edge in ’94 and so hopelessly out of it just two years later. Did he change, or the country?

He took some solace in realizing that women probably felt equally baffled in 1994, just two years after the media hailed them. Maybe, Jerry thought, it’s a simple matter of politics meeting physics: For each reaction, there must be an equal and opposite reaction.

If so, Jerry decided he could hang on until 1998. He pictured the “Year of the Grizzled Guy” or “The Prostate Patrol.” Nobody’ll ever remember there was such a thing as a soccer mom.

Jerry felt his anger easing. He could live with the idea of being a passing trend, as long as he could believe his time would come again.

Two years ago, it was fun being toast of the town.

This time around, he’d have to settle for just being toast.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.