I posted a link to this article about the-disease-that-is-Paris-Hilton in the comments of my Lindsay Lohan article from the other day. I thought I should share it with everyone in a more public space. I have extremely mixed feelings about it. I basically agree with everything the writer has to say. The idea of Paris Hilton being the go-to reference point for anyone wishing to make an ignorant-slut joke is intriguing. Really, the only point upon which the author and I diverge is in our respect for the author herself, Rebecca Traister.

I first became aware of the evils of Ms. Traister, a regular contributer to Salon, in this article from September, 2005. (Warning, if you are not a Salon member, I’m not sure if you will have access to this article. I’ll quote the relevant passages below.) In this article, entitled Attack of the Listless Lads, Ms. Traister discusses the “listless lad” phenomenon with Benjamin Kunkel, an over-hyped author and shitty magazine publisher who wrote a book about a young, overeducated dude who has trouble making decisions or commitments. First of all, the meme that men have trouble with commitment is a pet peeve of mine. I’m sure there are plenty of assheads out there who sleep around and refuse to commit to relationships. Ladies, here’s a word of advice: do not expect a commitment from an asshead. There is not a problem between “men” and “commitment”; there is a problem between “assheads” and “valid contributions to humanity.”

So, that being said, one particular guy (full disclosure: the author, Benjamin Kunkel was heralded as “the new face of intellectualism” in my most detested smarty-smart-wank-bullshit magazine article ever from the New York Times Magazine — seriously, try to get through this article without vomiting all over yourself, I dare you) wrote a book called Indecision about how one particular asshead has trouble making decisions. Rebecca Traister used her interview with the author to complain about how the extraordinarily unique main character (sarcasm mine), a New Yorker in his late 20s who doesn’t know what he wants, is emblematic of a trend she so perceptibly observes in the real (fake) world of, um, New York. (click “more” to read on)

And so we get Ms. Traister’s declaration at the beginning of the interview:

For some time now I have been anxious to let loose on the sorry state of the young male population of this country — or at least of New York City. But I’ve held myself back, realizing that the complaints of a woman who has not yet met a mate do not exactly qualify as breaking news.

Good instinct!

Still, I’m haunted by the suspicion that my tale is different from those told by Edith Wharton and Candace Bushnell. The men I meet are not the rakish, workaholic, cheating cads of yore. No, I’m bearing witness to a bona fide crisis in American masculinity, one that seems especially, but not exclusively, to afflict the young, urban and privileged. And with it, I have observed the birth of a new breed of man: a man of few interests and no passions; a man whose libido is reduced and whose sense of responsibility nonexistent. These men are commitment-phobic not just about love, but about life. They drink and take drugs, but even their hedonism lacks focus or joy. They exhibit no energy for anyone, any activity, profession or ideology. While they may have mildly defined areas of interest — in, say, “Star Wars,” or the work of Ron Jeremy — they have trouble figuring out what kind of food they might want to eat on a given night. And, in an effort to cure what ails them, they have been medicated to the gills with potions designed to dull their feelings even further.

Okay. Now, please note that I would never in a million years claim that these men do not exist. There are plenty of them in this world, particularly in a place like New York, which attracts the perpetual adolescent in all of us. But if you look around at your social circle and the only men you see are sexually frustrated drug-addicts with no opinions or interests, then maybe you should consider getting a new social circle.

The truth is (and now I’m going to tell you the truth, because I alone have figured it out), people are complex. There is no standard man or standard woman. If Traister finds herself continually dating disinterested men, then she should examine what it is about herself that makes her attracted to this sort of man. Instead, her response is to assume that it’s a problem with men in general and not with her in particular. I can’t say it’s a particularly American phenomenon, since I have never lived anywhere but here, but it does seem that people in this country have an easier time pointing the finger at others for their failings than accepting blame themselves.

Now, lest you think I’m a judgmental prick, please be aware that this interview was not the only thing that turned me into a Traister hater. I understand, she needs an angle for an interview, so she relates a phenomenon she’s observed in her life to the author’s thesis. It’s annoying, but I can accept it from a fresh-faced writer eager to talk theory with a literary celebrity. No, the reason why I was so taken aback by Traiser’s attitude was because it came in the wake of this article which she wrote several months before, entitled “Wife Shop!” Let’s take a look at this article:

Three years ago, a professional acquaintance asked me out for a drink. … I was not particularly attracted to him, but figured I would take him up on the drink. No sooner had I settled into the booth than his questions started: “Where are you from?” Philadelphia. “Where did you go to high school?” Quaker school. “Are you Quaker? You look Jewish.” …

Peter hadn’t walked into the bar to get to know a woman he found intriguing, or even to get laid. His business was finding a suitable bride, and had I been “old enough,” his next question might well have been how many goats my father had secured for my dowry. Peter was my first wife-shopper, but not the last. Reports of these kinds of encounters — with men who investigate your family’s disease history over a get-to-know-you beer or decide after two dinners to invite you on vacation with their college roommates and their wives — have become increasingly common among my female friends, urban women often assumed to be husband hunting themselves. In some cases, the men we’re meeting are more interested in settling down than we are — almost as though they have their own internal biological clocks.

Either Traister’s social circles had changed considerably between March and September of 2005, or she is totally and completely full of shit. Traister can’t turn around without seeing a societal trend. I picture her getting on the wrong bus in the morning and then writing an article about how there is a conspiracy among bus-drivers to confuse young writing professionals. The entire world revolves around this woman’s observations. When she’s finally in a happy relationship, I can guarantee we’ll see the article about how men have suddenly come to their senses.