The promotional poster for the film Zack and Miri Make a Porno set me off into one of my brooding spells. The Zack character, or caricature, born in the race to the humor bottom of cheap tricks and fart jokes that is the Judd Apatow genre of film, captured the look and expression of the "bros," the frat boys that define white college masculinity at the University of Arizona. The poster embarrassed me. And the truth of it hit me.
I have become a Zack (well, a fifty-some, college teacher version of Zack). The type has deep roots on college campuses and has way of trickling up. A look that is casual to distress, it is as irresistible as it is common. I see it most in Southern California retirees who can't quit the beach, though the days of surfing have long passed. There is an appeal to the look. It's "cool," non-threatening to anybody, loveable, unkempt as a well-loved teddy bear, and speaks to late nights out and long mornings in.
By itself, at a certain stage, the Zack is harmless -- soft. He is not the crazy, reactionary, NRA wing-nut, nor the skinhead Nazi, nor the overachieving, but heartless corporate shill. But sometimes I get the impression that there is no waking up to smell the coffee, even once in a while. The disorganized adolescent has become not a stage in development, but an end, a terminus, an idealization of the middle school bad boy.
As a boy, that is charming. As a man, less than becoming. The arrested development at thirteen has grown a little tired. He's the king of "Whatever," meaning "works for me," provided you are male, white, and affluent.
And I don't like that, don't want to be that. So, I set out to do some reflecting, some soul searching, some unpacking of Zack and his appeal, some hard self-critical analysis on why it is I have become this version of man.
I did not find the sexual reference in the title embarrassing, but the reference to sex as product for sale performed by nice, middle-class kids, does merit a later look. No, I reacted to how men are represented by the Zack character. He is what social critics have labeled as a "Mook": a slacker, a perpetual teen-ager, a self-absorbed, somewhat lazy narcissist.
In contrast, Miri looks sharp, coiffed, competent. She looks like she could fix him, or at least help him grow up. But she can't. Her look is a product too, but that's another essay. Women have their own image pressures. Suffice it to say that she has to work at it, put some effort into looking the female ideal. Back to the Zack Mook.
Mooks have opted for the path of least resistance, have gone down the road of easy-going sloth. When I was in college, I wanted to be cool, mellow, laid-back, and comfortable. The shorts, worn T-shirts, and mop of hair all contributed to message that said "I don't have to work or wear a uniform like the losers who didn't make it to college." It was a class thing, in part.
I was ashamed of my working class roots. I did not want to be driven by necessity into dressing up and studying engineering or business, though the Mook look jumped across disciplines. The Mook was a carefree "project" that women with maternal stirrings wanted to take home. He was fun. He was easy. He was shallow. He was apathetic.
On the underside though, he was weak and disengaged. He did not care for himself or fight the river to self-actualize. The Mook is a type, a product, a consumer. He saved me the trouble of winning an identity that fit my heart's desires. The prefab Mook made things easy. People got it, didn't ask questions, let me through the gate into the easy living land of Mook.
His look has become a highly crafted mix of name brand clothing, cars, sports, ways of doing business, and of leisure. He speaks a code of belonging to the upwardly mobile heir to fun and trusts. He is established.
That is what it is, and I can't fight fashion or history. But the truth, to me, is that the slacker image is the product of privilege. People who have to find a way to make a living can't get away with the wrinkled cargo shorts and a baby fat body. Privilege makes it possible to be both clueless and comfortable, a slob and a driver of German luxury sedans.
Somewhere I read in a novel the line "Rich men's sons, like blue horses, seldom win races." My path down privilege and Mookdom had not prepared me for the ordeals that would be marriage, parenting, or work as a writer. My slacker attitude produced schlocky results in all areas. I began to pine away for something I forgot a long time ago, that elusive element of things and relationships people called quality.
I saw quality in the lives of those I began to admire. These people cooked healthy, fresh, tasty food. They dressed with a personal style. They took the time to get to know those they loved and worked on becoming better friends and partners. They also worked. Hard. They created, sacrificed, loved, poured themselves into life and gave with abandon.
Most of these friends were outsiders of some kind -- gay, non-white, women, living on low wages -- not the American mythological ideal. They have been wounded by the dominant culture for being different, for not being white, plump, harmless, and clueless. They were also inspired to be better, to make something out of themselves. A few wanted to "outdo" the dominant white, straight, male culture.
They made it clear that I was very easy to outdo. Embarrassing. Yes, I have been a slacker. I admit it. I chose the easy path of privilege. And what so often accompanies privilege is the belief that we -- humans -- are somehow disconnected from one another and that it is possible to simply please oneself and feather one's little nest and not act to ease the misery of others.
So, as I go along on this thread, it is not the image, or just the desire to do things well, but rather the desire to see a world wider than my own self-interest that triggers my reaction to Zack. He is not just a neutral representation, but a dangerous temptation to pretend I don't know as much as much I do. He is the man fearful of having to act, to put himself on the line for something bigger than clueless coasting along.
He is the forever sibling, the drinking buddy, the sidekick in a world dying for lack of grown-ups. Problem is, the Zacks of the world have to want to grow up, but, hey, what's the rush?
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