Real Man Vs. Real Woman

So my gentle readers, today I am tackling Harvey’s question: “what is the difference between a real man and a real woman?”

Interesting that the question is worded like so. In Estonia, we have a saying, “a woman asks, and a man sleeps.” That is a crude translation, but nevertheless it carries the fish to market, as they say. Oscar Wilde said, “a woman should have past, a man should have a future.” Women are deeper than men and always are seeking a connection to other human. Man sleeps, dreams, wakes, and then conquers the moon. Or just sleep in front TV.

But Zamboni, this is a different question!? Yes, it is tempting to add to the ten million crackpot man from Mars women from Venus type of theories, but my question today is about realness, or essence, not merely, “how are women different from men?” So I proceed.

You might think there is very little chance that even I, great Zambonesman, can hit nail on head about what makes a real woman. This would be true, had I not had a recent encounter with a white tiger in Botswana. I hypnotized this beast and in its ancient language it revealed much to me concerning this. The spirit of the tiger, told me that a woman is only “real” inasmuch as she is connected.

“Connected to what?” I asked this spirit.

“To Nature” she replied.

“What does that mean exactly? like trees and birds?”

“No”, it purr-growled, “women, Zamboni are nature itself, cycles, reproduction, tornadoes, unpredictable and unfathomable. Any woman’s realness grows in proportion to their connection.”

It sounded a bit trite to me honestly, I was expecting more from the hypnotised spirit of a white tiger. I felt I could have got the same from someone working at an incense and patchouli store, but no doubt the limitations were in my mind, not in  the spirit’s. So I asked, “and a real man, how different is?” The tiger’s eyes reeled a bit, it’s claws grabbed my face and held it close to its giant head. Then it relaxed, and whispered again.

“This is much simpler Zamboni. A ‘real’ man, is one who crosses.” (Italics of the tiger)  There was a pause as the beautiful white beast breathed. What the F did this mean? I asked, but in nicer more reverent tone.

“That is all I can say now.” And with this, the tiger awoke back to its wild self and I ran like hell into a bush that was too dense for her to penetrate. She gave me a look like, “one day soon” and then prowled off into the savannah.

So my friends, as always, Zamboni will successfully penetrate this mystery. The tiger meant that a man is only real when he crosses a threshhold, a challenge, a rite of passage, a border, a fear,  or a responsibility. I understood this when I sailed around the world alone in a boat made of tin foil. Though I was freezing, miserable, and had to remove one of my toes due to hypothermia, and eat it due to hunger, I as a man needed to “cross” this challenge.

Shakespeare once said. “comparisons are odious” and I agree in a way. But that doesn’t mean they don’t reveal some truth. We all know that Man is different from Woman. But more important is the “real” part of this eqaution. Do you, man or woman, feel there is realness and authenticity in your life? The real truth here is that man too needs connection, and women too must “cross”. If you can stare into this tiger’s eyes, above, and say, “I am sailing for the real and true life that I always dream for” and mean it, then you are doing fine.

Good luck, even though you don’t need it because you are perfect. Now I go watch TV.                                   -Z

“What makes a Real Man?” Zambones is Asked

This above question comes from Gerard Lalime, from France, the country in Europe far from Estonia.

Gerard, this question is a good one. The answer was shown to me long ago by my adoptive father, Horvath the Cheesemonger. One stormy day, when rains whipped through the farm making toothpicks out of the fences which kept in the goats, I learned what a real man is. When the fences were down and the lightning cracked over the vast Estonian sky, the goats scattered into the hills. Horvath and myself, then only a boy of nine with one lame leg, chased the animals down, until all but one had been returned. Horvath kept searching for the one old black stud-goat whom we called Shorty. Though Shorty was past his prime of mating, he’d sired many generation of fine milk-producing goat. Horvath kept searching as the wind and rain worsened. Three hours later, shivering, Horvath returned with the goat in his arms and collapsed. The goat lived another year, but Horvath expired from Hypothermia.

He risked everything, for one he loved, for what was right. This, my French friend, is what a man is.

But a man is also one who gets up in the morning, and faces another day that promises to be strangely similar to the one before. Perhaps that is a diferent, but no less noble sort of risk?

For a third answer, I leave you with this classic 1980’s song which searches over the same matter. (click “watch on you tube” if all goes black)

Vive la France, and all the best to you.