Pre-game dinner for Seal Team Six? I cooked it. Wedding cake tasting with Wills and Kate? I preferred the one with chocolate cookies. Matching girls’ weekend tattoos with Angelina? Been there, done that. Alas, these events only left me hungry for a kind of social intercourse that’s more exclusive, more secret, and more… verboten.
Today my thirst for the sociologically exotic was quenched because I stumbled upon hallowed ground. I found myself sitting in the sublime radiance of Guys’ Friday Breakfast. In this town it is an event sacred to the bolder sex (that means men), and unknown to most of the fairer (that means women). Concerns for my own health and safety prevent me from sharing the locale of this weekly think tank. But I am happy to recount what I learned within earshot.
Perhaps I gild the Knoxville Lily. Perhaps Guys’ Friday Breakfast is not the regular assembly of the Illuminati. But then again it might be. I know for sure these elemental kings waxing poetic round a Casaubon table of Greek omelets and home fries are a sight to behold. They are happily free from the consciousness of a woman’s presence. They solve the socio-political problems of our fair city while scratching what they please and cursing with delight. Unless a pretty girl walks by; then a synchronistic turning of heads occurs and mouths soap right up.
Is Guys’ Friday Breakfast sexist? I think not. It looks to me like these are just guys who want for a moment to talk about their world in guy-specific terms. I think women do the same thing; just in a more stealth fashion. Women are chitty-chattin on the phone until it melts because we are moving the economy through Groupons and Sephora Beauty Insider Cards. We are deciding who will be the next mayor. And by the by, we are deciding which civil servant needs to hear our point of view one more time. Funny thing is, that’s basically the same stuff I hear the guys talking about whilst tapping away on my computer.
I couldn’t help but wonder, “Do we need to take a break from the opposite sex to think?” Do I really want the guy posse to give input on the politics of Paragard or Mirena? No. No thank you. And do guys really want me around when discussing why that guy isn’t allowed in Canada because of that thing after the Mötley Crüe concert in 1982? I think that is a no. Sometimes, the Wolf Pack needs to be alone. And so do the Ninja Vixens, thank you very much.
I wanted to crash Guys’ Friday Breakfast something awful. But I just couldn’t. It would have been ungracious to sit down even though I knew three men at the table. They were speaking their man language and my presence would only interrupt their train of thought or remind them to be more polite and stop scratching. Who am I to deny a scratch?
I lowered my gaze from their table back to my keyboard. One of the men walked to the counter and cashed out. He straightened his mop of white hair and then walked over to my booth with a wink. He extended his hand: “You were looking at us so I just wanted to come over and say hello. My papaw taught me to always say good morning to a purty woman. You new here?” He was distinguished, probably 20 years older than I and rocked a vintage Hawaiian shirt. I blushed at being caught and introduced myself.
“You gentlemen meet pretty regularly here, do ya?”
“Sure do. There’s always something to talk about. The big terrible things you’ve done and the big wonderful things you’ll do soon. Or you decide a train wreck’s coming, so you tell your friends to hold on and watch it. Or something special is about to bloom, so you hold on and watch that too. I mean what good is a Friday biscuit if you don’t have any stories from the week?”
He’s right. Pass me the butter ’cause I’m holding on and watching.