The article has been automatically translated into English by Google Translate from Russian and has not been edited.
Переклад цього матеріалу українською мовою з російської було автоматично здійснено сервісом Google Translate, без подальшого редагування тексту.
Bu məqalə Google Translate servisi vasitəsi ilə avtomatik olaraq rus dilindən azərbaycan dilinə tərcümə olunmuşdur. Bundan sonra mətn redaktə edilməmişdir.

What does a typical American man look like?




Eternal boys, no skateboard anywhere. There are girls on the boards, but I have not seen one older than twenty-five, but a heavy man of about forty-five, a proud falcon flying along the main street, is a common sight. If something changes over two decades, this is the type of board and riding style.

With such a stomach, of course, you will not jump, so instead of a light skate he has a dreadnought about a meter and a half long. Eternal spring in the heart is wonderful, but everything seems to me that it would be good to lose five kilos, or something. Or change to a motorcycle or coupe, as dictated by the mid-life crisis, with him I myself am well acquainted. And these vibes of a bygone youth are very similar to Chinese Christmas-tree toys.

Middle-class popes

The middle-class dad is the very foundation of the American economy that the media are so concerned about today. Everyone is very worried about the future of this worthy citizen - it turns out that his income that year falls, and soon he will completely dissolve in the ocean of the poor. The phrase "impoverished middle class" hangs overhead like a curse.

Who are the middle class dads? It is most difficult to single them out of the crowd; they merge with it to complete coincidence, like pebbles on a beach. These are men of indefinite age "older than thirty-five," the most average of builds, in license plates New Balance and favorite jeans, on which the silhouette of a mobile phone is imprinted forever. Obviously, these pants have grown together with this ass, with breaks for washing and drying, until it falls apart. Only then will a man buy a new pair, which will also be dragged to the end.

How much this person earns is not clear until you find out what he drives or in what area he lives. He certainly has a golden retriever, children and a house on a mortgage.

Most often you see him in household goods like Home Depot (some comedians called them “Auschwitz for children”), or stores Costco. He pushes the cart among cyclopean racks with jigsaw or soda. You can’t get through this man, not much that he is interested in more than the price of gasoline, and his life is buttoned in the collar that we, restless souls, dream of in nightmares. School - college - work - marriage - mortgage - children - grandchildren - nursing home - cemetery. Brrrrr.


Subspecies of the middle class dad, man-hobby. Americans are very fond of narrow specialization, based on this career. A generalist is difficult to find a job. The local version of the saying “Both the Swede, and the reaper, and the igrets on the dude” is: Jack of all trades, master of none... Literally - "Jack of all trades, expert in nothing" and with a ton of sarcasm.



In pursuit of excellence, these men cannot stop in time, this is how stubborn cyclists, collectors of car numbers, tourists and hockey fans appear - with the hardcore. Hardcore-carriers buy carbon bikes for five thousand, which are not left unattended for a second, which chain do not fasten, and clothes, fit for the “Tour de France”. Hardcore- Tourists travel hundreds of miles and know the weight of their backpack with an accuracy of ten grams.

In their hands GPSDevices for registering the route, they write reviews on equipment that is “War and Peace”.

Sports fans know the statistics of their team for ten seasons and the pedigree of each player up to the seventh generation. Children and dogs are dressed in team colors, annual subscription to the stadium, burning eyes of the obsessed.

Bad Boys

Usually dressed in a standard manner, with rare exceptions. In California, it looks like this: a washed hoodie, a trucker cap, shorts, and a steel key chain that slips into a pocket. On the legs are white knee-length leggings and skateboard shoes. What they want to say by this is not clear to me - everyone spoils the kindergarten leggings.

And let the guys often ride Homeric pickups - meter wheels, shining castings, red shock absorbers, a pit bull and glasses Oakley in the half-snout, it is worthwhile for me to imagine white golfiki - and even if you burst it, it punches at the hehe. Some put the subwoofer in the trunk fatter and include hip-hop, so that the car looked like a rattle.

Everyone who has been in the States, it is clear that hip-hop is good only for black, others have bullshit and ridiculous claims for a difficult life. The black man has the rights to such a Muzilovo, only he casually sings about death and the ghetto, without risking to seem like an idiot. White kids this is not given.

Mersedesovskie grandfathers

Retired America is strikingly different from the usual man in the queue for an optometrist. Of the total, they have only disregard for clothes, and for a completely different reason. The California penny wears a worn out baseball cap and shabby shorts because he grew out of a middle-class dad, mentioned above.

Hatching clothes he needs, just to not go naked. But now, by seventy, he has accumulated enough to drive around not in a family gas van, but in a five-liter SLK.

The children learned and spread, the mortgage was paid off, and the hip joint was replaced with a titanium implant. Next to such men, surely faithful friends of life, ladies are dry and thin, like reeds. Earrings made long tracks in the earlobes, like an icebreaker in the ice. Hand in hand they float between the rows in Whole Foods.



It's time to open cars and travel to Japan - but why does it look so bleak? I just can't get rid of the feeling that forty-year-old skateboarders and grandfathers in "Maserati" are somewhat related to each other. Both those and others are trying to return the past time, each by virtue of their savings.


I would like to say, of course, that all Californian Asians work in technology. Call them "IT people" - and make yourself ridiculous. No, not all of them program in Java or start-ups are opened, and in general, the Bay Area Asians cannot be crammed into stereotypes. They are different, both externally and professionally - and there are very, very many of them.

I recently saw a graduation from law college in Stanford: eight out of ten were Asians. Chinese, Indians, Pakistanis, Vietnamese.

At San Jose airport, the inscriptions are duplicated in Vietnamese, and knowledge of the Cantonese dialect will help you find a job here. These men look modest: the Hindus are around, the Chinese are smaller. Around black hair, oily eyes and gadgets, gadgets.

Hindustan spat on trends and walks in stretched jeans and polo for the top ten, Indochina and Korea snatch away brands and even they will have a plastic bag from Abercrombie and Fitch. But the main thing is that they are well-educated, instead of drugs, they relax with quick chess and promote tennis and squash. Something in them is from viruses.


Gays are the same everywhere and give an answer to the long-standing question "Can a man look decent?". Yes maybe. If one imagines that gays are recruited as military men, then most of all they are driven along the obstacle course between a tanning salon and depilation.



There is a small detail that allows you to distinguish gay from non-lazy straight: gays tend to go too far in terms of grooming. If a straight person always has a couple of treacherous details - he glanced before going out and decided - x… with him, it will do, then with gays it is usually different.

There is hair - it will be combed, no hair - the skull is polished like a mirror. Go-find a gay man with a sweat through his bald spot or hairy neck. Jeans are clean, shaved armpits, and if the loafers on his feet, then no socks, God forbid.

Small details, excesses accumulate like water in a cup, and for gays it often overflows. And so - ordinary men, only candied, like candied fruits. No grimacing and jumping, no comedy club. I’ll say in good spirits: the first time in California, I, a child of homophobic birches, slightly shied away from men holding hands. Everything seemed to me - people would come running with torches, they would begin to lynch me under the hot hand. Then, of course, I got used to it.

Kolya Sulima

Blog printed with permission Author.

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