Men's Vogue?

In today's mail I received a magazine subscription solicitation for Men's Vogue.

Now there's a fucking oxymoron if there ever was one. What kind of a man would subscribe to Vogue or Men's Vogue?

Maybe, just maybe, could it be that new untermensch, The Metrosexual.

Last year, shortly after I returned from a fly-fishing pack trip into the Eastern Sierra, I had lunch with a good friend of mine. Let's call him MB. MB is a few years older than I am, a retired business owner who built and sold a great company. Basically, he does lunch. Knowing that he is a foodie, of sorts, I introduced him to one of my favorite restaurants, La Bastide, a country French establishment.


MB leaned over, and with an air of the conspiratorial about him, admitted to a guilty pleasure. An indulgence. A pedicure. Yeah, my buddy confessed that there is nothing quite like getting a pedicure. He encouraged me to get one, suggesting further that I go on Sunday afternoon when the chances of being seen were greatly reduced.

In turn, I described our trip. We rode on horseback 12 miles into the wilderness and made camp jump below 10,000 feet. Our campground was near a small stream, a clearing surrounded by trees. In a trice we put up our tents, set up the kitchen and watched in amazement while Jon crafted a fire pit, using rocks from around the campsite. Jon also sighted in our toilet. About a quarter of a mile above camp, Jon dug a hole, placed a folding plastic toilet over it, and then hung toilet paper from a tree branch using some string.

Creating the best, most scenic shitter in the history of mankind. Sitting there in the cold morning, looking at mountains, a slow, meandering stream, listening to the noises of the animals and birds...what a place to pinch a grumpy.

That, I said to MB, was my idea of a guilty indulgence.

As for Men's Vogue, I might know a guy in Colorado who would read it...