After my son's football game yesterday I was sitting round with a bunch of Dads. This was at one of their houses, outside on the deck, which he has fitted up very nicely, with a TV and all. It was cold, so we got a log fire going in the firepit and sat around the fire drinking, watching the football game on TV, and b-s-ing. The wives were inside doing whatever wives do when away from their men—exchanging recipes, who knows?
Well, eventually we got into one of those dumb arguments you get into in these situations. The point at issue was: Will an empty beer bottle melt in a log fire? We've all seen it done, of course, but one of the guys claimed there's been some change in bottle manufacturing techniques so that a bottle nowadays won't melt. He: "It just goes CRACK! and that's it."
Derbyshire proceeds to take us through the entire process of dealing with squealing, fearful wives and heated glass...and I gotta tell ya, the whole thing gave me goosebumps. Then, I realized--I'm not a man. John Derbyshire is a man. He's a buff, manly man who probably wanted to stick his hand in that fire and hold it there to show everyone that he, John Derbyshire, is a master of the universe.
Note how he dismisses the social and intellectual life of women with a bold stroke--surmising that they, being possessed like so much property by the men, probably go off with other women and exchange recipes, for all he cares. After all, they simply couldn't be doing anything more thought-provoking or productive than melting a glass bottle while partially shit-faced, could they?
Damn, Derbyshire. When you navel gaze, you bring your "A" game.