Table of Contents

In His Time: The Importance of Being Ernest

The New York Times predicted in 1961 that "generations not yet born of young men" would study Papa's masculine philosophy. We must be that generation, lest the Y chromosome vanish forever.

Death in the Afternoon… Lunch is Served

A meal without meat is like sex without an orgasm. No wonder so many women are vegetarians! But an increasing number of so-called men now sacrifice meat instead of sacrificing various creatures to get meat, unaware that a truly moveable feast is no longer moving.

Plundering the Big Two-Hearted River

Hemingway hooked 2,000 pounds of seafood on a single voyage. He claimed a record tuna in Bimini and a record marlin in Cuba. This meant nothing to him, though, because “I fish for fun, not for records.” Exactly what a man says when he’s fishing solely for records.

For Whom the Beer Flows

In this age of Mike's Hard Lemonade, Smirnoff Ice, Bacardi Breezers, and other alco-pops marketed to prepubescent girls, it’s natural to wonder: why should I drink throat-burning hard liquor when I can instead sip five-proof carbonated fruit juice? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN DO! (Never mind that Hemingway loved daiquiris. Never. Mind.)

The Short Happy Life of Frantic Male Soldiers

Why study history at a fancy university when you can create history as a tough-as-nails enlisted man who shoots first and asks questions never? Hemingway won a Silver Medal in WWI, a Bronze in WWII, and would've earned a Gold if butchering fascists were an Olympic sport.

My Olé Man

Prior to viewing his first bullfight, Hemingway “expected … a dreadful spectacle,” but “discovered a drama of great beauty, a death struggle raised to an art.” He then defended bullfighting just as he did cockfighting: “Cruel? What else does a fighting cock like to do?”

Men Without Women (...But With Men?)

It’s a myth that Hemingway hated women; he loved women enough to marry four of them, one for each harbinger of the apocalypse. But he certainly hated bullshit. And women exhale bullshit like men exhale carbon dioxide.

A Farewell to Smooth Arms, Backs, Taints, Etc.

Advertisements and fashion magazines normalize an unrealistic, unnatural, and unhealthy standard of beauty: male models who pluck their unibrows and wax everything else. But, like Samson in the Old Testament, Hemingway's strength was rooted in his follicles.

The Love of the Lost Buffoon

Aside from their mutual alcoholism, Fitzgerald and Hemingway were polar opposites like Lennon and McCartney. (Zelda was the Yoko Ono of literature.) Papa, the overconfident brute, had little in common with Scott, the oversensitive fop. But their yin-and-yang friendship propelled each to greater heights. And depths.

The Old Man and the See You in Hell

What's the point of withering away in a bleach-scented retirement home, waiting to die while playing endless card games of Go Fish and Bridge instead of going fishing like Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea or detonating bridges like Robert Jordan in For Whom the Bell Tolls? Why not get it over with and commit suicide the Heming Way?

Conclusion: Masculinity... To Have or Have Not?

From the battlefield to the African wilderness to the shark-infested deep, no amount of danger could intimidate Papa because nothing could kill him. (Except for, uh, himself.) Such gusto is not a commodity available in stores. There is no app for it, no easy shortcut. But the Heming Way is already inside you...

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