kin suddenly lurched off into sports:n”Now, if only some ball team withnvision and reverence for tradition andncontinuity would bring back thosenwonderful old baggy flannel uniforms,nmaybe I could look forward to springntraining with enthusiasm. . . . Hownabout you?” How about me? Me, Inthink that if ball players took the fieldnwearing “those wonderful old baggynflannel uniforms,” they’d look reallyndumb. But then, I’m not a Guy, sonwhat do I know? Not only do I not seenflannel as an expression of reverence, Indon’t find entertaining the mere mentionnof the name Cedric.nIf GQ is little more than a grinningncelebration of Guyhood, at least it lacksnpomposity. The same cannot be saidnfor Esquire, a magazine that rejectsnGuyhood in favor of the “steadfastncoverage of character realized.” Folks,nEsquire is “intended for men who arenno longer in the process of becomingnmen, but for men who are men.” It is an”publication of unswerving character,none that keeps alive all that is timelessnand classic in a man’s life. . . .” It is an”magazine consumed with passion —nfor words, for pictures, for the good lifenintensely lived.” Most of all. Esquire isn”a kind of sanctuary where we cannshare the male experience with likemindednfriends, there to stimulate thenmind and the senses.”nIn case you haven’t guessed. Esquirenis a suffocatingly self-conscious publication.nIt takes itself so seriously that itnregularly gives out, with great fanfare,nall kinds of self-styled awards. There isnthe Esquire Register, a long list ofnpeople saluted “for the roles they willnplay in molding America as we approachnthe turn of the century.” Therenis the Esky Award (complete with goldnstatuette), inaugurated in 1988 to honorn”those who have truly hit the heightsnthis year,” e.g., Ann Richards, thenUnited Airlines terminal at O’HarenAirport, and “The Six-Button,nDouble-Breasted Suit.”nAnd not to be overlooked is Esquire’snannual Women We Love issue,nwhich is devoted to women with “witnand power and guts and glamour andnmystery and depth” (coincidentally allnthe qualities that Esquire as a magazinenlacks). So proud were Esquire’s editorsnwith their most recent list of womennthey love that they blurted, “We wantnto swim in this list. We want to swann46/CHRONICLESndive into it. . . .” That should havenbeen a hint to any woman of wit,npower, guts, glamour, mystery, andndepth to beg, bribe, or sue her way offnthe list, because things could only gondownhill from there. Esquire’s homagento Audrey Hepburn — in its entirety:n”Not content to sit around on hernclass.” Of dogsledder Susan Butcher:n”[She] just turns our minds to mush.”nAnd then there was Esquire’s unforgettablentribute to actress Sonia Braga:n”How do you say, ‘We’d like to drinknyour bathwater’ in Portuguese?” Itnmakes you wonder, doesn’t it? Doesnthis kind of stuff come under thenheading of sharing “the male experiencenwith like-minded friends”? Or isnit supposed to be an expression ofn”character realized”? I have my ownnideas on this. As Richard Merkin mightnsay, you show me a Man whose idea ofnstimulating “the mind and the senses”nis to talk about drinking a woman’snbathwater, and I’ll show you a Mannwho’s just a Guy.nWhen Esquire is not giving outnawards no one cares about, or sweepingnwomen off their feet with its sweet talk,nit is devoting itself, by way of its MannAt His Best section {Esquire’s “anthem,”naccording to editor Eisenberg),nto the most important things in anMan’s life: cars, clothes, food, booze,nand home furnishings. If, for instance,n”the good life intensely lived” requiresnknowing how and where to get “thenworld’s best beef jerky,” Esquire hasnthe answer. (By mail order, of course,nfrom Texas, at 12 bucks a pound. NonMan At His Best is going to stop off atnthe 7-Eleven for his beef jerky.) Fornthose with more sophisticated tastes.nEsquire offers elaborate recipes, such asn”Hare in the Style of Tuscan HillnTowns” (a horrifying concoction, bynthe way. Not even the lure of the goodnlife intensely lived could attract me to annnrecipe that brings together, in the samendish, red wine, melted chocolate, andn”a five pound hare”).nUnfortunately, it is not possible tondiscuss Esquire without discussing itsnmost distinctive contributor, a columnistnwho, when he isn’t attempting tonbuy his own high school (“a dreamncome true”), is recalling the funeral ofnElvis Presley (“and there was Elvis,ndead … his eyes, of course, werenclosed”). I am talking about BobnGreene, the Man who wants to be ankid and is proud to say it.nThe best way to describe BobnGreene as a writer is to say that he castsna whole new light on the Guys over atnGQ. His style makes Richard Merkinnseem like a breath of fresh air. And hisnregular wallows down memory lanencan make some readers decide, “MynGod, I’d rather be hearing about TerrynSullivan’s vasectomy.” For BobnGreene, the preoccupations of Guyhoodnwould be an emotional step forward.nHe isn’t in love with pseudoadulthood;nhe’s in love with adolescence.nHe wants to “hang around thengym,” talk about his feelings, and benmisunderstood by grown-ups.nBob Greene’s writing is just onenexample of the triteness with whichnsome men will depict their own lives.nEsquire and GQ offer many variationsnof that example, but in the end thenmagazines accomplish the same thing:nthey trivialize manhood by glorifyingnsomething called “the male experience.”nThis can get tiresome.nBut what is most striking to someonenwho isn’t a Man or a Guy is thenessential gracelessness of these publications.nThey are big, good-looking, andndopey. For all their sheen, neithernEsquire nor GQ has a clue as to what’snfunny and what isn’t! They think powernhair is serious business, while vasectomiesnare a laugh a minute. Theynbelieve that “sit around on her class” isnan expression of wit, but see nothingnfunny in giving the same award to bothna human being and a suit. And theyndon’t understand that talk of “characternrealized” is hilarious in a magazine thatnmakes jokes about women’s bathwater.nWhat’s next for these arbiters of stylenand sophistication — joy buzzers andnwhoopee cushions?nJanet Scott Barlow covers popularnculture from Cincinnati.n