Domestication, Emasculation, It’s All The Same in FOOBistan.
When I first met my first real long-term girlfriend, I was a twenty two years old, and an utter disgrace in every way you expect a young man to be: my apartment was a mess, my refrigerator was a toxic waste dump, and the mess in my room defies description.
No it doesn’t: I had no curtains and had hung blankets ove the windows, which kept the room dark, dusty, and dank. Piles of books, papers, and empty beer bottles lay everywhere on the bureau, the bed that I didn’t use, and the floor. My laundry sat in stinking heaps. And God bless her, that woman came into my life and through a lot of yelling and high standards made me the Oscar madison I am today (Felix Unger was out of the question). In short she domesticated me: I began to clean up after myself in ways I never had before, and while my house is still characterized by clutter, I have never sank again to the level I was in 1993. My bathroom is always clean. The kitchen, if not spotless, is cleaned at least once a week.
But there is a difference between “domestication” and what Granthony Caine represents.
This is not domestication. This is emascualtion, castration.
Not that there’s anything inherently feminine about being a primary caregiver: there is not. And I know how to cook, clean, etc. If Sam lived here I would certainly be attending meetings at the day care center. But my God: with everything else we know about this character, with the snivelling, the whining, the manipulative behavior, and THOSE CLOTHES! THOSE FUCKING CLOTHES THAT COME FROM NED FLANDERS’ WARDROBE. The “ta-daaa! Here I am!” posture in panel one. There is nothing masculine at all about this guy: he’s a middle-aged woman’s fantasy about the man she wants for her daughter, the fantasy man portrayed by modern country music bands like Lonestar. Safe. Predictable. Easy to mold, easy to dress in Garanimals for grownups: he’s already wearing them. Someone who might sigh, but won’t argue, about spending a day at the mall, carrying bags from Lord and Taylors, and waiting, waiting, waiting, hunchbacked and neutered, on the bench by the fountain.
If Lynn Johnston was honest, the strip would look like this:
Tell me I’m wrong.
10/16/06 Update: I realized this morning of the way in to work that I speak from experience. In Ghost Truck World I wrote about the girl I caught in bed with another guy. That was the young woman who domesticated me. When she left me, I had become the emasculated sissy-pants that Anthony is now, eager to please, whiney, and lacking any of the attributes that make a man a man. I was touchy feely in the wrong way, overly sensitive, and just plain lame. In fact, during the breakup, she repeatedly told me I had turned into “an old fuddy duddy,” “a middle aged man in a 20-something’s body”. Even the music I listened to was gutless: soft, nonconfrontational bluegrass music. I had become the yin to her yin. No yang whatsoever.
In short, once she’d molded me to be what she thought she wanted, she found her creation was lacking. And while I’m still domesticated, I’ve never again forgotten my essential nature, my masculine energy.
That’s what’s so grotesque about Granthony: he’s literally the shell of a man. And while the character of Paul is equally distorted (he is, after all, the fantasy of a well-fed and comfortable middle-aged woman who perhaps dreams of a little adventure, but not too much in her fastidious life), at least he’s someone you can root for. Granthony is a cliche, a platitude, a Caspar Milquetoast. And as Lynn Johnston lives a safe, satisfied life, so will her cartoon alter-ego make the safe, self-satisfied choice.
Disgusting. Even Dagwood Bumstead has more going on that Granthony Caine.
October 16th, 2006 at 5:21 am
You’re not wrong, not a bit. Saturday’s strip brought to mind that scene from Naked Gun 33 1/3, where Drebin’s character, who has retired, is visited by OJ and that other guy. He’s wearing an apron, carrying a laundry basket, and offers them homemade cupcakes with pink frosting. Uhhh…
As far as Granthony, what that strip really says about him is that he has no life. Sure, he should be able to put a meal on the table and keep the house clean. But he should have already known how to do that, from when he was working from home last year. An immaculate house, a deck, an astronomy club (that meets at night, presumably — does he bring the kid or what?) all add up to someone who has nothing else going on.
And you’ve provided an interesting counter-example. If Granthony is already the perfect housewife, what does he need a wife for?
October 16th, 2006 at 7:06 pm
Word to all you’ve said. Especially the bit about how Granthony’s a mother’s fantasy. The best thing I can think of to say about him is that he’s VERY SLIGHTLY less personally repulsive than Michael. But only very slightly. And Michael–although it’s not saying much–has considerably more integrity. Given a gun with two bullets, I’m pretty sure I’d shoot Anthony first. But what a tough call!
October 16th, 2006 at 7:28 pm
Liz still spends her summers getting blotto every weekend at keggers. It’s Blanthony that needs to tame Liz.