The Be a Man Guy - Be a Man: The Ultimate Guide

HERE WE ARE

Ive been busting my ass for the past fifty years. Ive seen every scam, Ive run every hustle, from running numbers for bookies to every kind of construction to private security to processing mortgages and buying real estate. A few years back, I started to think about settling down and retiring, sitting by the pool with a scotch on the rocks and just watching the clock run out. Then Be a Man exploded across social media and completely changed the course of my life. Now in the twilight of my career, I have been thrust into the role of the Godfather of the Be a Man Mafia.

We call it the Be a Man Mafia because even if I wanted to get out, the Mafia wouldnt let me. These days, I can barely walk down the street without some maniac yelling, Be a Man, out of the window of a passing car or someone pulling over to the side of the road to ask for a picture to show their friends. For years, I lived happily in the shadows. Now complete strangers are walking up and asking me for advice on how to Be a Man when Im taking a piss. So instead of doing a stop and chat with every asshole for the next twenty years, I wrote a book to serve as the Ultimate Guide. Now leave me alone.

Work harder, not smarter. Be a Man.

These days, every young guy is looking for the easy way out. They want to cut corners at work, they want to get rich quick, they want to pick up girls with no effort. Since I was a little boy, I was always taught never to take shortcuts, that the road to success was a backbreaking one. We grew up framing houses by hand for shit pay, we worked long days at multiple jobs and somehow only made enough money to still be broke, we put in countless hours buying way too many drinks at smoke-filled local dives trying to pick up women.

Dont buy drinks for girls. Always go home alone. Be a Man.

There were no YouTube tutorials, no cryptocurrencies that could make you a millionaire overnight, no dating apps you could use to handpick Filipino chicks under five feet tall who like dogs and Jack Daniels. We were taught to work for everything... and thats the way we liked it. If you really want to be a man, heres a helpful life hack: life hacks are for cowards. The hardest way is the only way.

Dont take the elevator. Take the stairs. Be a Man.

As men, weve always been on a mission to do it our way, no matter how difficult or ridiculous it might seem to everyone else. As far back as I can remember, my brothers and I learned life lessons by doing chores around the house. My dad didnt wait for the perfect conditions or supply us with the best tools for the job, he made us struggle in order to learn. This is a lesson I have applied in all facets of life over the past five decades. Its not just about taking the scenic route instead of taking a shortcut, its about abandoning all possible routes in favor of the longest, most nerve-shredding, life-threatening, inches-wide coyote path on the side of an unforgiving cliff till you feel like youre losing your fucking mind from terror and regret.

Dont let anyone ruin your day. Ruin it yourself. Be a Man.

When the leaves fall off the trees in November here in New England, the northeast wind blows and they go everywhere. Cleaning them up can quickly turn into a month-long project. Just when you think youre done, a strong gust of wind out of nowhere blows everything from your lazy prick next-door neighbors yard into yours and youre back to square one.

Ive been told that leaves rake best when theyre light and crisp, but I wouldnt know. While the eager beavers were out there as soon as the first leaves dropped, we grew up with a different, more challenging approach. We would ALWAYS get our leaf assignments fresh off of a noreaster. Those light, crisp leaves would soak up water until they weighed as much as wet concrete and smelled like the flooded basement of an abandoned insane asylum. My dad said it was good that the leaves were heavy because it made for a better workout. You dont have to go to the gym today. Lucky you.

Blow your leaves onto your neighbors lawn. Be a Man.

When we had to paint the house, there were no sprayers, no rollers, no fancy blue tape for the windows. There was a brush, a bucket, and a dont fuck anything up pep talk. Any asshole can use a roller on a wall but painting the edges next to windows with a brush taught us how to do the job right. No one ever became great at anything by putting in the least amount of effort. Sometimes in life, struggle and hardship are exactly what we need.

Dont take the easy way out. Struggle at all costs. Be a Man.

A STRUGGLE FOR EVERY SEASON

FALL is all about harvesting and cashing in on the hard work you put in all year long. Time to hunt, gather, and prepare for the winter. Spend a thousand dollars at Costco on canned chili and booze in plastic jugs.

Dont use a log splitter. Chop three cords of hickory by hand. Be a Man.

WINTER has always been synonymous with things like death, pain, and being miserable. It has always been a time to reset, throw on twenty pounds, and hibernate. We only leave the house for the essentials and when we do, we are wearing shorts.

Dont use a snowblower. Shovel the whole driveway by hand. Be a Man.

SPRING is when everything and everyone comes to life. The birds return, the flowers are blooming, and the squirrels and other vermin emerge from hibernation. This is the perfect time to start tackling those jobs in the yard and on the exterior of the house that you have been contemplating all winter while the girls shed their North Face jackets.

Dont use a nail gun. Hammer till your fucking arm falls out of the socket. Be a Man.

SUMMER is the only time we really feel alive. On a hot summer day with the top down on the car, we feel like we are twenty years old again. The world is full of possibilities and we feel like we can do anything: get a bad case of poison ivy, get a case of the clap, get a DUI.

Take all the groceries in one trip, in one hand, and cut all your circulation off. Be a Man.

Every day after school from when I was nine years old, I hung out in my uncles bar, the American House Caf, down the street from my house in East Boston. I can still smell the beer and the booze-soaked hardwood floors and the smoke from a dozen lit Marlboros wafting through the air.

Rip butts till youre dead. Be a Man.

Most days consisted of me sitting on the bar drinking Cokes from the fountain as the neighborhood drunks, shipyard workers, and degenerate gamblers stumbled through the door. Some were there for a drink but most of them were there to place a bet with my Uncle Libby. Other kids learned how to do math in school, but I learned by sticking close to my uncle. Libby drove big red Cadillacs, and always wore a suit and glasses with a pen behind his ear and a folded-up newspaper under his arm. His hair smelled like Tres Flores pomade and he liked to keep a glass of water on top of the fridge because he said it kept it cold. He was married once for nine months but his wife chased him through Day Square in East Boston with an axe one afternoon. Libby always had a wad of cash on him as thick as a two-by-four. If you wanted to gamble on the horses or the Celtics back in those days, there was no credit: you had to show up with the cash plus the vig in hand to get in on the action.