The Heroic Gent

The Democrats are not just at the mercy of their socialist wing. They are in a state of bewilderment as to why all their attacks on men—“toxic” is such an alienating prognosis—has disenfranchised their once-was base of blue-collar, unionized men. Nevertheless, a recent opinion piece in that central pillar of leftist thought, The New York Times, titled “America Has a Masculinity Crisis,” has all the answers they cannot see—albeit between the lines. In it, the Times’ culture e

Let’s get offline now, and back in the real world. Here, too, first impressions count—and that means something as simple as how you enter a room. Women think about their entrances much more than men typically do. Women often think about how they walk, about their posture, about the movement of their hands, about how they’ll sit (both feet on the floor or legs crossed). Men often just stupidly stumble in and figure they can handle it—whatever it is, a business meeting or a dat

Elizabeth Kantor, the author of The Jane Austen Guide to Happily Ever After, once told me she doesn’t trust a man she can’t find much about online. This surprised me, as I have always been cautious about putting too much of my personal life out there. When I pushed back, she said, “Well, I suppose some older men aren’t comfortable with being open on social media.” I got my first email address in 1993 when I was a freshman in college, so I don’t consider myself a technophobe.

Those who know William Ernest Henley’s poem “Invictus” (which translates to “unconquerable”) might not know the context behind when/why it was written. Henley (1849-1903) was born in Gloucester, England. He was the eldest of six. His father was a struggling bookseller who died when Henley was a teenager. When he was about 12, he was diagnosed with tubercular arthritis (tuberculosis of the bone). This led to the amputation of his left leg below the knee in his teens. When the

Battle-Hymn of the Republic By Julia Ward Howe Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is m