Punch-drunk

"I made an appointment with him to come and kick my ass, then the son of a bitch never even showed up. I hate that."
   I agreed, it was the worst kind of chicken. Then we saw this guy, and this girl? In this car? A yellow '66 Mustang. Chopped. The engine a low whine of a type that made it sound jet-propelled. "What the fuck's he gonna do with a car like that?" he asked, "He can't even parallel park the fuckin' thing."
   I have to admit, my knowledge (and appreciation) of men As Men only goes up to about 1952. I watched Last Exit to Brooklyn last night, and I thought, "Finally, real men!" But then I thought, "Oh. Maybe not."
   And then he said, "Yeah, the guys I went out with when I was younger. ... Well, guys aren't too cerebral, if you know what I mean. They like you because they like you, and that's it. There's not much else there; they're not thinking about other things," he swallowed half his pint, "except maybe cars or something. Women on the other hand, are more difficult. More complex."
   "They're crazy in the same ways I'm crazy," I said, "and they're soft, in all the wrong places."

from Hand Over Fist