A late night in Concord – dark, cold, crisp, harsh. The sky is cloudy, the mood is dim. Must be early August, you think, as you pull a thick scarf back over your head and drive downtown, your eyes darting back and forth, looking to make whatever scene is on hand. Maybe a raucous underground party? A raucous drag race? A raucous round of playing on or around a dumpster? None of the above, it turns out, and so you spend another night trying to hand a Magic 8-Ball to the Daniel Webster statue at the State House. Outlook not so good.
This depressing, complicated and not entirely convincing scenario is my way of bringing up the hunk’s role in society. He is, after all, the Daniel Webster statue to whom we bring our 8-ball hopes and dreams. We adore him; he doesn’t reciprocate, but still we want more. And, uh . . . he stands immobile and unchanging outside local landmarks. I’d think of a better metaphor if I could.
Actually, the hunk is hardly unchanging, and each generation’s hunks tell a story about their era and its values. In the early days of the 20th century, all hunks were bare-knuckle fighters with large, curled mustaches, demonstrating the love of fighting, hatred of gloves and surplus of mustache wax that exemplified the period.
Rudolph Valentino was in line to become the greatest heartthrob of the century, but his well-documented trouble growing a full mustache led directly to health complications and his untimely demise.
All of the heartthrobs of the 1950s and ’60s, on the other hand, were clean-cut performers from The Lawrence Welk Show because, at the time, most people were performers on The Lawrence Welk Show. The bandleader’s sphere of influence had expanded so much that he controlled two-thirds of Central and South America, with his theater headquarters located right on the Panama Canal. They had to hire Martin Sheen to put an end to his tropical empire.
In the ’80s, when I was growing up, people got tired of hunks more quickly so they’d promote a particular type of hunk for just a year or so, and then toss them aside for a new model. One year, the hunks were all named Corey, which worked out nicely until they ran out of Coreys.
Another year, the fellas all had names with vacation themes – everyone remembers Tom Cruise, of course, but back then he was second tier, compared to strapping lads like Don Ski Weekend and Jason Road Trip to Wisconsin Dells.
Sadly, the future of hunks is bleak, which means society is looking bleak as well. Today, we are all too busy watching videos of cats falling off tables to agree on what makes a good hunk. Pretty boys like Justin Bieber fit the bill for some of us, but others want something more rugged and manly, like the Jonas Brothers. And a few hopeless cases insist hunks of this era should only come from genetic experiments, by, say, growing a duplicate of Star Wars actor Billy Dee Williams and grafting tennis great Billie Jean King’s head on top. As appealing as this may sound, I fear a two-headed Billy Jean Dee King Williams may not be the answer to our problems. Actually, it definitely would be, according to my Magic 8-Ball, so forget I said anything.
