A report from the chaotic postfeminist dating scene, where only the strong surviveEarlier this year, I published an article in City Journal called "Child-Man in the Promised Land." The piece elicited a roaring flood of mailed and blogged responses, mostly from young men who didn't much care for its title (a reference to Claude Brown's 1965 novel Manchild in the Promised Land) or its thesis: that too many single young males (SYMs) were lingering in a hormonal limbo between adolescence and adulthood, shunning marriage and children, and whiling away their leisure hours with South Park reruns, marathon sessions of World of Warcraft, and Maxim lists of the ten best movie fart scenes.
It would be easy enough to hold up some of the callow ranting that the piece inspired as proof positive of the child-man's existence. But the truth is that my correspondents' objections gave me pause. Their argument, in effect, was that the SYM is putting off traditional markers of adulthood—one wife, two kids, three bathrooms—not because he's immature but because he's angry. He's angry because he thinks that young women are dishonest, self-involved, slutty, manipulative, shallow, controlling, and gold-digging. He's angry because he thinks that the culture disses all things male. He's angry because he thinks that marriage these days is a raw deal for men.
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