How men don't communicate

Since I do enjoy writing and feel I have so many valuable insights to share with others (altruistic hedonism?) I thought I'd jump into blogging world with the rest of the ocean full of folks who are also scrambling to collect some Warhol minutes.

One of the enjoyable aspects of being semi-retired is finding the time during the day to trot off to an area health club. I am usually in the company of others in the autumn of their years ( a far preferable description than old fart, or in Yiddish, an alter cocker). In addition to the enjoyment provided by the endorphin high I get while working out, locker rooms are also therapeutic in that they provide proof positive that those of us in this age range are all being adversely impacted by gravity.

Anyway, what I have come to notice in the locker room is that most men can't communicate. I mean, they talk, yes, sounds come out of their mouths, but they really don't communicate.
Owing to the fact that a locker room is not a particularly mentally stimulating environment, I spend my time while dressing or undressing tracking the conversations of specific sets of alter cockers (I love Yiddish), chronicling their daily salutations. What is amazing is how consistent they are, day after day, week after week.
It occurred to me that these recitations are carefully scripted to avoid the awful truth that many men do not know how to formulate conversation on the go. The basic themata for these conversations have to do with why their wives or children are the bane of their existence. The conversations run like this (names changed to protect to identity of the banal):
"Hey, Jimmy, how the hell are you?"
"Ah, you know, one day older, Tony!"
"How's the wife!"
"What a bitch, on me all day!"
"Tell me about it. Tell her I said hello!"
"My regards to Sylvia!"
"What a bitch."

And on and on. These conversations are shouted, regardless of the noise level in the room and seldom vary from day to day. God forbid a serious accident or illness is injected into the conversation. This assures a " That's too bad" followed by a hasty retreat to the showers.

Most men adopt a series of catch phrases to toss out as greetings/inquiries into current life conditions. These are also backed up by "How about them Yankees" or "This place is still a dump" to sidestep serious conversations.

I can talk paint off the side of a barn and I have a son who can strip it off far better than I. But we are the exceptions. Why? One could assume training from your father, but my Dad probably spoke to me directly about 50 or 60 times while I was growing up. All too often, the conversation consisted of "Goddamnfool". Scratch paternal imaging. Too much estrogen? Say it my face, sucker.

For whatever reason, I think we need to have schools create a new position. Remedial conversation. Ferret out all the little boys who are inclined to speak in clipped sentences, and develop a curriculum that will have them speaking just like their Mom does in a few short months. Or you could just give them a few hits of estrogen. Well, gotta grab my man bag and head off to Stop and Shop. Me and the produce manager are going to rap about picking out good turnips.