Dear Universe:
Yeah, it’s that time of year again. Love struck fools part their hair carefully, risk impalement by rose thorns and gain an almost medieval gallantry in the more than foolhardy quest of announcing their feelings and desires for their intended. How romantic. Of course, there are also those who sit quietly in the house of age and gallantly turn to the picture of their beloved and remember with salt-watered smiles. Ah, the double-edged sword of love! What mends also breaks. It is as ying-yang as everything else about you, my complicated vixen of a universe.
But, I see that there are others out there on this day of arrowed hearts, and they say:
Look at me, forlornly sitting, popping chocolate I bought myself, wondering why I never get shot by naked children with affinity for archery while shopping for avocados or picking up the mail.
Look at me, so ruggedly sure in love, fretfully wondering what token could possibly account for the impositions, the large and small forgivenesses, all the laughter and the tears?
And what could you say for these hairless and tailess monkeys, so awash with this feeling or that, afflicted with different symptoms of a disease endemic to dichotomous existence where there is male and female, self and other? What advice may be given that would mean anything to everyone of these sufferers?
I hope I’m not being too coy in stating it is quite obvious that you are looking for a whole lot of love. Why else would you tease and impel us so?
Say nothing, sweet universe. We can save the bedroom talk till later. I wanted to tell you that I have some token of love to give you.
This summer I stood on the porch with my wife and a few of our female friends. They were discussing men. Some of them were obviously frustrated in the quest to understand this exotic “other”. Silly me, but I piped up and said:
“The problem is,” I said in all my vaunted wisdom, “that you’re talking about men as if we are all alike. We’re not. There’s different types.”
This of course was followed by: “Well, what are these types, then?” What was I to say to these gracious ladies?
“Let me think about it and get back to you.” That’s what I said. A while later, I came back out on the porch (They were still there- it was a very nice day.) and gave my answer.
They seemed impressed. Then of course, they asked: “What types of women are there?”
This is, as you can imagine, a dangerous question to answer to a group of ladies all in their sister power on the porch. I begged off for a moment or two, and gave it more thought. Bravely, I returned, and did the unthinkable. I quartered the female gender before my wife and her friends.
And they liked it.
So, here goes: (Drum Roll Please!)
The four types of men are: Robot, Superstar, Alien and Wildman, or if those fantastical archetypes frighten you: East, South, West, and North.
In the east resides the Robot. He constructs meaning through order. He is fascinated by how things work. He likes everything in its place. He craves routine. Many scientists, engineers, mathematicians, inspectors, and Mr. Fixit’s take their place among the robotic legions. They are the Eagle Scouts marching forth to put all things in order, to offer a rational explanation, and to avoid talking about anything messy (like emotions).
Hailing from the South arrives the Superstar. He constructs meaning through recognition. He strives to be the best at what he does. He is eager to loan his expertise and skill for your appreciation. He craves glory and achievement. I’m not sure if he loved his mama, but he sure wishes he could make her proud. He’s going to make his mark and shine like the sun. Those hoofbeats approaching? It is the Superstar in armor riding to your rescue. Just be sure to notice just how his armor gleams, and does he not ride his steed wonderfully well?
Wandering in from some Western World comes the Alien. He constructs meaning through reflection. This wide-eyed madman has poetry running in his veins. Are his eyes enthralled with heavens crimson gold of sunset or is he merely searching the skies for the mothership? Never truly at home among these brutish hairless monkeys, the Alien has faraway eyes, the wit that comes from careful observation, and the grace of a fallen angel. He wants to know why things work, and wonders if they ever did in the first place. Appalled by some foreign routine or mark of achievement, the Alien instead craves a sense of home.
From the North comes the sound of the Wildman’s drum. He constructs meaning through experience. This daredevil wants to wrestle life’s marrow from it’s bone and climb every mountain. Many explorers, innovators, rascals and rogues come from this wild bunch. They crave nurturing and discipline, for it seems however you might dress them up, you can take the wildman from the dirt, but you can’t take the dirt from the wildman. If he focuses his badboy energy into a fine beam of concentration he transforms into the unparalleled craftsman.
By understanding these four types, with any luck a hairless monkey might recognize himself, and thereby understand his own archetypal and often subconscious motivations. The hairless monkey female might better understand the mistakes she is making expecting love ballads from Robots, or a simple answer from an Alien. If it pleases you, universe, I will gladly go into depth about each of these so called “men”. My only hope is that if one should understand he or she would be in a better position to love.
The hour is late, my dear, let’s not equivocate or hesitate. Love is what you need.
The doctor of love is in.
Be mine,
Trav
PS- So, you want to know about the womenfolk and their types. Well, a boy can’t just go and give it all away. Not even on Valentine’s day. You’ll just have to wait.
T. L. Barrett 
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