The following is an edited version of a heavily satirical essay originally published in Man’s World Magazine (Issue 15). It’s not fiction, though it sometimes feels like it. It’s about California, school libraries, two-spirits, pink bicycles, and how I went from a plugged-in, well-meaning suburban dad… to a radical. Or at least, that’s what they’re calling guys like me these days.
I have a confession to make. I may have been radicalized.
I say “may” because I’m not sure how that works exactly. Is there an indicator that goes on, like a check engine light or something? Is there a smell, perhaps? Maybe there’s a device that, when placed on my head like the Harry Potter sorting hat, will shout out something like, “FAR-RIGHT!!” instead of “GRYFFINDOR!!”?
(Let’s be honest, I hold an equal chance of making it into Slytherin house, though—perhaps the best men do.)
If I was in fact radicalized, it somehow wasn’t the direct result of studying psychology in university, though that will wear the sanity and sensibilities of any masculine man down to their nerve endings. No, it was likely due to a series of events that took place in the fall of 2023 when disillusionments fell like dominoes—one after the other—knocking into one another and knocking me firmly off my perch on that little cliffside labeled “everything is fine.”
I spent ten years in the Navy. Somehow, I managed to be homeported in California for the entirety of my career. My first tour was in Coronado, where I deployed to jungle and desert environments alike. My second tour was in Ventura, where I deployed mostly to remote islands in the Pacific to work on underwater missile ranges and subsea surveillance systems. My last tour was in Northern California, training candidates for accession into various special programs. This is where we stayed when I got out.
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