The late Michael Crichton clearly had issues with past relationships, as evinced from his articles on the subject. And from these, the reader at once realizes that the author is someone who constantly rolls past verbal spats and sleights in his head on a daily basis. His 1991 article in Playboy, “How to Fight”, takes the cake for piss-poor advice. This is Boomer pseudo-wisdom, advice from a fool on this particular subject, a lecture from someone who has never succeeded in this particular field. These articles purport to bestow wisdom, but come across as extended tantrums by someone whose fragile ego has been bruised more than once by a woman. Here is just one representative slice of this deluxe fecal sandwich of an article:
“First rule of domestic fighting:
Respond to the challenge at once.
Most men make fatal errors in the first 30 seconds of a domestic fight. They’ve lost before the fight itself has begun.
Why? Because they opt for the time-honored masculine strategy of weariness in the face of the advancing female. Here she comes, spoiling for a fight. You turn to her and say with a tired sigh, “What is it now?” Or, “Do we have to talk about this now?”
The fight is over.
You just lost, buddy.”
I can’t even believe this came from such an esteemed and talented author as Crichton. Look at what he does here, attempting to bait you, the unsure male reader, into squaring up to your significant other, precipitating a domestic Chernobyl that will be remembered for decades, by both of you, your children, and the neighbors. If your wife or girlfriend truly is “spoiling for a fight”, engaging with this person is suicide. You walk away, out the door, you break up, you get a divorce, you ghost them, cut them off, and instead find someone who respects you as you respect them. “Fighting” isn’t inevitable. Women are not all uniformly programmed to instigate shouting matches or to spew forth a constant drip of degrading, disrespectful remarks for years on end. Some are, some aren’t. It’s no different with men. My guess is that Crichton has just had bad luck at choosing a partner. That is the real lesson here, not his godawful, pathetic ramblings.
It’s not easy to walk away when you know a fight is coming, but it has to happen. If you are of the mindset that you need this person so much that you are willing to tolerate constant surprise attacks in the form of a verbal argument from a significant other, then you’ve already lost. This isn’t something that you can fight your way out of. You walk away. Cut this full-grown person out of your life. They will feign helplessness once they realize that you are now a flight risk, but you, and Crichton, must understand that they’re an adult, not your child, and they can take care of themselves.
Crichton gives garbage advice, and it boggles the mind to think of how many young men he led astray with this beta male bullshit. This goes for both sexes. Fighting solves nothing, it only beats the anger and resentment further in. But some couples are addicted to it, addicted to the drama these skirmishes conjure.
Another morsel:
“In a domestic quarrel, battle lines shift constantly, moment to moment. It’s confusing, exhausting, emotionally draining. She may go ballistic at any time. A domestic fight takes everything you have — every ounce of intelligence and energy. So don’t be glancing through the morning headlines or watching Bryant Gumbel, unless you want your head handed to you. Pay attention.”
How pathetic. A total loser says this, and you can tell that he’s been losing sleep on this topic for years. I envision his voice shrill and cracking, on the verge of tears.
You only have one life, and you can’t waste years of it like our friend Crichton apparently has, on domestic quarrels and the after effects of domestic quarrels. Once you’ve taken the bait, you’ve already lost. Your partner will stick the knife in with a comment that you’ll then carry with you for at least the amount of time that Crichton has carried his load of barbs, the ones that compelled him to regurgitate his losing stratagem onto the pages of Playboy. Ah yes, it appeared in Playboy. How ironic.
