An Anthropological Study on a 7-Male Household

Article by: Nicole | Photo by: Sadie

At the end of Bleaker Street in Allston, MA, a cat sits perched in a first floor window with her back facing the street. In this neighborhood, where rats outnumber people on the sidewalks, I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening in the cat’s home that was more compelling. 

I had to investigate. I slid a note under the door with my contact information and a request to perform a field study. The next morning I received a call “Come over, whenever. The door is unlocked” said a male voice. 

…

For entry into Guyland, there is a ritual that you must not view under the harsh lens of “common courtesy.” Guyland inhabitants will greet you from their seats in the Living Room. Not to be mistaken for a lack of hospitality, this is a sign of respect. They are offering you a glance into their world in its purest form. Untainted by oppressive social conventions, like meeting guests at the door. 

My field study could officially begin, now that I’d been cleared of observer bias: 

March 4, 2026, 9:00pm— Creatine Easton (Questrom ‘26), Optimum Van Dip (Questrom ‘26), Forearm Norris (Questrom ‘26), and Medicine-Ball Dean (Questrom ‘26) sit comfortably on an oversized sectional couch. Had each of them not been occupying egregious amounts of space from manspreading, all residents of Guyland could undoubtedly fit. However, they seem to have a system. 

From their beige throne of corduroy and various crumbs, the four men have an unobstructed view of a 72-inch TV. Evidently, this display is used primarily to scroll through YouTube Shorts. For Jug Edwards (Questrom ‘26) and Juice Ferguson (Questrom ‘26), who prefer more intellectual stimulation from their media, Mario Kart and Fortnite are offered on 2 adjacent monitors.

On a flaccid gray beanbag, Edwards kicks his ankles gingerly in the air behind him, as his thumbs move rapidly across the buttons of a gamepad. 

I notice throw blankets duct-taped over two large windows behind the couch. I politely inquire about their purpose. “It’s better lighting for the TVs,” responds Norris. Mood lighting seems to be a staple at Guyland, supplied primarily by their year-round Christmas Tree. 

The artificial yellow glow reminds me of a tan-painted suburban basement. According to past research, said basements are where all man-colony members spend the majority of their formative years. It seems that Guyland has subconsciously recreated conditions reminiscent of their childhood enclosures: high testosterone and low natural light. 

This entertainment ecosystem sits next to a dark wood dining table that doubles as a spiritual altar. Among the curiosities on the table are: two varieties of soy sauce, an electric bike pump, a roll of paper towels, a parking ticket, two plastic forks, a JBL speaker, a measuring tape, a grinder, and a single packet of deli butter—origins unknown.

Juice Ferguson eats dinner at the table. “I pretty much just have ground beef and rice for all of my meals,” says Ferguson, unprompted. 

I tell him that I feed my dog a similar meal when he’s sick. 

“Well, I’m a dog. And I’m sick,” replied Ferguson. Overjoyed with this play on words, he chuckled and scanned the room in hopes that someone else could share his moment of ecstasy. To his dismay, no others heard his genius quip.

While avoiding my gaze, he promptly resumes eating. He grips his fork fiercely in a closed fist, stabbing at his meat crumbs, before taking a bite. Tears fill his eyes as he drowns his sorrows in ground beef. 

I try to avert my attention from this display of vulnerability, and observe the multiple refrigerators strewn about the room. One is intimately positioned arms' length from the couch. Coined The Milk Fridge this small unit holds one gallon of milk, a bottle of ranch dressing, and a bag of clementines. The clementines appear to be the only fresh produce in the house. 

“A lot of us are anti-fruit,” says Easton. I ask Easton about his stance on vegetables. At this, the men all laugh. Ferguson, now devastated at the crowd reaction he never received, forcefully puts his head down on the table, burying his face in his arms.

I remain focused on my conversation with Easton, warning him about Vitamin C deficiency and the risk of Scurvy. “When you lose a tooth, you really just gain a Zyn-shaped hole in your mouth” responds Easton. 

He approaches the clear door of a second refrigerator that displays a diverse array of beverages: Bud Lite and Budweiser. To consume a room-temperature beer under Guyland’s  roof would be sacrilegious. “Well, we’re not animals!” says Forearm Norris. 

Through labored chews, Norris then offers me a strip of “cured meat” from a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. The plastic is foggy, like the touch screen of a child’s iPad. When asked about the type of meat in the bag, Norris declines to comment. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something hanging from the hallway ceiling. Upon inspection, I see that it’s a wire dangling from a smoke detector–also dangling. 

“Nothing bad happens here,” says Optimum Van Dip. He recognises my look of concern. “We have systems in place.” 

Van Dip nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. There, we see Medicine-Ball Dean and Juice Ferguson having a heart-to-heart conversation, tucked away from the crowd. 

“That was fucked,” says Dean, with a compassionate hand on Ferguson’s shoulder. Ferguson smiles and embraces him with all the relief of being understood. I turn to Van Dip, and nod back, in recognition of this wholesome moment. 
“Oh, have you met the cat?” Van Dip smiles and points to something high up the wall, just above Dean and Ferguson. I step into the room and see the same cat from the day before. In her street-facing window, with her back on the glass, taking in the view.