Enjoy your weiner fest!

Pansy: A sissy, fairy, or one that is generally unmanly.

I recently spent a week one hour at the local Sam's Club shopping for our school concession stand. Picking up the usual load of jalapenos, candy bars, paper goods, hot dogs, buns, and the list of other "necessities" that the office staff gave me, my mind began to wander.

I was visiting with a colleague a few days prior to this about the usual drivel and daily happenings when the conversation took an interesting turn. We were talking about the weather change and the temperature drop....blah, blah, blah when the next thing I know he brings up the subject of his snuggie!! I tuned back in to the conversation and couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You own a snuggie? A SNUGGIE??!", I asked. I looked in disbelief at the other guy involved in this conversation and fortunately he shared my thoughts. So, after several minutes of good razzing we went on our way, but now everytime I see him I can't help but visualize my friend curled up on his couch, sipping hot cocoa, box of kleenex on the end table, watching Steel Magnolias in his embroidered Missouri Tigers snuggie. How cozy!

Later in the week I am standing with our School Resource Officer in the halls during passing period, carrying on normal male small talk when we noticed a group of rather loud young men walking our way. Well, walking would be flattering these youngsters for it seemed somewhat taxing for these yutes to propel their bodies forward with their skinny jeans riding so low. Thank heavens their sister's pants were held up by their skull and cross bones belt buckles. Bad Asses!! They had such a classic look of ignorant confidence, we couldn't help but laugh. "Our grandpas would have kicked their asses just for the hell of it", commented our officer. "Amen" was all I could say.

So I wrap up my shopping at Sam's and head for the exit. I hand my receipt to the 20 year old kid to check my receipt just in case I slipped in a 12 pound bottle of olive oil or 50-inch plasma in the three steps from the register. He thoroughly looks over my cart, scribbles on the receipt, hands it to me, smiles and says, "Enjoy your weiner fest!"

I look at him, shake my head, and head for the parking lot!!

Problem Solving, Part II

Winston Wolf, a consumate problem solver, helps Vincent and Jules take care of a delicate situation.  With grace, skill, and aplomb, Winston takes the proverbial bull by the balls.  We could all learn a thing or two from The Wolf. 

Man Skills DNA

I love to shop. 

Wait . . . that's not quite true.  Actually, I hate it.  Hate it.  Hate.  It. 

I was standing in a rather long line the other day waiting to pay for a few purchases.  When it was finally my turn to trade a fistful of cash for a few overpriced trinkets, the clerk behind the counter asked for my zip code.  I gave it.  Then my telephone number and email address.  As I listened to the the guy at the next register spell out, letter by letter, his entire digital pedigree, I began to realize why the lines were moving so slowly. 

"I'd rather not," I told the well-dressed cashier.  She looked confused.  Time stood still.  People in line behind me began to shuffle their feet and clear their throats.  I tried to give her my cash, but she wasn't sure she could take it without my mother's maiden name.  The color of my childhood home.  The name of my first pet.  I left a few 20s on  the counter and headed for the door.  As I pulled out of the parking lot I saw her running toward me asking if I'd like to save an additional 15% by applying for an in-store credit card.  Donate a dollar to the Make-A-Wish foundation.  Earn even greater savings by purchasing a gift card redeemable on another visit.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

* * *

There was a time long ago when men roamed the earth hunting, gathering, and providing for their families.  If their children were hungry, these men would round up some buddies, bid their families a fond adieu, then mercilessly track down, outsmart, bludgeon, dismember, cook, and feed to their waiting brood tasty and nutritious animals of stunning variety. 

There was a time when men were consumate problem solvers.  Whatever the need -- food, shelter, fire, war, propagation of the species -- men usually had the answer.  For millions of years, men provided, protected, and procreated, not because it propelled them toward self-actualization, but because that's what they were built to do. 

Fast-forward a few thousand centuries and behold the sissification -- indeed, the demanualization -- of men.  No longer are guys finding new and innovative methods to defang a saber-toothed tiger, now their biggest worry is whether there's time for a venti chai latte with a shot of hazlenut between the morning session with their $140-an-hour personal trainer and the first bromidic meeting of the day.

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when there was no such thing as a health club, spin class, or day spa.  Men stayed in shape by working their asses off from sunup to sundown.  Abs getting a little flabby? Try plowing the north 40 with an iron-tipped wedge.  Want to firm up those posterior delts?  Split a cord of hickory with a spike maul.  Need a little more protien in your diet?  Kill a wild animal with your bare hands, rip the flesh from its body, cook over an open fire of seasoned hickory, and garnish with vegetables from the north 40.

Men aren't built to shop.  It's as simple as that.  Sorting through endless varieties of overpriced stuff, standing in line making banal conversation with people you'll never see again . . . this is all antithetical to the masculine condition.  Men purchase with surgical precision; our DNA is packed with prehistoric instructions on how to identify a need, quickly select the most appropriate solution, then execute it with ruthless efficiency.  Here's an example:

I need a hammer.

I drive to a store that sells hammers.

I go to the hammer aisle, pick one out, and buy it. 

The end.

There's no endless agonizing about whether the hammer will make me look fat, no worries that a friend may have purchased the exact same hammer, no danger that a brand new hammer will flood the market, suddenly rendering my hammer a fashion faux pas. 

Problem solved. 

In reality, my posterior delts are a mess; probably because I paid a kid $200 to cut, cure, deliver and stack a year's worth of firewood in my back yard.  I don't know how to plant, raise, or harvest a single crop, and I've never killed anything except a cat, and then only because it'd been hit by a car. 

Perhaps I'll go back to that store and see if it's too late to get on their mailing list.

Let's Hear It For The Boy! Part 1

Man: An adult person who is male, as distinguished from a boy or a woman.

As I scour the world wide web searching for the qualities of a "real man", here are some common responses I've come across:

A real man:

• Accepts your faults and loves you anyway,
  


• Calls you when he says he is going to,



• Doesn't need to get attention from women other than his girlfriend to feel good about himself,



• Is willing to learn what is important to a woman,



• Can pay the rent,



• Is faithful, open, honest, and takes your feelings into consideration,



• Understands his purpose in life,



• Thinks before he acts,



• Is unselfish and generous,



• Is honest and trustworthy,



• Is clean and well-groomed,



• Is kind to animals and children,



• And on and on and on, etc., etc..........

So after I threw up in my mouth a little bit, I began to ponder the question myself. I have no problem with anything on this list. I agree it is my duty to take care of my family. I'm fairly clean. I try to be honest, unselfish, kind, blah, blah, blah.....I enjoy cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and have been known to scrub a dish or two on occassion. I even stayed home with my oldest daughter for the first year and a half of her life while my wife worked, so I don't have an issue with being a modern man. My issue is that our society has been so busy helping men get in touch with their feminine sides that we have forgotten that it is ok to just be simply a man, and very rarely does our world attempt to understand a man's innate qualities and true nature.

I think it's as simple as taking a walk down memory lane and thinking about what we loved to do as boys. I am obviously talking before girls came into the picture (I know how you spent your spare time then). When I was a boy I loved to get into adventures and get messy. I was fortunate enough to live near a large park which consisted of hundreds of wooded acres filled with trails, streams, ponds, shelters, and playground equipment. I'm talking about real playground equipment. Large, metal slides, merry go rounds, and swings, not their modern day counterparts with lots of plastic, railing and protective coverings. We all climbed and sped down that rusted, wobbly 3 story slide with a long, narrow ladder and a big hump half way down the steep slope a time or two in our youth. This was a place that a boy could explore and get into mischief. I'm not talking about cheeky hi jinx, mind you, but real death-defying, invigorating macho fun! Climbing trees, sneaking onto foridden property, crossing the moss covered spillway, sliding around on semi frozen ponds, skipping rocks, messing with beavers (again, pre-adolescent), and sword fighting with sticks......man!!! does it get any better than that??? John Eldredge writes in his book Wild At Heart that "the recipe for fun is pretty simple raising boys: add to any activity an element of danger, stir in a little exploration, add a dash of destruction, and you've got yourself a winner!!" I can recall countless times dragging my bloody ass home, mud soaked and freezing from a day filled with fort building, fighting imaginary bad guys, or shooting my pump-action BB gun at anything that moved. "Boys will be boys" was the look I got from my Mom when I would arrive on our backporch expecting her to escort me in to a freshly prepared meal and clean clothes fresh out of the dryer. These are the moments that define boyhood, and get lost once you become a "man". Somewhere along the way it became socially unacceptable to act like a boy, and the world insisted we grow up, stop making so much noise, and put that kid in the corner somewhere deep inside our minds. I argue that we still long to be that filthy little boy experiencing a life of risk and perceived danger. And, I believe that even in a world filled with grown up responsibilites and committments, a man can have his cake and eat it too. How can we do this? I have no freaking clue!!! But, I'm workin' on it.

To be continued................

A Day at the Jiffy Lube

I was driving down the highway the other day, minding my own business and thinking manly things, when I happened upon a couple of distressed damsels experiencing a spot of car trouble.  What a great chance to practice a bit of manliness, I thought as I eased onto the shoulder and climbed out.  After they'd decided I posed no serious threat to their safety or their virtue, the pair explained that they'd suddenly lost power and coasted to a stop, and that they'd called AAA, who was about 15 minutes away.  I offered to take a look.

I popped the hood, assumed an appropriately furrowed brow, and earnestly began to investigate the nature of the problem.  Sure enough, there were some shiny things, some greasy things, and some wiry things in there, and just as I suspected, they all appeared to be in exactly the right spot.  I tugged on the belts, wiggled the battery cable, and made sure there was enough blue stuff in the window washer jug.  My preliminary inspection produced no obvious answers; wiping my hands on the front of my jeans and frowning meaningfully, I proclaimed the problem to be very serious indeed. 

At about that time the AAA guy showed up, poured a few gallons of gas in the car, and left me to wonder how this little episode had gone so completely wrong.

* * *

I had a little car trouble of my own one day about 15 years ago.  It was the morning of my wedding, and I was under a bit of a deadline: I needed to pick up the rings, exchange a pair of tuxedo shoes, and get myself to the church in time for pictures.  I'd noticed the key to my GMC pickup had been catching in the ignition from time to time, but I figured this little problem would eventually work itself out, and anyway, a little wiggle here and a jiggle there, and it always seemed to start.  That particular morning I was in a bit of a hurry as I slipped the key into the slot, gave it a little twist, and . . . nothing.   Shit. 

Panic is a strong word, but I went back into my house without much of a plan.  Luckily, my dad and his dad, two very manly men, were hanging out in my kitchen sharing a laugh about some thing or another.  I frantically explained my situation, and my grandpa said, "Well, why don't you just replace the ignition switch and be done with it?"  The look of complete and utter bewilderment on my face probably led to his next statement: "Here.  Take my car.  We'll do it for you." 

I picked up the rings, exchanged the shoes, and delivered to my dad and grandpa something called a steering wheel puller, then watched in amazed wonder as they systematically disassembled the entire dashboard assembly of my truck.  There were wires and springs and parts everywhere . . . it looked lke the Swiss Army had lobbed a series of quartz watch grenades into my garage. 

I knew there was no way I would ever drive that particular vehicle again, and as I paced the floor wondering how I could call off the wedding on such short notice, I heard my truck start.  Around the corner they came, my dad wiping his hand on a red rag and my grandfather tossing me the keys.  In about an hour's time they had completey removed the steering wheel, disassembled the steering column, replaced the ignition switch, put everything back together, and even managed to reset the clock, which had been an hour off since daylight saving time had begun.  I heard my dad chuckle as they walked into the house about how out of practice they were, as that job used to take about a half-hour.   

* * *

I'm writing this odd little story from the waiting room of our local Jiffy Lube, where pretty soon I'll write a check to a high school kid with a dirty hat and baggy blue jeans to do what, for decades my grandfather used to spend a Saturday afternoon doing on his driveway and my dad still does.  I wonder if they saw this day coming, and that's what they were laughing about in my kitchen all those years ago. 





Thanksgiving Reimagined

Thanksgiving always makes me think of man skills, particularly the skills of those men who've come before us.  I'm not talking about the legendary men of the Greatest Generation whose grit and determination helped them survive the Great Depression, deliver a crushing defeat to the Nazis and the Japs, then come home to steer the domestic ship of industry to staggering success while fathering the Baby Boomers, the generation who would first invent the anti-establishment movement, then systematically bankrupt Social Security. 

I'm not even talking about the men who settled the brave new world we call home, the ones who climbed into a boat, set sail for a land they'd heard of but never seen, and didn't poke their heads out until their ships crashed against a rocky coast somewhere east of home.

I'm talking about the men who helped their uninvited Indo-European guests survive their first winter, then wished like hell they'd have sent them packing as soon as it thawed. 

These were men whose idea of a hunting trip involved walking barefoot over miles of treacherous terrain, engaging in mortal combat with wild 4,000 pound animals, killing them with weapons made of sticks and rocks, then skinning, gutting, and transporting the animals -- by hand -- back to camp for their women to cook.  No tricked out Eddie Bauer edition 4-wheel drive, no laser-sighted sniper rifle with optional GPS range-finding technology and patented recoil-absorbing butt stock, and certainly no overpriced hunting lodge with complimentary Hunter's Breakfast, in-room wi-fi, and pseudo-manly hunting guides who expect a 20% gratuity to show you where the "wild" animals were released the night before. 

* * * 

This Thanksgiving I'm smoking a turkey for our family meal.  By smoking, I mean I'm lighting a $30 pile of designer lump charcoal in an $800 ceramic grill, then coming back 5 hours later to see if it's time to eat.  By free-range turkey, I mean an $87 sixteen-pound gobbler I bought last week from a local health food store that also sells fair trade coffee and bulk flax seed.   

My concept of free-range is this: A turkey farmer hatches a turkey egg.  He releases the turkey to roam the earth, getting into turkey adventures until it's time to kill it, pluck it, and eat it.  Not only does the turkey farmer save money on turkey cages, but he also doesn't bother to inject the turkey with growth hormones to ensure plump, juicy breasts, or antibiotics to prevent bacteria from prematurely killing the turkey and the turkey eater.  I stole a glance down the turkey aisle yesterday while I was at the supermarket.  I can buy a Butterball chock-full of synthetic pharmaceuticals guaranteeing strict uniformity of taste, color, and texture for ninety cents a pound.  For $87 I get a scrawny "heritage bird with a natural, slightly gamey flavor."  I didn't hunt, track, kill, or disembowel anything; I just wrote the check. 

My forefathers would have been so proud. 

If you believe we put a man on the moon!

"So there he is at last. Man on the Moon! The poor magnificent bungler. He can't even get to the office without undergoing the agonies of the damned, but give him a little metal, a few chemicals, some wire and twenty or thirty billion dollars and VROOM!! there he is, up on a rock a quarter of a million miles up in the sky!"...Russell Baker, New York Times, 21 July 1969.

NASA's voyage to the moon is one of history's finest examples of our competitive spirit and ongoing battle to one-up other men. What scientific gains were accomplished? Why have we not returned? Will we return? Will we colonize Mars? Who gives a S&#T. We beat those darn Soviets!!! (We think???!!?)

So why do we do the insane things we do? Man has been pushing the envelope since the dawn of time and lot of F.U.S. has happened because of this.

So my question to our followers (if we had any) would be......What have you done that was uniquely man (meaning it wouldn't cross any sensible woman's mind to do it!)????

An example would be........A couple of summers ago, three buddies and I were out on the town in an unfamiliar city. We had been indulging in multitudes of spirits and were heading back to our hotel to call it a night. On the way back, we encountered a series of tiered concrete ponds/fountains with small canals connecting them. As we approached a canal, one of my good pals says, "Hey, I bet you can't jump across that." So there it was..... a challenge !!! I couldn't just ignore it and go on like nothing happened. I couldn't admit that it probably wasn't wise to do this at 3 AM stumbling home from a variety of fine drinking establishments, could I? Hell NO!! I was determined. So determined that after a couple of minutes of stretching, I took off my shoes (made sense at the time) and sprinted for the canal. As I leapt through the air, cameras flashing, I felt my heart hammering and doubt running through my mind. I landed safely on the other side, accepted the pats on the back, put my shoes back on, and contiued home soaking in my manhood. I had successfully ignored the throbbing in my left foot until one of my friends says, "Holy Crap, what's wrong with your foot?" I looked down to see a bloody trail following me from the canals, and then at my toes to find a couple of toenails were no longer attached. I limped back to the hotel with my mangled toes draggin behind and self-esteem barely intact. Upon arrving I did the most logical thing I could think of......went straight to the hotel pool to soak my foot in the chlorinated water (made sense at the time). Of course, time heals most wounds, but the picture of me leaping across that canal is a constant reminder of just how pathetically unathletic I have become.

Yes, this is just one simple and ridiculous example a uniquely man feat, but a prime example of man's ignorant confidence and obnoxious need to compete! Fortuantely, I have lots of these tales to tell, and I know that you do as well. So, amigos, it is time to one-up me with your stories of manly accomplishments and unheroic tales of stupidity!

"Man will do many things to get himself loved; he will do all things to get himself envied." ---Mark Twain

Holdin Out For a Hero?

In defense of my recent texting snafu, the smiley face was an accident. Frankly, I was offended that my good friend, Scott, would second-guess this. I have no idea how one creates a smiley face on my phone or what situation would warrant a smiley face being used. Men don't use smiley faces in their texts and should be given a tremendous amount of S*&T for doing so. However, this insult comes from a man using words such as "creel" and "leviathanic" to a describe a dude fishing trip, so I can't be too upset, or feel compelled to defend my manhood. Granted, I don't know how to ride a horse, drive a tractor, bleed a radiator, or even change my oil, but I am man enough not to use smiley faces in a text. By the way, I can't fix a toilet, mend a fence, roof a house, whittle, shoot a gun, or clean a fish either, but I can mow my grass in perfectly symmetrical diagonal lines and play a decent round of golf. I don't do electrical work, plumbing, carpentry, or masonry, but I can hook up a 12-speaker surround system for my 100" plasma.

And why, you may ask, are my manskills so deficient? Why can I do the worm frontwards and backwards, but can't change my sparkplugs? Why can I bong a beer, but can't use a table saw? Maybe because I was raised by the generation that gave the world "light" beer and new Coke. I am a product of suburbs and shopping malls, of Atari and MTV. My idea of "roughing it" consists of drinking Miller Lite instead of my favorite microbrew. I am the 21st century man.

Bonnie Tyler had a dream in 1984 and I believe it went something like this:

"Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods? Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds? Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need. I need a hero. I'm holding out for a hero til the morning light."

Sorry that didn't work out for you Bonnie. Somewhere that hero lost his testicles and went out and bought himself a mini-van!

It is time to explore old school manskills and to get to the bottom of the "demanualization" of our generation. Let the Revolution begin!!

What's Happened?

I was hanging out at home one morning with nothing in particular to do; I decided to knock the dust from my fishing gear and head to my favorite semi-secret fishing spot.  I texted my buddy Joe to see if he'd like to come along; the conversation went something like this:

ME:  Going fishing. Want to come?

JOE:  I'm in. What time?

ME:  Pick you up in 15.

JOE:  Sweet.   :-)

ME:  WTF!?  Is that a smiley face?

JOE:  Was an accident.

ME:  (Disgusted silence)

JOE:  Seriously.

When I think of a couple of guys heading out on a fishing trip, I think of layered flannel shirts, logging boots, and a long, treacherous hike through mountains inhabited only by rattlesnakes and bears.  Knowing there's no guarantee of safe return, the crafty woodsmen bring along emergency supplies like dehydrated beef, tourniquets, and flare guns, their creels chock-full of rudimentary cooking utensils in case they're forced to spend the night in a shelter carved out of a snow drift and eat the flesh of wild game or river trout landed with hand-crafted fishing rods and a crude net fashioned from the branches of a very young oak. 

* * *

Joe and I pulled into the parking lot of the National Prairie Preserve, locked the Subaru, and prepared to do battle with leviathanic creatures of the deep.  We carried our Wal-Mart fishing poles and a few brightly-colored lures down the well-worn path to the overstocked pond and went head to head with all that mother nature had to offer.  After winching several 8-ouncers from the murky depths, we decided to take a break.  I handed my good buddy Joe a cold beer and asked: "So what's with the smiley face?" 

Thus started the conversation that continues here.  We spent the remainder of the afternoon basking in the elemental glory of a warm summer day wondering what's happened to men.  "Men just aren't as manly as they used to be" was the tired refrain as we tried to trace the origins of what our good buddy Arlan calls demanification.  We had no trouble identifying countless examples, but repeatedly got stuck when we tried to pinpoint the reason for our collective decline.

Here, friends, is your opportunity to join the conversation . . . the movement . . . the revolution, as a couple of guys set off in search of Man Skills.