Men's zones are where men can be men, alone or among other men. They are the last bastions of the industrious male. Want to find a guy? Look in the garage, in his workshop, in the basement at Sears, at a strip club, at a drag strip, in the barbershop, at a men's club, in an M1 tank, on the deck of the USS Missouri, at a Greco-Roman wrestling tourney (well, maybe not)-and even in the bathroom just down the hall.
In each place a man can celebrate being a man quietly, without fanfare, without having to put on a silly party hat. Nor will he later have to justify to his wife the time he spent there. Women don't really mind our excursions into the men's zone. When we're in a guy state of mind, women would just as soon we do it someplace they haven't just mopped or vacuumed.
However, men's zones occasionally mystify women. "I just can't imagine what you do in that garage all morning."
Trying to cut and match corners of baseboard molding with a handheld jigsaw while dreaming of a miter box all your own. Changing the transmission fluid. Listening to the ball game on the old AM radio and detailing the tractor mower.
A man might just as well say he was meditating, only no man would cop to that, even if he knew the Maharishi personally.
"Ah. . nothing."
Women aren't excluded from men's zones. The occasional "pop in" is allowed. But most prefer to avoid these areas unless they have no choice. Showing up unannounced in the men's locker room can cause major discomfort, both to the woman and to the naked man. Men's zone decor also leaves much to be desired. It's too dirty, too loud, too smelly, and the lighting is never right. How much fun can a woman really have in a room filled with war memorabilia, old Playboy calendars, and whatever neon beer signs her husband scrounged?
Men's zones are gun shops but not liquor stores, rec rooms but not gyms. Gyms used to be men's zones, but now there are probably more women than men shaping and toning. I've seen women in gyms who must be working out somewhere else just to look good enough to come to the gym. Boxing gyms are still pretty much a man's domain, but now some women are stepping into the ring and onto the canvas. I don't get it. Doesn't it hurt? Damn straight it hurts. It's a man's place to pretend something doesn't hurt.
Like many other formerly all‑male provinces, the gym has become bizonal. Bizonality is burgeoning like the wild hair on a forty‑year‑old man's ears. Nothing you can do about it except trim regularly. For instance, boardrooms used to be male‑dominated. Not so now. But this sort of social progress is absolutely the right thing. Besides, men have always conducted the real business of company and state in the executive washroom. Sorry, we don't have an extra key at the moment.
And what's this with women getting tattoos, for god sakes!
The next time I see Cher fm going to have to have a word with her.
Like it or not, the bedroom is a woman's zone. I'd like to pretend otherwise, but between the color‑coordinated bedspread and curtains and towel sets in the master bath, I've accepted reality. Men can brag about what they do in the bedroom all they want-most of it's bullshit-but she who chooses the petunia‑patterned sheets is really running the show. I like to counter her bedroom victory with the furnace‑water‑heater room, definitely a man's zone.
The shop is still where the handyman lives. And every woman likes a handyman, although most don't realize it. You don't see "handy" high on those women's‑magazine lists of qualities gals want in a male. (Sense of humor is always tops. Naturally I'd like to believe that, but I don't think Warren Beatty is all that funny-and look how he did.) Women just assume men are handy. And it's a good thing we are. Men make it their business to know how things work.
Even if a man isn't particularly adept, he will instinctively opt for deception over admission. This behavior, found in all male primates, is commonly referred to as "faking it." (FYI: In my recent studies at Cornell on primate behavior, I discovered that of all simians only the male Rhesus monkey buckles under pressure. In testing, nine out of ten readily admitted that they didn't know how to install a ceiling fan and ten out of ten pulled over and asked for directions.)
Men, on the other hand, get infuriated when a little drip stops the whole show. The mental stimulation of trying to figure out how we're going to keep from looking stupid after we've stripped a Phillips‑head screw is indescribable. Besides, men rarely get an attitude when asked to take a look under the sink or at a carburetor, or to change a light bulb. When's the last time you heard a guy say, "Yeah, I can do it, but fm just not going to."
That's only something you hear from your girlfriend, after she becomes your wife.
- -
Sometimes, without any prior warning, you stumble upon the perfect men's zone. I knew a guy in Indiana who had a split‑level home he'd designed himself. Somehow, he managed to combine his garage, basement, workshop, and den into one huge men's zone. You could drive the car into the garage, move a wall, and there was his workshop, den, and basement. The feeling is akin to being inside a church, especially if it's got a floor drain.
He had a floor drain. Every guy wants a floor drain. Who cares where it goes? Even if it's fake. A drain with a little grate on it means cleaning up is a snap. You hose the place down, and voila! It's the kind of accessory that can make a guy speak French against his will.
Let me take you on a tour.
Along one wall was a very cool particle‑board work area. He didn't have to worry about damaging it because it was built to be damaged. A woman would want the surface varnished and you wouldn't be able to put anything on it without a coaster. They'd want it pretty‑looking to begin with. This bench looked crappy when it was installed. Perfect.
All the machines that powered the house were also in his area. But they were cleaned up and polished as though on display. This guy didn't hide the furnace. It was spit‑shined and ready to be presented. The water heater was immaculate and without rust. Women generally want these things out of sight. Preferably in another zip code.
He also had some old tools. But not just any tools. These were metal‑fabricating tools. One was a metal turret lathe. I don't think he even knew how to work it. Anyone who did could have repaired a locomotive. However, knowing how to use your tools is not a prerequisite in the men's zone. They just have to look good.
In one corner was a refrigerator filled with cold long‑necked beers and nonalcoholic beers for his buddies who couldn't drink anymore. A Pirelli poster was tacked on the front. A water softener stood nearby. There was also a pool table with a half‑built model ship on the worn green felt. And a slot machine that really worked. (Slot machines are contraband in Indiana. All the more reason to keep one around in plain sight.)
A high shelf encircled the room. On display were beer bottles from around the world. Cleaned up. He actually took the time to dust them more than once a decade. In the rafters were rows of boxes, all the same, with perfectly printed labels: "Photos from '61 to '72, summer cottage." Talk about organized!
On one bench was a little AM radio, and a TV with a tinfoil antenna. Clearly, the guy could have afforded any television, but a black‑and‑white TV is the only thing you can have in a shop. If you can still find one.
His tool bench was an altar to man. The surface was well worn, with nicks and cuts. An old metal vice anchored one end. Half‑done projects were strewn everywhere. Probably locomotive parts.
The whole place smelled like a man. In other words, motor oil and solvent-a good cologne, by the way. Depending on where you stood, you could catch whiffs of turpentine, benzine-all the 'zines. Anything caustic to the earth, it was there. Want to melt lead? No problem.
Next to the tool bench was a gun rack. A machine gun from World War Two was the piece de resistance. And it was loaded, with a big crowbar lock through it.
On the tool pegboard, each tool was outlined. His hammer was even worn out-you don't see that very often. Screws, nuts, and bolts were each in their own plastic drawer, sorted by size and type.
It was all so perfect and so odd: Men can organize a spacious work bench but can't keep poop stains out of their underwear.
My garage is pretty cool, too. It's no Lost City of the Incas, but other guys are jealous. I've got a couple of cars, my tools, and one of those trash cans from the thirties. It's clean as a whistle. I hang out there all summer, with the big door open.
My wife hates it.
"Would you close the door?" she always says.
I prefer that people come into the house through the garage.
"People don't enter the house through the garage," she says.
I've always felt safer that way. Because only your friends will do it. Strangers don't go that way. This is one way to tell the difference. When she thinks I'm not looking, she shuts the garage door. I think her real problem is that she doesn't want the neighbors to see what's inside.
I had to tease her. "Good god! They saw the garage! What are we going to do?"
"You think that's funny?" she answered.
"Yes, it's hysterical. But maybe you're right. What if they saw a rake or something in there?"
Not even a smile.
I think she should let me be. I've given her the rest of the house. I even let her design me an office.
She can feel free to use it while I'm in the garage.
- -
One of the newest men's zones is a throwback to the oldest. Thanks to the modern men's movement, guys can once again hang out naked around a roaring fire in the wilderness, chant, and bang on drums until dawn.
In prehistoric times we used to discuss the fine points of buffalo meat, the proper grip for dragging a woman to your cave, and how to distinguish female bloating from overeating. Now, naked in all our flabby, middle‑class glory, we come to confess that we didn't get along with our dads, discuss the perfect golf grip, and try to remember how to tell the difference between female bloating and overeating.
I read somewhere that a scientific study determined that all this male sharing is due more to anonymity than to any real sense of bonding. A guy can tell his secrets because he knows he'll never see the other guys again. Well, of course. That's male bonding. If you're really curious where your relationship is going with another man, you can always wrestle naked in front of a fireplace like Oliver Reed and Alan Bates did in the movie Women in Love.
You'll note that they didn't call the film Men in Love.
I don't think the New Age men's‑movement trend is going to last very long. If it's good for anything, it's just to keep women on their toes. For some time now men have been insecure and unsure of how to behave in the presence of the new woman. And who says a little confusion isn't good for a woman?
I was reading Robert Bly's book Iron John in bed, and my wife cut me down about it. Generally we look at each other's books to see what's interesting our partner lately. But I was all quiet and too engrossed in Iron John for her to stand it.
"Ooooh, a story about men," she said. "What is it? Some sort of cult?" She was really dogging me. "Is this some kind of men's club you're going to join?" It was as if my reading the book were threatening her.
"No. It's just a book about guys talking about what bugs them."
"What could possibly be bugging you guys?" she said.
I said, "You go to the bookstore and it's full of women's books. Help this, help that, help yourself, help her, forget about him. This is just some stupid book about a guy. I didn't even say I liked it."
But she was already mad. The thought that men might be getting together must have scared her.
Not to worry.
The problem is that once these movements become a "thing" they're over with. For a while, in the men's magazines, every other ad was for drums to beat on. "Sign up now for our, wilderness weekend. We can get you back to IT."
Business ruins the flavor.
Besides, I've already had my men's‑movement weekend. Try driving from Detroit to Indy in the back of a Dodge van with twelve sweaty guys to see a race, singing J. Geils songs, and you'll understand what I mean.
- -
Men like to sit in dark, wood‑paneled places, in high‑backed chairs, drinking aromatic liquor, and smoking fragrant cigars that smell like the bottom of men's feet. We like to eat salty foods like smoked herring, pistachios, pork rinds, and sometimes just plain salt. All salt does to a woman is make her retain water, which is the last thing she wants. In men's clubs, men do business. Can you imagine a woman wanting to do business when she's bloated?
One great old restaurant in Detroit with a men's‑club feel was Carl's Chophouse. Plenty of salesmen went to dinner there. The typical salesman dinner was a porterhouse steak that made the table list to one side, a baked potato, tub o' scotch, no vegetables, plenty of butter, chocolate cake and more scotch for dessert.
Plenty of salesmen died there, too, which gave Carl great pride.
The men's club is a fading tradition. Women want in for some reason, maybe just to prove that we can't keep them out. The club used to be where men would go for a night out when they wanted to be men. Now it's where women can go for a night out when they want to be men. They can have dinner, smoke cigars, drink brandy, do business, and then go to a strip club. Now there are strip clubs for women, too (only they're not as much fun).
As I said previously-but apparently can't repeat often enough-for me, going to a strip club is like going to a restaurant where I can't eat the food. They just bring by big plates of steamed vegetables and beef, and go, "Hey! Don't touch that! You want that to sit down next to you? That's another five bucks. You want me to set it right in front of you and undulate the thing? Twelve‑fifty. For twenty dollars, I'll set it in your lap."
Now I play golf. Everyone plays golf now. That is what men used to do, and now they're doing it again. Golf is also a lot like going to a strip club. You get all charged up, pay big money to hang out on a beautiful course, and start drinking early. Eighteen holes later, you're plastered and frustrated, and most of your balls are missing.
Thanks to creeping bizonality, women play golf, too. The only difference between men and women on the golf course is speed. Women don't play as fast as men do, and they get all pissy with us when we express our displeasure at having to stand around while they gently fan the ball. Believe me, we're just thinking about the foursome behind us. Just hit it already. I'd play with my wife, but on a big course she'd just take too damn long.
What am I talking about? On a big course, I take too long.
For a man, one of the great pleasures of golfing isn't even on the fairways and greens, or in the bar. The clubhouse locker room is still a pure men's zone. Other guys call you "sir." An obsequious fellow cleans the crud off your golf shoes and clubs. Another shines your street shoes. A gentleman in the bathroom offers an assortment of ointments and tonics, and doesn't ever seem to notice the sounds and smells of your "business" beforehand. And, thank god, there's no place to sit and do your makeup.
The whole area has the funky male smell of washed, wet linen; body odor; sweat; shoe insoles; anti‑athlete's‑foot powder; and the three primary male aromas: bay rum, Right Guard, and Brut.
Bathrooms at home are nothing like this. Men have to get past the frilly hand towels, lavender soaps, sachet boxes, and baskets full of female hair‑care products and facial scrubs, before they can feel comfortable in the can, much less make it their own for a couple of hours.
Women take forever in the bathroom, but they're putting on their makeup. Men can spend all day in the bathroom reading a gun magazine. I read feminist authors, just in case you wondered.
The prison bathroom was pretty damn nice. And convenient. The toilet was right next to the bed. A little stainless‑steel affair, but powerful. There was none of this "God, I hope that thing disappears." It would suck a blanket down. If you weren't careful, it would suck the air out of the room. We used to start small fires nearby and see if we could put them out just by flushing.
The perfect men's bathroom would be all white tile and the smell of Pine‑Sol. There'd be a magazine rack, a window, a stereo system, color TV, and a refrigerator-all of which you could reach without standing up.
And a floor drain.
- -
Women may have green thumbs, but men have traditionally taken care of large plots of land. We had to till the soil and make it do something. Women did the cooking, but men had to feed the family. We evolved from hunters and killers to managing the land. And there's still a little farmer left in every man.
These days we just have to keep the grass short. A real man doesn't hire a gardener, he cuts his own. This takes us to another men's zone: the garden‑supply store. That's where you can purchase a tractor mower so big you have to get it smog‑tested every two years. That's where you learn to pronounce Briggs & Stratton, mulching blades, vermiculite, John Deere.
All my life I'd dreamed of a John Deere tractor, so I bought a big sucker. They accessorize nicely, too. A $94 option was headlights. Had to have them in case I wanted to mow at night. Hubcaps cost $230. I didn't even have to think about it. I didn't think my wife would think about it either.
I was wrong. Women always notice the accessories.
"You put hubcaps on the tractor!"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I don't know, aerodynamics or something."
The truth is that men have few ways to accessorize their lives. We accessorize steering wheels and seat covers in our cars, but that's about it. Women have department stores full of accessories to wander through like Moses in the desert. The volume of accessories available to women is measured in cubic light years. And yet, all a woman needs is new earrings for a whole new look. Same fat head. Same mole on her cheek. But suddenly it's a new look. Men are happy with a new mud guard for the lawn tractor.
The problem is that I don't get to use my tractor too much. Back East people have lawns. At my West Coast house, I don't have a lawn. It's more like a salad. I had a salad once at the Palm Restaurant. I think it cost $400. It looked like my lawn clippings: dandelions, flowers, and grubs.
Back East-where the tractor is-I've got an acre and a half. I grow corn out of my backroom. But I'm not there much. So my stepfather, a retired guy, takes care of my lawn when I'm not around. One day I caught him putting up little statues on the lawn and mumbling under his breath. Turns out he was saying crabgrass prayers. Sexually transmitted diseases are easier to deal with than a crabgrass problem.
The only solution to this socially embarrassing situation was to take care of it right, and right away. I hired a lawn service. A big truck pulled up the next day and started spraying stuff on my grass: Chem Grow or Chem Kill, maybe. It could have been iced tea for all I knew. They assured me it was environmentally sound. That's why I didn't understand how come every time I looked out the window there was a different guy spraying it? And why was he wearing the full radioactive suit with the little visor?
"What happened to the last guy?"
"Died. But don't worry. This stuff is safe!"
"Is that why my dog's new puppies all have twelve legs?"
"Have you checked the water softener?"
But I didn't care. At least the grass grew. It grew so fast it blew the motor out of my John Deere. Suddenly, I had a John Deere lawn chair.
- -
Downstairs at Sears is a man's home. Craftsman tools are to a man what fine jewelry is to a woman. When I reach the bottom of the escalator and gaze out on those acres of implements, my nipples get rock hard. It's so bright and shiny I have to wear sunglasses in the basement.
Men don't need a reason to buy tools. As long as there's an empty spot on the pegboard, we just have to have them.
There are tools in the Sears basement I've never heard of. What, for instance, is a conduit bender? Oddly enough, it bends conduits.
"No, I don't need a dictionary, I'll just take it."
My Mom said the only reason men are alive is to go to a hardware store or a Sears. I love Sears. I grew up near a Sears. There's a Sears in every town. However, avoid the upstairs at Sears. That's where they have Sears fashion-clearly an oxymoron. Whoever makes their tools evidently also makes their clothes. I make sure my wife buys her fashions at K‑Mart.
When I was a kid my mom would punish us by making us go to Sears for dress slacks.
"You've lit your sister on fire for the last time."
"Noooo! I'd rather flatten my balls with a ball peen hammer!"
I never wanted those tough‑skin, ugly, double‑kneed pants. You could drag behind a bulldozer for six miles on a gravel road on your knees, and it would feel as cool and refreshing as water‑skiing. I think they should make postal employees wear Sears fashion as their uniforms.
It could stop bullets, no problem.
- -
Bob Vila once came to my house in Michigan, half crocked out of his mind just kidding, Bob. We did a project together for his show. I was building a new garage and a family room. His crew wanted to do a run‑through, but Bob knew me well enough and said, "Nah." Then we just walked around the project, and he asked, "What are you doing here and here?" I instinctively faked it. That is, I did it just the way he would.
"Well, Bob, what we've done here is we've poured our foundation."
He kept trying to throw me off with these big words. "You're using double‑ought blah‑blah‑blah."
I said, "No, we're not. We're using triple." Everything he said I upped it. "How are you heating the place?"
"We're using a coat of low‑level uranium six inches underneath the floor. The natural breakdown of reactive materials causes heat."
"Is that a danger to your family?" he asked, with a straight face.
I said, "It's an unseen danger. You don't see it, therefore it doesn't exist. Maybe generations from now we'll look like frogs, but now we heat our house for almost five thousand years penny‑free."
Then he said, "Wait. There's no basement here."
"You noticed. Actually we built the basement off site," I explained. "We will finish the basement, then lift the entire house and set the basement underneath. I find that cheaper."
This went on for about an hour. As we were talking, my crew finished doing the floor, and then, on nobody's cue, Bob walked right through the wet concrete.
Never trust a TV professional.
- -
Sports are considered by many to be a men's zone. Okay. Fine. But I can't talk about them here. Men and sports are so big it would take seventeen volumes. Also, many guys are so into sports they know statistics about statistics. The only thing I can quote chapter and verse is the Mustang repair manual. I don't even know enough about sports to try and bullshit you.
The only thing I wonder about is the women in the men's locker room thing. What's that all about? Ever see men clamoring to get in the women's locker room? They respect women's privacy in the locker room, unlike some women color commentators who made it a point to go into the men's locker room. Men just wouldn't do that. I just don't think male sportscasters really want to get into the women's locker room to interview naked six‑foot‑five female basketball players.
On the other hand, I might be totally wrong.
- -
Men are defined by what they do, which is why the classic men's zone is the workplace. We're there all day long. Sometimes we die there, because men do more of the dangerous work. Women blame us for being in control, but we're meaner to ourselves than we are to women. Men work the oil derricks. Men walk the high steel beams. Men repair bridges. Is this by choice or because men are smarter? Or because men are dumber? These jobs don't say to me, "It's a man's world. We run everything." But someone's gotta do it, so the men do. Men take the grungy jobs. If we were really as mean as women say, we'd stay home with the kids and let them enjoy salesman dinners and other industrial accidents.
Attention all women: Men have bosses, too. Men are just as put out by their lack of control as women. I think eight guys-supreme bosses-run everything. Well, I don't know for sure, but this alien who took me into his flying saucer and stuck things up my behind while he examined me why is it always the rear end? what's up there that's so damn revealing? — told me this as his way of apologizing for my temporarily excruciating discomfort. He's now taken over the body of my family doctor, so I see him a lot. He also told me that no one would believe me-about who really runs the world, I mean.
Whatever women are going through, it's not men's fault. If it is, we sure don't know it. I just thought I'd make that perfectly clear.
- -
Conventional wisdom says that if you want something done well you should do it yourself. So I've decided to design my own amusement park. It will be the ultimate men's zone.
I'll call it Tim Al‑Land.
Men are fascinated by, preoccupied with, and genetically predisposed toward two things: Construction and Destruction. Think of the stuff that boys do. Build and destroy. Nothing's changed.
Women are invited to Tim Al‑Land, but as with most men's zones, women just don't want to go there. It smells like feet and body odor. It's not real comfortable. It's comfortable enough, if you're the kind of guy who likes spending all day on a park bench. It's also chilly all the time, and loud.
Throughout the park there are signs posting rules, which, when broken, earn you a free food ticket. The food pavilions serve the basic men's food groups: meat, carbohydrates, salt, and fat. The hot dogs are rubbery and the potato chips stale. Everything's
MEN'S ZONES
cooked on a fire and shoved into a casing. All beverages are ice cold. All the tables are tailgates. In the bathrooms there are no toilet seats. But there is a recorded voice that cycles through, "Can't you remember to put the seat down when you're through. How hard can it be? I don't find it funny. I almost fell in. . " It always gets a big laugh from the married guys. There aren't even any women's bathrooms.
You gotta walk through a big drill to get into Tim Al‑Land.
"There's your armature right there. Your pinion's there, son. Stand by the trigger and I'll take your picture."
Inside, you have to wear a vest with lots of pockets. If you forget yours we provide them, just like fancy restaurants when they require coats and ties and you come dressed like a bozo.
As the creator of Tim Al‑Land, I suggest the ladies just leave their men at the gate and take advantage of the complete beauty makeover offered at the Tim Al‑Land Ladies Annex across the street. Our motto: "We'll make sure it takes hours. And all your girlfriends will be there."
Tim Al‑Land: Maybe I can get Disney to do this.
The park reflects the best and worst in man, and is divided into zones. The first is Constructionland.
In Constructionland, you can frame a house. Hell, you can put up a barn. You can lay brick. You can build a bridge. I don't know any guy in the world who wouldn't spend twenty‑two bucks for a ticket to run a backhoe all day long. Learn how a front‑end loader works. Drive a bulldozer, a grader. You get training in a big gravel pit. Seven bucketloads and you're outta there, so the next guy can get a turn. I once got a letter from some guy who wondered how I'd feel driving the largest front‑end loader on the planet Earth. How would I feel lifting thirty thousand pounds of payload, putting it wherever I wanted? I got a chubby just reading the letter.
Next to the gravel pit is a special place where you can use big metal jaws hanging from a crane to try to pick up a car and put it down a little chute. Get it down the chute, it's yours. Damage it and it's yours, too. Of course you damage it!
Even though blowing up things requires the same energy and creativity as building things, Destructionland is clearly the dark side of man.
In Destructionland, a.k.a. Militaryland, men get to use all that Army stuff: machine guns, howitzers, tanks. Only this time they're real. Remember that bridge you built? Blow it up!
My wife would never get inside a tank: "It's so hot in here, it's so cramped. You like this? This is fun for you?"
Every man would be thinking something else entirely: "Will this go through that wall?" Soon you're going over a hill at full speed while the barrel's going sideways, firing hot steel.
"Is this the only color? Is it drafty in here? It's so musty. What's that diesel smell?"
In Militaryland you can also sit on the deck of the USS Missouri-now decommissioned-and shoot a sixty‑inch gun. The shells go twenty miles and, if aimed properly, will obliterate your neighbor's house and leave yours standing.
Of course, my wife would be on the deck going, "It's so loud!"
Me? I'd be half drunk from swilling brown liquor and yelling, "Shoot it again!" The USS Missouri would also feature my version of skeet shooting. They fling a little imported car off an island and into the air, and you blow it to bits with a sixty‑millimeter. Bang! Bang Bang! Yeah!
In Militaryland you could also take a ride on a Seawolf submarine. Hell, why not water‑ski behind it? Think of it: You whiz by the dock, wearing your Sears fashion specials, and wave at everyone. No boat just you.
A couple of years ago I got to see the USS Nimitz, an aircraft carrier. I met the duty‑control officer, since promoted to some important liaison job. He was from Down South, and smarter than I'll ever be. But he still sounded dumber than a ham hock.
"That boat five football feels long. Nuklar pawr"
In Militaryland, you could also ski behind the Nimitz. You and 3,800 of your favorite friends. Little heads bobbing up and down on the water, trying to keep their tips up. "Hey, Dad!" Takes almost fifteen miles to get her going. "Get your heads up!" Pulls everybody up. "All right!"
There'd always be some bonehead trying to cross the wake. If he falls, everybody has to let go and wait for the captain to yell, "Pull her round again!"
There would have to be some sort of beer pavilion for refreshments. Something with a Bavarian theme, like the Obermeyer Tent. Waitresses in halter tops and lederhosen. Beer steins with relief maps of Italy on them. We could sit around and try to figure out why the Bavarians made cups with metal caps that serve no useful purpose.
After you quench your thirst, it's into the men's room. It's all trough. Forty feet long. The trough of hell. Solid aluminum. Water sloshing through. Eighty guys lined up like horses. And the stalls: no doors, just holes in the floor, like in Italy. No woman would understand it.
Another thing women might be surprised at is that nothing in Tim Al‑Land is remotely connected to sex. No way. Sex is not a man's zone. That switches men into another gear. Then they get competitive and fight. That's not cohesion, that's competition. I also figure that unless there's enough to go around, and everyone is happy with what they get-which I don't think is ever possible--then women wouldn't be a good idea. Besides, I'd want to keep all the beer waitresses to myself.
Finally, it's off to Fishingland. Full of fish things. You can see fish, touch fish, kiss fish. Even feel what it's like to be hooked.
"Hold still, kid."
"Oh, god that hurts! Oh, sonofabitch that hurts!"
"Try that!"
"Oh, jeez, you're right, that hook really hurts. Isn't that great!" You've got to watch a bass‑fishing tournament to really understand the male psyche. I watched one on TNN. It was the seminationals. The contest consisted of teams of two fat guys with double given names-Joe Bob, Ray Bob, Tim Dick-sitting on top of bar stools in a boat made of thirty‑five feet of metal‑flake fiberglass, powered by an 830‑horsepower Mercury motor. Are bass particularly fast little fish? Are Jim Bob and Sam Bob trying to run them down? Do they have to grab them by the head? Why do the boats have to be so fast?
I flew down to Mexico with marlin fishermen once. Now these are big fish. Do you have to eat a piece of marlin to be in this club? Do fishermen even eat fish? I don't think so.
After all the fun at Tim Al‑Land, it's finally time to go.
There's a bar next door to the Ladies' Annex where you can grab a beer just in case your wife's hair still isn't done.
But please, no firing the sixty‑millimeter guns at the Annex.
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What excites me about men is what they can do when they direct their energy. There's nothing more impressive than the things we've built. Environmentally and socially there may be something wrong with the Hoover Dam, but if you look at it and feel the grandeur of it, and realize that men designed and built that, it's almost too breathtaking to bear. And the Grand Canyon! Took almost two years-and men did it. And how about the Chunnel, the tunnel between England and France? So what if they missed each other by a few feet trying to meet in the middle? Come on. A few feet in the scheme of things? A little water helps break up the boredom of the drive.
I'll let you in on a secret. All mistakes men make are planned. This gives us a reason to go back to where we live and breathe.
In the men's zone.