Picture this: bear skin rug, cold keg full of home brew, dart board, huge flat screen TV for the games, recliner, flickering neon signs, a spot for my fishing gear and recent catches, sharp saws, tools, loud musical instruments, and that throwback poster of Farrah Fawcett. Sound like the ideal marriage between a dive bar and Grizzly Adam’s garage? Perfect. That’s exactly what I’m going for.
I’m developing a grand scheme in my head, and whether or not it pans out depends on various underlying factors. You see, I’m designing my own man cave — a special, private place where a man can retire for the evening, if not the weekend. I have a garage of fair size, and quite frankly, I’m tired of all the junk piling up. What a waste of perfectly good space!
I already have a fresh start. I routinely dig through my extensive camping gear collection, and I even hung up an old, busted picture of a man’s man, Tony Montana. Speaking of Montana, I’ll likely display my Montana state flag, the one I picked up as a young boy during an epic vacation to — you guessed it — Montana, the manliest state in the union. I’ve somehow inherited a quiver of used, badly dinged boards, a manly collection indeed. I’ll have to build a manly setup for my equally manly dog (I’m serious, no purse pooches for me — he’s a 75-pound, man-eating American bulldog). Insert the recreational items mentioned above, and voila, I have a man cave.
But as the old saying goes, nothing worth doing is ever that easy. I envision problems with my man cave from the get-go. For starters, the washer and dryer are in the garage/cave. Don’t get me wrong. I do laundry. All the time. But every now and then the Lady of Leisure will want something washed a special way, so she’ll need access to my cave. I foresee an ensuing clash. Maybe even blood, I don’t know. Lines have been drawn.
Guys, don’t you hate it how your significant other consumes 90 percent of the house with her decorative rules and regulations. In my humble abode, I must consult my lady, head of the household HOA, before anything goes up or comes down. So there I am tearing through a box of junk out in the cave the other night, when she has the audacity to say something like “Ask me before you throw anything out, OK?” For once, it was me demanding to know what the purpose of this or that is, and why aren’t we putting it out to the curb. I haven’t been in that situation, well, ever. And then last night I’m out there pouring over a map when she indignantly asks “Do you plan on sleeping out here?” Yeah, maybe I do. Chicks.
Listen ladies, I know you don’t understand. It’s just something we men can’t explain. We need our space, and since you rule the roost, we’re forced to retreat to the darkest, sometimes dingiest spot in the house. This has little to do with male chauvinism (although the potential is certainly there). We just deal with cobwebs, dirt, oil spots, odd smells and sand far better than you. Besides, you’ve never shown an inkling of interest in the garage anyway, so why not forfeit the space to a respectable tenant?
Anybody know where I can find a nice, used pinball machine? Free access to the man cave if you come across one.
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