Return to the man cave

It’s been a few weeks since I penned a column on my man cave (Outside Perspective, “Adventures in man cave land”). A lot has happened in that gap, and it would only be fair to update my readers on my progress.
It’s been slow going, that’s for sure. I definitely did not score a bearskin rug, nor will I have the wall space or enough electricity for a gigantic flat screen TV or flickering neon signs. There is also no chance in hell I’ll fit a pinball machine in there, and it turns out I have neighbors who won’t go for live, late night rock ‘n’ roll without having the law intervene. I’m bummed, too. You have no idea.
Effectively planning a man cave is no easy task, mind you. It’s painful to admit, but there are certain inherent reasons why a woman commands the majority of the household. She has a genetic disposition for design and avoiding clutter. Yeah, the cave might seem a little frazzled and rough around the edges in its current state, but I’m OK with that. It adds character, something you just will not find in the sterile confines of the female castle. Just remember, men: reclaiming your man space will require long-term focus and commitment, two traits we do not possess. 
The other day I was stocking my bar (OK, it’s not actually a bar in its true form, but an old bookshelf now functioning as a bar) when I found the most atrocious piece of female paraphernalia imaginable: a glass heart-shaped candy jar. A cute, little memento my lady acquired at a (horror of horrors!) bridal bazaar. I was flabbergasted. I wasn’t sure how to react. For starters, how this thing found its way across party lines is unimaginable. But there it was consuming precious bar space, devoid of candy, no less.  Apparently I need to beef up security. 
Other than that one piece of foul lady accoutrement, things have been going swimmingly well around the cave. This might not sound manly, but I have to admit a good rug really ties the whole concept together. In a strange way, a rug makes the cave official, as if the man were declaring, “this is a living space, not just a place to park the car and store lawn chairs.” 
Now the dartboard has been a real hit! I went with the old-fashioned corkboard and heavy darts, and I don’t regret it one bit. I’m a little rusty, and as it turns out, my lady is an old dart champion. But it’s my cave, and we play by my rules.
My only other problem is with the amount of household refuse that manages to find its way out to the cave. Just when I’ve cleared enough space for, say, a weight bench (good idea, eh?), a bag of old clothes will consume the empty spot. I haven’t a clue where these mysterious bags come from, but they have to go.    
No doubt about it, dignified men and heads of state will start taking notice of my accomplishments in due time. For now, I take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in my struggle. Did you know they have a TV show based entirely on man caves? And that there are hundreds of man cave Web sites out there? Apparently, the revolution will be televised.

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