Machines and Arses

So what makes a man a man? That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? This could open up that proverbial worm-infested can. By the way, why would someone buy, sell, or wish to own a vessel occupied by worms? And how are they canned? Is it like green beans or creamed corn?

But let’s get back to the topic: manliness. Now, I don’t want a deluge of comments from the-gender-of-which-I-am- not-a-member accusing me of sexism, misogyny, or gender-bias, but let’s face it, boys will be boys and girls will be girls. And never the twain shall meet – well, er, occasionally they meet, but that often results in the production of more boys and girls.

So 120 words have passed, and I haven’t said anything. Yet you, dear reader, have been lulled into believing I have. Like with political speeches. Isn’t that something?

Back to the topic, again. I was concerned about the manliness of my son. He is the fourth child, and only boy of the four. He plays with dolls, and he plays house with his bossy older sister. Naturally, I watched – without interference, do not chastise me ladies – with a certain sense of concern. Would he be fey? Would he prefer floral arranging to auto mechanics? It’s the same age-old question asked by all fathers. In fact, my father is still asking that one. I never did get the hang of auto mechanics (or ¾ inch-drive drills, or pipe dope, or torque wrenches, or galvanized rebar sprocket splicers). And yet I turned out almost just fine.

If I may cut to the chase, my boy is all boy. How do I know? There are several key indicators. First, even though we have no guns, per se, in the house – no cap guns, ray guns, squirt guns, or BB guns, not out of any conscious decision not to have guns, the girls just never asked for any – the boy still shoots at things. He will use whatever stick-straight object he can find: a broom handle, tennis racquet, even Thomas the Tank Engine*. He does this all without prompting by anyone. Cross his path, and you die. Manly.

The second key indicator of manliness is machinery. The boy likes trucks, cars, trains, airplanes, or any motorized vehicle. Not only does he like the plastic or die-cast version of said vehicles, he likes the real things. He watches the garbage men with keen interest every Wednesday morning. We hope this is not an indication of his future. No offense to all you Sanitation Engineers who work very hard at a thankless job. In fact, let me thank you now. Thanks.

But the third key indicator may be the most relevant of all in the determination of manliness. Let me explain it with an illustration. Upon driving home from church on Sunday, the older girls were looking out the window at clouds and describing what they looked like. “That one’s a bunny.” “That one is flower.” The youngest girl joined in as well, not to be out done. “That one looks like a Dora the Explorer*.”
The boy, just two and a half and lagging behind in language skills, at least as compared to his precocious and loquacious sisters, would not be left behind in this one. He looked out the window, and in an uncustomarily clear and articulate voice said, “That looks like a butt.” He laughed, made farting noises with his lips, and then laughed some more.

Behind the wheel of our motorized vehicle, the boy’s father breathed a sigh of relief. Yep, he’s a boy, no doubt about it.


*Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer are registered trade marks of big corporations that make way more money than I, and don’t know anything about me or my family or any fart noises emitted therefrom.

Perseverance

Have you been told that persistence pays off? Stick to your guns! Never give up! Never surrender! The following is an example of this stick-to-it-iveness: a lesson for us all. It is a conversation I had with my two year old son, transcribed here for you my friends (to the best of my recollection).

(Camera pans down. A typical kitchen in a typical house comes into view. In the center of the kitchen stands a father holding a lemur-like two year old boy. The boy is wearing jeans and a long-sleeve tee shirt stained with chocolate ice cream. The boy spots a bag of chocolate chips on a high shelf)

BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: No. No chips.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: No chips now.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: You can’t have any chips now.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: You just had ice cream.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: Those are Mommy’s chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Daddy said “No.” Now no chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Hey look! It's the Doodlebops!
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: It’s just not a good idea for you to have chips now. So stop asking.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: So you’re saying you want chips?
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: How about Daddy buys you a puppy?
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Here.
BOY: Mmmm.

Try that next time you ask for a raise, or want your spouse to get “a little friendly” with you. Report back to me with your results.

Are You Ready?

It’s that time of the year again. No, not tax time. Academy Award time! Who’s ready for some down-to-earth, level-headed discourse on literary relevance? Well then, how about an award show instead?

Now don’t get me wrong, I love movies. I’m a bit of a movie freak, if you must know the truth ( and you must, you must). But I just don’t get this whole award ceremony thing. People get wound up for weeks; it becomes the talk of the water cooler. I remember just a few days ago one of my co-workers asking me who I though would win for best Third World Cinematography in a Foreign or Unknown Country with a Super-8 Camera. I think the answer to that is obvious!

But really this whole Lhasa Apso and pony show boils down to the incestuous relationship Hollywood has with its own kind. That little community, full of self-important windbags who actually believe that making a movie is more important than making, say a computer circuit board or jet engine turbine, are quite out of touch with the real world. In actuality, making a movie is about as important to the functioning of the world as making a nice pickle relish, but less filling.

I haven’t even seen any of the movies nominated for Best Picture – unless Wallace and Grommet: Attack of the Were-Rabbit is nominated. Now there is a picture! Giant rabbits, Rube Goldberg-like machinery, and cheese. It has it all. I nominate it for Best Picture, and Best Supporting Clay Canine.

All I know is that whichever movie wins, it will most likely be the one that has the best-dressed actress in it, and will involve a plot and characters that few relate to and fewer understand. But it will be “an important piece of allegorical, neo-political, pseudo-pretendable” cinema flummery that will change the course of human history – if your history involves sequins or gay cowboys (or preferably both!).

But you know, when Oscar night rolls around, you’ll definitely find me glued to my TV. I’ll be watching My Three Sons re-runs on RTN and enjoying that pickle relish. If the world suddenly becomes a better place because Charlize Theron gets another bald-headed gold man – or an Oscar – give me a call. I might be busy, however, because while Hollywood’s elite is packing up their $10,000 embossed dental floss holders, I’ll be clipping string cheese coupons. I love string cheese.