Tim Allen: Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

It's okay. I've been tested.

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What's in a name? Interesting question to ponder. It depends on your point of view. A scholar might say that words or groups of words define our identities. The head of a successful corporation might say a name contains the power of association and reputation. I haven't really given it much thought. So let's see-what's in a name? I know. Maybe it's an endless cycle of excruciating torture causing tremendous pain and misery to a young boy who is knocked to his knees time and time again and made to suffer hell on earth merely because he is bound to a name that, when uttered, universally conjures up the image of male genitalia (specifically, the penis, and results in snickers and jeers from evil little children, who so easily find amusement in cruelty, and who so relish the poor boy's anguish, shame, and humiliation that he's left only to mutter the words "character building? character building, my ass," over and over like some escaped lunatic.

Or maybe it's just a collection of vowels and consonants.

Not that it ever bothered me. As a kid, all I had to do was say, "Hi, I'm Tim Dick," and I already knew that people saw me as a walking penis.

To this day I'm not exactly sure why it's so funny to everyone. Given the male organ's important role in society, and men and women's fondness for "it," you'd think that, instead of being teased, I'd be revered. The Carnegies of Pittsburgh. The Rockefellers of New York. The Dicks of Denver. I should have been a deity in high school. Girls should have sought out my advice, stood in line to date me. I should have been given the key to the city. (By the way, it's not too late for that.)

Tim Dick. Tin Dick. Thin Dick. Pin Dick. And then there's my Uncle Richard-a double Dick. And he named his son Peter. Nice.

In grade school the kids snickered at my name the same way they giggled when they had to sing the word "bosom" in "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

When I was older, my gym teachers-who clearly wished they were still in the Marines-always paused at my name.

In class, I knew the alphabet better than anybody. And I feared whosever name came before mine, especially on the first day of school. I can still feel the old heartburn and anxiety. "Aaron, Becker, Bendleston, Cochran, Dachman, Decker, DICK!" It seemed like the guy was yelling it through a megaphone. The whole class would stop talking, and everybody would stare at me like I resembled my name.

The guys in high school were relentless.

"What's your name?"

"Tim Dick."

"Dick! Hahaha! Like Penis"? Hahaha!" I wasn't just going to stand there and take it, so I'd have to run through a whole routine just to defuse the situation. When they'd say, "Your dad shoulda called you Harry," I could mouth the words along with my tormentors. I'd go, "Oh, wow, Harry. You should be a comedian. Harry. Real original! I've never heard that one. How about Big? That's a fine Irish name! Lotsa guys named Big. How about Thick? You're a funny guy!"

For a while I hated everyone and the teasing caused me unnecessary grief. But in retrospect, it made me a better person. Now I have to thank my name for making my life special. This wouldn't have happened if I were Tim Dack, or Tim Deck, or Tim Dock.

Maybe Tim Cock, though.

After graduation, just when I thought I'd been through it all, I met a woman in a sporting-goods store where I worked. She was mature and had six kids. Out of nowhere she said, "Too bad you don't have a sister named Anita."

Anita Dick. Now that is really funny.

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When you're a kid you never really call what you've got by its real name. Anything but that. Dicks were big in my family-naturally. Then there's boner, chubby, Hank, pecker, willy, Mr. Happy, pocket rocket, trouser trout, joystick, and "it." There are millions of synonyms. Of course, my all-time favorite is Big Sam and the Twins. Go figure.

Women have names for it, too.

But they won't tell us.

You can say "penis" in front of your parents. Otherwise, we use the word only when speaking medically. Doctors say, "I have to see your penis," which sounds like you need to get something lanced. My doctor calls it a "unit." I don't argue. I've seen how he holds his golf club.

When you're a boy, the penis is mostly a yardstick by which to measure growth.

I remember the first time I saw my dad's. He, my brothers, and I were gathered in the bathroom. Then I looked at it. I have no idea why-maybe because I was just waist-high-‑and it was the most shocking thing I'd ever seen. It was so frightening that I swore I would never want anything like that in all my life. I now know that you have to be careful what you wish for.

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"Vagina" is a funny word. Almost as funny as "penis." I always stumble over it-I mean the word. Va‑gi‑na. Women don't even use the word. I know one woman who uses "ginnie." Ginnie is more personable, I guess.

I say this all in the most respectful way, you understand. Since I have a daughter, I have to teach her what to call it, and it can't be "down there"-the name I cleverly created-all her life. One reason I think we get so screwed up is not calling things by the right name.

So: A man has a penis. A woman has a boom‑ba. Okay, I'll be honest, she's got a goo‑goo. I don't know why this is so difficult. My daughter already calls it a butty‑butt. I said, "You have, as you well know, a butty‑butt." But she calls everything in that area a buttybutt.

Please tall me this will pass.

My daughter also has major questions about why I can pee standing up. She automatically assumes it's a better deal. I didn't say anything, but who knows what she hears at school. So I said, "No, you're lucky. You get to sit." She goes, "When I grow up I'll be able to pee standing up." I thought, that'd be interesting. I feel bad for women. They have to go through such a to‑do to go to the bathroom. And they can't write their names in the snow without a lot of acrobatics.

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Before we figure out that we can play doctor, we rely on sex-education films, science books, and that old standby National Geographic, to reveal what we've got. . down there.

Those medical illustrations are pretty weird, aren't they? The man is cross‑sectioned so that you get a limp side view. And women are cut along an axis between front and back, which makes their internal reproductive system look like there's a water buffalo trapped inside. Or an inverted penis. After seeing those diagrams, I actually believed that if a woman blew on her thumb hard enough, she would have what I have-that it would just pop out.

This was all very confusing when I was a kid. My dad died when I was young. Although my mom was very good about explaining the birds and bees, whenever my brothers and I would ask about how the male and female actually got together, it was suddenly dinnertime. Since then, the smell of home cooking always makes me feel silly and sexy.

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The penis is an emotional organ. Like hunger and fear, it operates deep beneath the surface of your life. It's a barometer of something else. It's a gauge. That's why it's a little frightening to get a boner when you don't want one. It's a little disheartening, a little unusual, and a` little scary. Also quite exciting. I can get one from a magazine. A good‑looking car. A hot tub. A real man. (Just kidding.) I went skinnydipping once in an ice‑cold lake; got a chubby.

This makes activities like dancing difficult. During the sloe numbers in high school I always wondered if a girl could tell if I liked her. They can tell, can't they? Well, can't they?

Guys can't tell about women, though. There's no visible sign. If we're skinny‑dipping in that icy lake you can tell she's cold. Is that the same as excited? There ought to he a signal to let us know when were making fools of ourselves.