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

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.

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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.