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

Next to the tool bench was a gun rack. A machine gun from World War Two was the piece de resistance. And it was loaded, with a big crowbar lock through it.

On the tool pegboard, each tool was outlined. His hammer was even worn out-you don't see that very often. Screws, nuts, and bolts were each in their own plastic drawer, sorted by size and type.

It was all so perfect and so odd: Men can organize a spacious work bench but can't keep poop stains out of their underwear.

My garage is pretty cool, too. It's no Lost City of the Incas, but other guys are jealous. I've got a couple of cars, my tools, and one of those trash cans from the thirties. It's clean as a whistle. I hang out there all summer, with the big door open.

My wife hates it.

"Would you close the door?" she always says.

I prefer that people come into the house through the garage.

"People don't enter the house through the garage," she says.

I've always felt safer that way. Because only your friends will do it. Strangers don't go that way. This is one way to tell the difference. When she thinks I'm not looking, she shuts the garage door. I think her real problem is that she doesn't want the neighbors to see what's inside.

I had to tease her. "Good god! They saw the garage! What are we going to do?"

"You think that's funny?" she answered.

"Yes, it's hysterical. But maybe you're right. What if they saw a rake or something in there?"

Not even a smile.

I think she should let me be. I've given her the rest of the house. I even let her design me an office.

She can feel free to use it while I'm in the garage.

- -

One of the newest men's zones is a throwback to the oldest. Thanks to the modern men's movement, guys can once again hang out naked around a roaring fire in the wilderness, chant, and bang on drums until dawn.

In prehistoric times we used to discuss the fine points of buffalo meat, the proper grip for dragging a woman to your cave, and how to distinguish female bloating from overeating. Now, naked in all our flabby, middle‑class glory, we come to confess that we didn't get along with our dads, discuss the perfect golf grip, and try to remember how to tell the difference between female bloating and overeating.

I read somewhere that a scientific study determined that all this male sharing is due more to anonymity than to any real sense of bonding. A guy can tell his secrets because he knows he'll never see the other guys again. Well, of course. That's male bonding. If you're really curious where your relationship is going with another man, you can always wrestle naked in front of a fireplace like Oliver Reed and Alan Bates did in the movie Women in Love.

You'll note that they didn't call the film Men in Love.

I don't think the New Age men's‑movement trend is going to last very long. If it's good for anything, it's just to keep women on their toes. For some time now men have been insecure and unsure of how to behave in the presence of the new woman. And who says a little confusion isn't good for a woman?

I was reading Robert Bly's book Iron John in bed, and my wife cut me down about it. Generally we look at each other's books to see what's interesting our partner lately. But I was all quiet and too engrossed in Iron John for her to stand it.

"Ooooh, a story about men," she said. "What is it? Some sort of cult?" She was really dogging me. "Is this some kind of men's club you're going to join?" It was as if my reading the book were threatening her.

"No. It's just a book about guys talking about what bugs them."

"What could possibly be bugging you guys?" she said.

I said, "You go to the bookstore and it's full of women's books. Help this, help that, help yourself, help her, forget about him. This is just some stupid book about a guy. I didn't even say I liked it."

But she was already mad. The thought that men might be getting together must have scared her.

Not to worry.

The problem is that once these movements become a "thing" they're over with. For a while, in the men's magazines, every other ad was for drums to beat on. "Sign up now for our, wilderness weekend. We can get you back to IT."

Business ruins the flavor.

Besides, I've already had my men's‑movement weekend. Try driving from Detroit to Indy in the back of a Dodge van with twelve sweaty guys to see a race, singing J. Geils songs, and you'll understand what I mean.

- -

Men like to sit in dark, wood‑paneled places, in high‑backed chairs, drinking aromatic liquor, and smoking fragrant cigars that smell like the bottom of men's feet. We like to eat salty foods like smoked herring, pistachios, pork rinds, and sometimes just plain salt. All salt does to a woman is make her retain water, which is the last thing she wants. In men's clubs, men do business. Can you imagine a woman wanting to do business when she's bloated?

One great old restaurant in Detroit with a men's‑club feel was Carl's Chophouse. Plenty of salesmen went to dinner there. The typical salesman dinner was a porterhouse steak that made the table list to one side, a baked potato, tub o' scotch, no vegetables, plenty of butter, chocolate cake and more scotch for dessert.

Plenty of salesmen died there, too, which gave Carl great pride.

The men's club is a fading tradition. Women want in for some reason, maybe just to prove that we can't keep them out. The club used to be where men would go for a night out when they wanted to be men. Now it's where women can go for a night out when they want to be men. They can have dinner, smoke cigars, drink brandy, do business, and then go to a strip club. Now there are strip clubs for women, too (only they're not as much fun).

As I said previously-but apparently can't repeat often enough-for me, going to a strip club is like going to a restaurant where I can't eat the food. They just bring by big plates of steamed vegetables and beef, and go, "Hey! Don't touch that! You want that to sit down next to you? That's another five bucks. You want me to set it right in front of you and undulate the thing? Twelve‑fifty. For twenty dollars, I'll set it in your lap."

Now I play golf. Everyone plays golf now. That is what men used to do, and now they're doing it again. Golf is also a lot like going to a strip club. You get all charged up, pay big money to hang out on a beautiful course, and start drinking early. Eighteen holes later, you're plastered and frustrated, and most of your balls are missing.

Thanks to creeping bizonality, women play golf, too. The only difference between men and women on the golf course is speed. Women don't play as fast as men do, and they get all pissy with us when we express our displeasure at having to stand around while they gently fan the ball. Believe me, we're just thinking about the foursome behind us. Just hit it already. I'd play with my wife, but on a big course she'd just take too damn long.

What am I talking about? On a big course, I take too long.

For a man, one of the great pleasures of golfing isn't even on the fairways and greens, or in the bar. The clubhouse locker room is still a pure men's zone. Other guys call you "sir." An obsequious fellow cleans the crud off your golf shoes and clubs. Another shines your street shoes. A gentleman in the bathroom offers an assortment of ointments and tonics, and doesn't ever seem to notice the sounds and smells of your "business" beforehand. And, thank god, there's no place to sit and do your makeup.

The whole area has the funky male smell of washed, wet linen; body odor; sweat; shoe insoles; anti‑athlete's‑foot powder; and the three primary male aromas: bay rum, Right Guard, and Brut.

Bathrooms at home are nothing like this. Men have to get past the frilly hand towels, lavender soaps, sachet boxes, and baskets full of female hair‑care products and facial scrubs, before they can feel comfortable in the can, much less make it their own for a couple of hours.