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

Women have a much more subtle approach to cars and the freedom they represent. Mainly, how to get in and out gracefully. How to dress so the guys with the cars will give them rides. The social niceties. They assume they'll be in cars, but they already know it's to their advantage not to own a car because of the equity problem, depreciation, and, with the exception of race driver Shirley "Cha Cha" Muldowney, they probably can't fix it, nor do they want to. Women are right to think that it's easier just to get someone to be the mechanic and chauffeur them around. This, next to having children and garbage removal, is the reason most women want husbands.

I like cars so much I'd hang around parking lots if I didn't think someone would call the police. I once went to a store to get wheel covers for my car, because someone had stolen them, and I could have spent the day there. When I drove in, a guy just getting out of his car at the same time said, "Nice wheels." In guy talk, that meant he thought I was a nice guy.

"What you got under the hood?" (He wants to know more about me.)

"Supercharged hemi." (I'm a forward thinker, a risk taker.)

"Where do you redline?" (Depends on what he is referring to.)

"Seven thousand rpm. Tops out around 140 mph." (I'm way too fast for you, buddy. But thanks for asking.)

One thing I'll always like about living in Los Angeles is that everybody has a car. Everyone has to have a car. Otherwise you've got to train for the marathon just to get some milk at the grocery store. Some of the homegrown custom‑car designs are a little tough to understand, though. Who came up with the idea of taking those teeny, tiny, mini pickup trucks with the little motors, and fitting them with huge tires and sound systems so loud I think we're having an earthquake aftershock every time a cruiser drives up my street?

Then there's the L.A. obsession with sports utility vehicles. Where I grew up, near the Rocky Mountains, we didn't have fourwheel drive. Just chains. Now everyone's got a Range Rover to announce their ability to rough it in style. It's now acceptable, even trendy, to answer the question "Do you do much offroading?" with "Nope. But I can if I ever want to." Or "What's offroading?" I was driving down the street and this guy in the Range Rover next to me was talking on the cellular phone, faxing something to his office, watching the ball game on his Sony mini TV, and making love to some woman. I think it was just his way of saying, "Look at me! Look at me!" I looked, but I still can't figure out who was driving the car.

The old Toyota Landcruiser was a real man's car. It looked functional. Now it's all styling. Range Rover makes a vehicle that looks like it's right out of Daktari. It's got a lion or an elephant guard on it. As soon as I saw it, I wanted one. I'd also love a Humvee, like Ah‑nold. "Maria. We will take the Hummer!" Anytime they make something that looks like it came from the military, you know lots of men are thinking, "Yeah, I like it." There's a purpose to military stuff that's attractive. It strikes deep into the core of man. And it's spread beyond the barracks. Construction equipment is built using the same principles of massive power and indestructibility. Except for the yellow color, I wouldn't mind owning a bulldozer. Drab olive is better. Everything looks better in drab olive, even bedsheets. One day I'll have a car that's flat green from bumper to bumper. And I won't wash it. The look will improve with age. Pretty soon the neighbors will be asking each other, "Did a bush with a gun barrel on it just go by here?"

One good thing about my car obsession is that I can fix my own vehicle. Or I could, until I got a Cadillac with the Northstar engine system. If the first scheduled maintenance isn't until 100,000 miles, why should I mess with it? There's probably a federal law against tampering with this engine. I was looking under the hood a couple of days ago and I found one of those tags like they have on mattresses, sticking out from under the windshield‑wiper‑solution container. It said, "We don't care if you remove this tag, but don't even think about touching anything else."

I have a couple of different dream cars. One is a maxed‑out Mustang that I helped design myself. I'd also love to own a Ferrari. I don't know what it is about them. I've wanted a black Ferrari since I was a kid. Do you think it's a coincidence that Testarossa sounds a lot like testosterone? I don't know if I'd ever be able to drive a Ferrari anywhere, though. I'd just feel like a stupid middle class guy, driving down the boulevard, trying to talk on the cellular, fax the office, watch TV, and make love to my wife, all without running a red light or annoying the guy in the Range Rover next to me.

Another vehicle I dream of owning is a long‑distance cruiser that's a cross between a van, a Mercedes, and a Corvette. It would have seats like an airplane so you could sleep, or kick the guy in front of you when he pushes the recline button and his tray table jams you in the balls. It could go off road, fly, dive underwater, and be totally self‑contained. I could live in it if the wife kicked me out. It would even be outfitted with metal‑fabricating tools so I could make my own parts if the vehicle broke down. And I could drive forever, never take a bath, and eat candy all day.

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Why do men like tools and stuff? Lots of people think it's social imprinting. I think they mean that schools make boys go to shop class and the effects are permanent. I'd rather have been in home economics-though I've yet to meet a woman who took that class who can discuss international monetary funds and World Bank theory with me-much less know what it really means to be economical. Those lifetime disappointments notwithstanding, even back in school it was already clear that girls and food are better than bending metal or making arty ashtrays.

Every shop class was the same. You never got anything done. There were so many rules and regulations for guys.

"Get your tool, stand by your stations, wait for instructions."

"Follow the yellow line back to your stations, begin your projects."

Five minutes later the warning bell rang.

"All right, go back to your stations, clean your tools, and get the hell out of my sight."

The shop teacher always wore a lab coat. I once saw a movie where a chimp wears a lab coat. That made about as much sense as Mr. Johnson pretending to be a professional. All my shop instructors were missing fingers, too.

"You gotta watch that circular saw, that baby'll kick back on you. I'm not joking around! Now somebody help me pass out these test papers."

Like I said, I'd rather have listened to a home ec. teacher with burnt flambe all over her face. "Girls, watch those flambes, they'll blow up. Look at these scars, I'm not fucking around!"

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If he problem with tool belts is butt cracks. The older journeymen wear suspenders. Young guys-you know, I think they like that butt crack. My brother is a contractor in Kalamazoo, he does apartments. When he and his contractor friends get together it looks like a butt‑crack festival. These guys gotta know what they're showing. Plumbers, because of the positions they've got to assume when working, have the worst butt‑crack problem in the world.

"Hey, Tony, look at that crack, that's gotta be eight inches."

"Uh huh. Pretty great, right?"

"Why don't you just wedge the house plans in there and walk 'em over to the supervisor?"

"Pete! Nice butt crack. What's that-a pencil holder back there?"

"Nice. But I brought my little girl and she's eating over here.

How about I spackle that son of a bitch shut? I got some DAP latex butt‑crack filler, how 'bout I run a bead of caulk down that fat ass of yours so she can keep her food down?"