Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

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.

- -

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!'

- -

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?'

Butt crack is like male cleavage. I'd like to design a line of drop jewelry for men. Butt?crack ornamentation. Pearls and gold coins to enhance the natural lines. Pretty soon pants will be cut low for the more daring male, and 'elective crack surgery' will be the latest craze. Now there's a 'before and after' album I wouldn't like to see displayed in a plastic surgeon's office. I'm making myself sick.

I love tool belts, though, despite their shortcomings. Unfortunately, the perfect tool belt hasn't yet been invented. So I have three: a carpenter's, a general handyman's, and a barbecue belt. The last has a spatula, fork, and poker all on chains. You pull 'em out and they snap back. It's got ketchup, mustard, and Tabasco in little cases. My wife knows fm not just whistling Dixie when I'm wearing all three-naked-in the bedroom.

The ultimate belt wouldn't be a belt at all. It would be something designed by Porsche, Mercedes, Bosch, Black and Decker, Motorola, and Q, from the James Bond movies. You'd carry it in a little shoulder holster. It would be a little silver thing, all polished stainless steel, that contained a drill, saw, shaper, and glue gun. And it would be rechargeable. The Swiss army knife of tools.

But for now, I'm pretty fond of my handyman's belt. It's a big, fat strip of cowhide, with huge pockets and loops. I walk around with two Makitas slung low, like six?shooters.

'Come on, honey. Break something. I dare you.'

I walk around the house looking for things to rewire. I fixed Grandpa's hearing aid once because he kept saying 'What?' every time I spoke to him. It was nothing, really, to give it more power. I stopped by Radio Shack, got some coaxial cable, a 160?watt preamp, with Dolby. Gramps can hear fine now. On a clear night he can also pick up space?shuttle transmissions.

- -

I bought a Makita mini circular saw. I just had to have it. I've used it once. However, my wife has used it a number of times, but never for its intended purpose, which is cutting wall paneling on the job site. You make little notches, then cut in and cut out. She uses it at home, blows the blade off, and says, 'This thing doesn't work right.'

'Well, honey, I'm not sure that you're supposed to use it to cut hair or chicken parts.'

With some prodding she eventually started using my full?size circular saw. It's hell on hair, but cutting the chicken is a snap. Cutting the chicken's hair takes practice.

As you've probably guessed, I get asked tool, construction, and repair?related questions all the time by people who somehow have the idea that I know what fm talking about. Here are a couple of the most popular. I take no responsibility if you follow any of my advice, or believe a word of what I say. I'm warning you now.

Q: Does a guy really need a wrench set with twelve doubleheaded crescents, twenty sockets and driver, and ten Allens (no relation)?

A: You don't. I've got a multihead driver now that replaces everything in my toolbox. If I could only figure out how to work it. It's heavy and it clicks and it's substantial-which, for me, is half the reason to buy it-but it just sits there. Good thing I've got the old wrench set.