Party Animal

The manopausal male is a party animal.  He dots from house to house during graduation weekend and is adept at spotting those tiny weiner hors doerves skewered on toothpicks.  He can eat three dozen of these, easy . . . and even have room for a piece of cake and a few pieces of kiwi, a fruit which offers the appearance that he is eating healthy and is concerned about his girth.

He's become a party animal through years of intense training, a regiment which began when he was twelve years old at a piano recital in which mixed nuts were served and grandparents praised him for his ability to play chopsticks.  Since that time he's attended any number of dances, wedding receptions, and a few funerals, and at each one he has been able to discover a food source.

The older male is regarded as a party expert because he can banter and boogie. He is able to relate to the party hosts and to the commoners, including the next door neighbors who only show up to swim and snack on water chestnuts.  He uses words like "fantastic", "delicious", and "bitchin'" so that people can see that he is a man of the people and that he knows a ripe melon when he bites into one.

The older male also escorts his wife in style, insisting that she wear her best gear and that she sit near him so that she can identify all of the relatives he has forgotten.  When he asks, "What's your second cousin's name again?" he expects an answer immediately and does not want to hear, "Puddin'tame".

As the older male dots from place to place he drinks lots of tea, and has to stop off at McDonalds to use the restroom between parties.  Naturally, his wife thinks she is getting fries out of the deal, but he returns with nothing.

Eventually the older male runs out of steam and passes out in a roadside ditch.  This is where commercials come from.

He refuels on white sheet cake and tells his wife how beautiful she is.

She doesn't believe a word of it, however, and eventually talks him into to buying more ice.      

The Rugby Kid

This past weekend, far away in Utah, my son's Rugby team played in a national high school tournament.  Although they had a decent season here in Indiana (and Cathedral of Indianapolis won the national tournament in Utah . . . congrats!) I learned through a series of text-messages that my son's team came in last.

Nevertheless, there's something manly about this Rugby game.  Older men like me can break an ankle or shatter a spleen just watching from the sidelines.  Sometimes we attempt to crush an empty cola can against our foreheads in order to appear macho, but all we get are indentations that make us look like a Cro-Magnon on a bad-hair day.

A few weeks back I penned this poem about Rugby.  Makes me feel young.  But I pulled a hammie when I wrote it.

Home From Rugby Practice

My son says he played well
And does not need stitches
In the ear that is dangling
By a thread and beat to hell.

He grit of eighteen years
Has turned him into man
And left him bruised and
Unwilling to shed tears.

But I blanch and recoil
At the sight of his blood
And his open vein.

Impressed by his toil.
Proud in his pain.

The Uber-Goober

Seeing as how one of my heroes died two weeks ago--George "Goober" Lindsay of Mayberry fame--it didn't seem honorable to write just one poem about him.  This one came to me in a daydream (but don't all weird concepts orginate in the untamed pscyhe, as Freud noted?), and I thought I'd better write it down. 



So . . . here's another toast to Goober.






The Uber-Goober

There are three parts to every soul,
So Sigmund Freud once said:
The Ego, Id, and Super-Man--
All living in our head.

The Ego is our self-concern,
The Super-Man our dream,
The Id is who we want to be
And drives our self-esteem.

But as the German doctor knew
Sometimes the Id is cube
And splits in half to form a nut,
And he's your Uber-Goob.

The Uber-Goober is that nerd
Deep in your mental shelf,
The Goober that nobody sees:
Who is your Goober self.

The Uber-Goober isn't smart.
In fact, he's rather dense.
But every person's Uber-Goob
Lacks brains and common sense.

You know you like your Uber-Goob,
He's half your Barney Fife,
That part of you that's super dumb
And half your Goober life.

But don't despair!  Embrace yourself!
Learn from your inner tutor.
You're only one half serious . . .
The other half is Goober.

You're Manopausal Male, My Friends!

What is Manopause?

The manopausal male is not a species of baboon:
Though tufts of hair sprout from his ears
Long past his honeymoon. 

And where his hair should hairy be, his follicles are flaws:
He's just a version of his wife
While she's in menopause.

The older male is restless while his best years are behind:
But where he needs his wits the most
They've fled fresh from his mind.

He doesn't have one youthful sprig of confidence in tow:
For all the facts he once had learned
Are facts he doesn't know.

He once could run, and jump, and play in time's exuberance:
But since arthritis loved his knees
He hasn't seen them since.

The older male is married too.  His wife is packing heat:
But though the fans are turning fast
She still gets no relief.

He'd like to touch her once a year, each anniversary:
But doesn't have the courage for
A broken bone, or three.

And so he stays secluded, though he dreams of going out:
And every time he loves his wife
He's filled with dread and doubt.

A man in this predicament receives no tired applause:
He's just a guy who's found himself
Confined to manopause.

The Comb-Over

Last week I witnessed the creation of a "triple" comb-over.  I couldn't believe it . . . had to stare long at hard at the guy sitting in front of me.  But sure enough, triple it was.  Side hair combed from right to left.  Side hair combed from left to right.  Back hair combed over the top of it all to form "bangs" in the front.  A scalp triple-parted like the waters of the Red Sea.

Now, perhaps I'm too vain . . . but I told my wife.  "If my pate ever deteriorates to that point, and I try a triple comb-over . . . just shoot me."

I think she would help me out.  She has insurance money coming anyway.  And for all I know, she may have her eye on a younger man who owns a car without duct tape.

Many a manopausal male has succumbed to the comb-over.  Perhaps it is a right of passage.  When the hair goes, so does the ego.

But with the advent of modern medicine (such as Metamucil and Geritol and Carter's Little Pills), the manopausal male now has options, including the following:

Plugs
     . . . in which chunks of hair are extracted from wild boars and hyenas and inserted into the human scalp, thus producing the appearance of John Travolta.

Weaves
     . . . in which hunks of hair extracted from Shitzus and euthanized race horses are woven into the remnants of the male pate, thus producing the appearance of Conan O'Brien on a bad hair day.

Rogaine
     . . . in which a high-priced and foul-smelling lotion is slathered into the scalp daily under the pretense that new hair will miraculously appear and thus produce the appearance of Johnny Depp or Sean Penn.

Prayer
     . . . if this worked, then why are faith healers so often bald?  Never trust a faith healer with bad hair.

Laying on of Hands
     . . . same as above, but would you really want some guy's big greasy hands scrolling around on your scalp checking for ticks?

Combs are cheap.  It's just too bad that so many manopausal males can't use 'em.

Rugby Dad

The older male was never meant to be a Rugby player.  In fact, it is highly unlikely the older male has even heard of Rugby until more recent years, and has probably never seen it played.  It is, after all, a sport that arrived on this country's shores from elsewhere, very likely originating in some god-forsaken land where the women walk around topless and roast field rodents over an open fire.

But Rugby in America consists of a very large ball, fifteen boys bouncing off of each other like a grassy pin-ball machine, and a group of old men standing on the sidelines asking, "What the hell just happened out there?"

Rugby is mysterious.  And unique.

For example, can you name another full-contact sport where there is only one referee on the field?  Or can you think of another sport that has a larger ball?  And if you can make heads-or-tails out of such elusive terms as "try", "scrum", and "pitch" . . . have at it.

To advance the ball downfield in Rugby, a player must either run with or kick the ball forward or throw it backwards.  When a player is tackled with the ball, play does not stop, the whistle does not blow, but the game continues as teams form a "scrum" around the ball, dig it out, and then tackle each other some more. All of this is undertaken without an ounce of padding or protective gear.  The game rarely stops for injuries (which are numerous) and blood is seen as a medal of honor.  However, as a gentleman's game, foul play is not permitted, and after the game (in most countries) the teams meet each other afterwards for beers and to lick wounds as they laugh about the game. 

Rugby was, of course, invented by a drunk. 

When men become too old to play American football (or they finally realize that they never could play), men turn to Rugby as a substitute.  They enjoy watching their sons bleed.  And after the game, fathers on both sides scour the field in search of detached ears and fingers.  These are matched with their respective players (like a jigsaw puzzle) and sewn on immediately with ten-pound mono filament fishing line.

Rugby, of course, is not a game for wimps.  It is a game for young men who still have the potential to father children, even if they lose a testicle.  It is a game for those who have a high-tolerance pain-level and who do not mind facial disfigurement or amputation.  An extra quart of blood doesn't hurt either.  

Rugby dads are those who stand along the sidelines and flinch when the ball is kicked in their direction.  They associate the ball with being kicked.  And they can recall who did the kicking.

In most cases, it was their wives.  And they don't want to relive the nightmare.  Rugby dads treasure the family jewels. 

Graduation

There are few promotions awaiting the manopausal male.  He has already graduated many times in order to achieve his lowly position and, with the exception of death, he does not expect another move up the ranks.  He is, however, exceptionally glad to see his daughter graduate from college and reminds her every day that she has much to look forward to . . . including tapping into his life savings so that she can, someday, place him in a nursing home facility so he can play with large rubber balls.

In the meantime, the manopausal male is rejoicing that he has managed to shell out nearly $100,000 in college costs and still be able to purchase new underwear.  He reminds his daughter that he has sacrificed much for this degree, including (but not limited to):  eating tree bark and pretending it is beef jerky; wandering the streets at night looking for pennies on the sidewalk; selling his spleen on eBay.

The manopausal male also expects the university to name a building after him.  Or, if they can't recall his name, he hopes they will allow him to select a name of his own choosing . . . perhaps a name like The Wendell Keiffer Motor Lodge (dorm), or Sanitized for Your Protection (Greek/Fraternal bathhouse), or Becky's Harem (women's dorm). 

But his daughter is the graduate and she deserves so much better than the manopausal father.  That is why he lavishes her with love and purchases entire tanks of gasoline and sends her off to the home of his future in-laws with the admonition:  "Here's another twenty for nail polish!"

A graduation is also a reminder that there will soon be an empty chair at the dinner table.  Or two . . . if the cat dies.  There is an air of sadness at the thought that the graduate will soon be exiting the home with two tons of boxed goods, and the eternal optimism of the father who says, "Get a job!"

Naturally, the manopausal male can now set his sights on other lofty goals, such as eating a full bag of black licorice without worrying about flatulence, or returning to the habit of telling his wife that he "loves her more than vanilla pudding", or even showering on a regular basis.  Now that his daughter is leaving, and is no longer at home to reign him in, his insanity can blossom into full-blown dementia. 

He will eat out more often.  And he is, at last, eager to give up his four-year diet of stewed prunes.