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.

Going to Prom

It is a well known fact that the older male lives vicariously through his son, especially with regard to the prom.  This psychological disorder is know as "Tuxedo envy" and is widely documented in highly-regarded psychological journals with small subscription bases, and often forms the plot for those blockbuster movies in which old men are beaten by street thugs.  The older male is retrospective during the prom season and begins to wonder:  How would my life have turned out differently if I had passed up that 16-ounce RC cola and asked Tiphany to dance?

During prom season, the older male sees his old wife in new light.  He understands that his wife can no longer wear an evening gown without looking like a sack of potatoes . . . and yet, when she does wear a dress, he can't look away.  That is because he has paid for the dress and he wants to make sure he is getting his money's-worth, since he likely sacrificed two tickets to Phantom of the Opera for the potato sack with the Ralph Lauren label.  He makes his wife wear the dress for punishment, and they go to Wendys.

The older male gives his son advice before prom.  This advice is the same advice that his father gave to him (and his father before that . . . and before that men didn't have proms, they just grabbed a woman out of a nearby cave and took her to Sonic for a butterscotch milkshake).  The father tells his son:  be sure you have a full tank of gas, don't drink, and if you run into any problems . . . call your mother collect.

This sage advice has served men well for centuries, but most sons reject it outright, certain that they know how to Tango.  The father also reminds his son that his tux is due back the next day and he'd better by God return it in time to get his deposit.  

Because his son is going to the prom, the older male also tries to conjure up memories of his own prom dates.  But this is difficult, and often requires and enema.

Eventually, however, the older male realizes that his wife was one of those prom dates, but he thought her name was Ethel.  He can't remember if he kissed her at the prom, but all indications in the marriage seem to point south.  The older male, of course, is not going to ask his wife for details of this prom date (all of which she remembers like a steel death trap), lest he enlist in a full evening of photographs and memorabilia that she has been storing under the bed in a box labeled "My Big Kahuna Nightmare".  

Rather, the older male shows his son how to create a proper bow tie, how to slick back his hair, and how to say, "I'm saving myself for marriage, but if you'd like some lemonade, I'll run across the dance floor and grab one of those Styrofoam cups."

When the son comes home from prom in the wee hours of the morning, the older male rouses from sleep, having slept only marginally on the edge of the bed with carpet tacks pressed between his toes, and asks, "Did you have a good time?"

At which point the son asks, "Have you been up this whole time worrying about me?"

The older male lies, of course, and tells the son that he just had the urge to pee, given that his prostate is now the size of a raisin.

Both realize this is how the game is played.  The prom is over.  And after the older male wets himself, he returns to his lair.  

Mr. Tuxedo

On Wednesday afternoon I visited Men's Warehouse to get my extremities measured by Howard--a guy who literally pulled out a cloth yard-stick and began fondling me like they do in Homeland Security at the airport.  I gave him everything I had, cooperated fully in the cavity search, and didn't object when he measured my in-seam and announced over the intercom that I was a "long". 

All of this, of course, was designed to measure me into a well-fitting tuxedo for my daughter's wedding (June 16).  Perhaps they should combine tuxedo rental with airport security.  I'm sure they would receive far fewer complaints, and people would actually look much better in-flight.

But personally, I don't mind the fondling.  I have spent months, years even, trying to get my wife to give me a proper pat down.  But she doesn't like to play cops and robbers and continues to insist that my waist measurement has topped out at 40", even though I have trimmed down considerably and only eat donuts five times a week.

I am, however, glad that I don't have to be fitted for a tuxedo every day.  I would hate to see Howard on a regular basis.  I mean, he was all right . . . but I'd rather have my wife feel me up (as she does once a year on our anniversary or when I've cooked a particularly good batch of Hamburger Helper).  When I left Men's Warehouse on Wednesday I made sure Howard understood that this was a one time stand and that I was not interested in a long-term relationship.  He said he understood, but hoped that I wouldn't develop a desire to visit Ron at the J.C. Penney men's department.  "Their suits are cheaper, sure," Howard admitted, "but we give personal attention here!"

I believe Howard, and plan to drop him a Christmas card.

Before I left Men's Warehouse I did sit down to give my information to Misty--a young lady who was very friendly and was only interested in my phone number and credit card account.  She explained the options, and I decided to pay in advance.  "This always works better with my wife," I told her.  "That way, there are no misunderstandings.  We have an agreement.  We both get what we want."

She told me when I could pick up my tux and when I would need to bring it back.  She printed out a contract and I signed it.

In essence, I agreed to wear the tux and to bring it back in decent shape.  I explained that my daughter was getting married and that, if I wore the tux home after the ceremony, my wife might try to take advantage of me when I was most vulnerable.  "It might look a bit wrinkled," I explained, "if she grabs for me on June 16."

"We get that all the time," she said.  "It's a common problem with men in tuxedos."

Of course, I wouldn't know about that.  The last time I wore a tux was when Becky and I went to the prom together during our Junior year in High School.  She spent the evening bowling and I watched a Don Knotts movie by myself (you think I'm joking!).  

I returned that high school tux in pristine condition.  My mother thanked me.

But it's taken me over thirty-five years to repair this damage with my wife, and she still won't watch a Don Knotts movie with me.

Still, Becky should calendar the evening of June 16.  She might get lucky.  This time, I'd love to bring my tuxedo back wrinkled.