MAN-DRAMA

A few years ago, Bishop T.D. Jakes, the pastor of a 73 bazillion member mega-church in Dallas wrote a book called “He-Motions.” I haven’t actually read the book because: A) it’s written by the pastor of 73 bazillion member mega-church, and B) it’s a self-help book, and I’d rather chew glass than read a book in either category, let alone one that falls into both.

Jakes is an impressive man, and I’m sure the book is very good, but the title cracks me up. A blurb I read on the book states: “Men feel the pressure of fulfilling many roles in life: husband, father, son, businessman, and leader. Now Bishop Jakes comes to their aid with this guidebook to help every man understand his own emotional inner workings”

Wait a minute! Men have emotional inner workings?

I realize the prevailing cultural paradigm is that men are stoic creatures, devoid of emotion, and not given to petty drama.

I doubt if Jakes uses this specific “term” in his book, but the prevailing cultural paradigm is “bullshit.” In the drama category, a group of grown men can put a group of 13 year old girls to shame; they would just rather die than admit it.

This subject is on my mind because I’ve currently gotten put in the middle of two different “man-dramas.”  In both situations someone said something that someone else took offense too and everyone involved has gotten their panties in a wad. Those panties are actually big, nasty, skid-marked boxer shorts, but they are wadded none the less.  Tempers have flared, characters have been assassinated, and everyone involved has threatened to take their toys and go home.

The good news is that man-dramas don’t usually last very long. No one ever admits they are wrong or apologizes; they just get tired of it and move on. When a man wants to “make up” with another man, he simply observes the time honored tradition of walking up to the other man and making a flatulence joke. If the other man responds with a limerick about a girl from Nantucket the relationship is immediately restored.

Don’t get me wrong, I see nothing wrong with this tradition and I’m certainly not advocating the modern “sensitive” man. In fact, I’ve had all the sensitivity I can stand over the last few days and I’m ready for all of this man-drama to come to an end.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the guy in the office next to me just told me he didn’t like my shoes, and I need to close my door and pout.

EDIT: I haven’t gotten all the trim back up yet but…

Who’s my home improvement bitch now!

HUMILIATION, YOUR NAME IS HOME DEPOT

Most men are born with a fear of doing home improvement projects that are outside their scope of ability…sane men anyway.  I was born without this fear and so far it has only caused us to be homeless on three occasions.

Several years ago I built a deck and recessed a hot tub into it. I even ran the electrical service to the hot tub. Only one person has been electrocuted so far, so I’ve always considered the project to be a success.  Typical of most males, one successful project has me convinced that I can tackle any job. Of course, since that time I have fallen through my ceiling, off a ladder, and sacrificed many pints of blood to the construction gods, but I remain undaunted.

I have plans to paint my house this summer. We picked out colors at the paint store and I decided to start by painting my front door an “accent” color. It looked “burgundy” on the paint chip. In real life, it came out more of a “popsicle purple.” This has caused most of our neighbors to think we’ve lost our minds.

The obvious thing to do would be to repaint the front door, but that’s much, much too simple. Instead, we decided to replace the front door with a nice wood grain door with some stained glass in it. I was convinced I could handle installing a pre-hung front door so off we went to Home Depot.

When I got the door home and unloaded it, I immediately noticed a problem.

Did you know that doors can swing open either to the right or to the left?

I didn’t! So, of course, the door had the hardware on the opposite side of where it is on our current door. If I had gone ahead and installed this door it would have meant that people entering our house would walk immediately into a wall. I strongly considered this as a possible alternative to having to suffer the humiliation of taking the door back, but I finally sucked it up and hauled it back to the store.

I came home with the new door and began taking the trim off on both sides of the existing door. I got it all taken off to the point at which wind can now blow through the front wall of our house strong enough to blow magazines off the coffee table. I got ready to take the old jamb out…and I noticed a problem.

Did you know that doors come in different jamb widths?

I didn’t! The jamb on the door I bought was two inches narrower than the jamb on our existing door. I considered suicide rather than having to go back to Home Depot, but I finally tucked my tail between my legs and crawled back.

The man at Home Depot explained to me that I could go ahead and use the last door I purchased as long I built a custom jamb extension to fill the gap. He explained this to me like he was talking to a sixth grader that hadn’t quite grasp toilet training yet.

I’ll take a picture of the front door once I finish getting it installed.

Unless I decide to sell the house as is, and move so I don’t have to make another trip back to Home Depot.

AND ON BEHALF OF THE ALMIGHTY, JUST LET ME SAY…

I passed by a church marquee today that advertised the following sermon title for Sunday: “What would God say to Donald Trump?”

I imagine God would say “lose the cheesy comb-over dude” but I’m not really sure.

I was told by someone who is familiar with this church that this sermon is part of an entire series; all of which speculate on what God might say to particular celebrities. While I never cease to be amazed by people who feel they can speak directly on behalf of God (subject for another post), I do think this sermon series is a brilliant idea and I’d like to offer my own contributions:

To Geraldo Rivera: “Man, you should have asked; I would have told you there wasn’t anything in the vault.”

To over-paid professional athletes: “Stop it! I had nothing to do with you winning the game.”

To Cher: “For someone who is older than I am, you still look pretty good.”

To Hugh Grant: “Just because her name was ‘Divine’ doesn’t mean she was sent from me.”

To Don Imus: “I giveth, and CBS taketh away.”

To George Bush: “Please, please…stop telling people you know me.”

Ok…Ok…I know that putting words in God’s mouth might seem a little sacrilegious. Since I am on a church staff part time, I would never intentionally do anything that had even the remote appearance of being religiously inappropriate. As proof, I offer the following photo of me in the pulpit leading music (which was taken and then photo-shopped by a friend who holds my same convictions regarding the absolute and unshakeable austerity of the ministry):

NOT HOLDING MY BREATH

I’ve been out of town on a business trip and in meetings so I’m way behind “news-wise” on the Virginia Tech tragedy. I’ve been trying to catch up this morning.

When I first heard that the student was a South Korean here on a student visa, my first thought was that the Rush Limbaughs and Ann Coulters of the world would immediately make this about immigration. I hope that doesn’t end up being the case, but I’m not holding my breath.

I did read that many South Korean students are fearful of reprisals, and that makes an unimaginable, horrific event that much sadder.  History has proven time and time again that deranged, deluded, homicidal people come in every age, religion, and ethnic background.  I hope that everyone can stay focused on the needs of the families who tragically lost loved ones, and on the fellow students and faculty that have suffered through such a horrible, life-altering event…

…and not on the color of the shooter’s skin or where he came from.

MEET MARKET

Lust, sweat, throbbing rhythms…chaps. Now that I have your attention I thought I’d tell you about my weekend, which involved all of those…sort of.

My wife and I went out on the town with three other couples. We had a nice dinner at P. F. Chang’s where one of the guys in our group consumed so much beer that he began to wear the lettuce wraps on his head like little green yarmulkes. Obviously, more alcohol was in order, so we proceeded from there to a new bar in Tulsa called the “Wild Horse Saloon.” 

Since there is an average of six cowboy bars per square mile in Tulsa, one would assume a “Wild Horse Saloon” would be redundant.  But apparently, the “Tin Dog Saloon,” the “Dead Horse Tavern,” “Tumbleweeds Dance Hall,” and “The Caravan Cattle Company” (I’m not making those names up) are not adequate to cover the demands of drunken people with gun racks in their pickup trucks, so Wild Horse Saloon opened it’s doors.

I haven’t been to a cowboy bar in a long time. I immediately noticed that we were not dressed appropriately. The correct dress for men is Wranglers, boots, a big ass belt buckle with a big ass hat to match, and a starched plaid shirt.

The correct dress for women is Wranglers, boots, a big ass belt buckle with a big ass hat to match, and any top that displays a copious amount of cleavage.

A lower lip full of Skoal is optional for either sex (If you don’t know what Skoal is, you’ve obviously never been to Oklahoma).

You would never make fun of this type of dress while at the bar. While at least 80% of the people there are posers who make their livings as accountants, convenience store clerks, and Indian Casino workers; in a place like Tulsa, about 20% are likely to be actual cowboys. An actual cowboy would immediately kick your ass for making fun of their attire, and that goes for both the men and the women.

I was surprised that the music being played was not all country. The obligatory George Strait ballads were interspersed with Techno, Rock, and Rap. The problem with this is that the people on the dance floor were two-stepping regardless of what was being played. Watching someone two-step to the Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps” will really twist your head around.

It’s also fun to watch the mating rituals of the Native Oklahoma Cowboy. The male of the species will spot a female with the most visible cleavage or the one who’s Wranglers are cutting off all circulation to the top half of their bodies and approach them with a gentlemanly “may I have this dance Miss?”  The female will then proceed onto the dance floor and present her back side to the male. The male will then spend the next three minutes attempting to mount the female while holding on to her like he’s riding a bull at the rodeo if you get my drift.

If no males have asked a particular female to dance, she will dance with a girlfriend while the cowboys stand at the bar and engage in lesbian cowgirl fantasies.

Mostly, the experience made me glad that I’m no longer out there trying to meet someone (or “meat” someone, as the case may be).

I’m quite happy to stay at home with my wife and have my own little rodeo.

  BEEMER BIMBOS

After only 30,000 glorious miles of wind in my hair and bugs in my teeth, I’ve decided to sell the mid-life-crisis car. There are several reasons behind my decision, but the primary issue is that the car just didn’t live up to the hype. For example – at no time did my car cause the clothes to simply fall off of a super model and incite her to beg me to have my way with her…so really, what’s the use?  Another reason is that four new tires and a front end alignment recently set me back $1,800.00. That’s a case of the dealership having their way with me, and trust me, it was better for them than it was for me.

Truth be told, my personality is really more “Ford Escort” anyway. I used to make fun of people who drove cars like mine, and then…I became one. I sold out to “the man” and I’m deeply ashamed. Ok, I’m not really ashamed, but it sounded very politically correct to say that, so I thought I would.

While I was driving the mid-life-crisis-mobile, I did find that I was more aware of who was behind the wheel of other sports cars I encountered on the road and I have a few observations to make.

Everyone knows that guys who drive cars like mine tend to fall into one of two categories: they are either old, fat guys, or they are guys who have tiny little stick-shifts and they are trying to compensate. I fall firmly into both categories so it was inevitable that I would buy a sports car. But what about the women who drive them? I have noticed that women in sports cars tend to drive convertibles and I can come close to guessing who might be behind the wheel just by seeing the car. Here are a few examples:

Miata or Mustang Convertible: Sorority Chick. Has daddy’s credit card locked firmly between her fake nails. Shows her distain for the remainder of humanity by the way she flicks her hair and checks her make up in the review mirror while she’s driving.

Beemer Convertible (325C or Z4): 24 yrs old. Blond (obviously). Husband is a Dentist in his second marriage. On her way to the tanning salon and to pick up his bratty kid from school.

Mercedes SLK 500: 27 yrs old. Blond (again). Used to stand in front of cars like the one she’s driving now at the Boat, Sport, and Travel Show in a low-cut top. Husband is a personal injury attorney. There’s more plastic in her than there is in the car.

Bentley Continental:  42 yrs old. Got the car in the divorce when she caught her stock broker husband with the chick in the Mercedes SLK 500. Uses it for long road trips between her apartment in the city and her beach front condo. There’s a 26 year old male underwear model in the passenger seat.

You might find my observations patently sexist. “Why couldn’t an intelligent, successful woman purchase an upscale convertible if she wanted too?” I hear you ask. Well…Intelligent, successful women are much to smart to invest their hard earned money in something that loses half it’s value when you drive it off the lot (only men are that stupid). The smart, successful women are driving two year old SAAB’s and investing the difference in mutual funds.

So, for me, it’s bye-bye Beemer.  It was fun while it lasted. I purchased a 1997 Grand Am to replace it for not much more than the cost of a single payment on the mid-life-crisis-mobile (no, I’m not kidding).

It won’t blow the clothes off of a super model, but my wife is the only super model I need.

(I may be stupid enough to buy an overpriced sports car, but I’m smart enough to know when it’s appropriate to suck up.)