Keep Out

I read an article recently about a supposedly new phenomenon which isn’t new at all: the Man Cave. The article said that men are starting to create hideaways for themselves; a place to get away from it all. The lady who wrote the piece had discovered a whole new facet of human behavior, or so she thought. I’d hate to be the one to break it to her, but guys have been hiding from their womenfolk since Adam found a nice quiet cave where he could embrace his Inner Slob.

Every man on Earth either has, or wishes to have, a space of his own. There’s no way I can know that, of course, but I can’t believe that the man exists who can put up with the female half of the species twenty four hours a day, every day, all the time. That would make any man a gibbering, drooling wreck in pretty short order.

Don’t get me wrong. I love women in general, and I love my wife in particular, more than I can tell you. I firmly believe that women are superior to men in almost every way. They’re smarter, they live longer, they certainly have better morals and they smell better than men. Men are stronger, but women generally have some guy to do the heavy lifting for them. Our job is to take out the trash, move the heavy stuff and kill spiders. Beyond that, after helping (in our limited way) make the babies, we’re just in the way.

Let’s be honest. Ninety-nine percent of the things you do annoys your wife and you never know what will get on her nerves until you’ve done it and then it’s too late. You’re in the doghouse.

Which brings us back to the Man Cave. The Man Cave is the doghouse minus the dog. It’s where you can be you, scratching those places that you can’t scratch in front of her, emitting various noxious emanations and generally being gross and disgusting. In short, the Man Cave is where you can be a man.

Batman had his Bat Cave. Superman had his Fortress of Solitude. The comics hit on something pretty basic there, some primordial need for “alone time”.

The Man Cave gene kicks in early. Young boys will roam the woods or back alleys looking for the perfect spot for a “fort”. A fort is not a clubhouse. A clubhouse implies a club, which implies recruiting members. A clubhouse invites company. A fort keeps people out. The most important thing about a fort is that it’s located where no female would ever think to look. I can’t tell you where that would be. If I did, the men would have to kill me, and rightfully so.

A tree fort is best. If your father or, heaven forbid, your mother helps you build your tree fort… well…that’s just wrong. You’ll know when you’ve found the right tree. It’ll look like there should be a tree fort in it. A proper tree fort is constructed of stolen and discarded materials. I’m not advocating theft, I’m just saying. I didn’t invent the rules. Any local construction site can “donate” the proper materials. So I hear.

Ideally your arboreal hideaway should look as if a gentle breeze could blow it to Oz. A board or two should be hanging loose in apparent ignorance of the laws of gravity. That helps keep anyone sane enough to be believed by your parents (such as a sister) from rooting around in there.

As I say, a tree fort is best, but an underground one will serve just as well. Just dig a hole and cover it with boards. Cover the boards with pine straw or leaves to camouflage the thing. Basically, this is the same plan you might use for a tiger trap. If you’re lucky some big kid who‘s been giving you grief will ride his bicycle over your underground fort and fall in. Try not to be in it when this happens.

“But, Jester,” you say, ”We already did all that when we were kids. What about grownup Man Caves?” Right. Well, a Man Cave is the same as a fort except it has POWER TOOLS! Yep, due to a stunning lack of judgment by the powers that be, men are actually allowed to own and operate power tools totally unsupervised! Hard to believe, isn’t it?

Décor for the Man Cave is whatever your spouse won’t allow in the Woman Cave (otherwise known as “the house”). In my case that would include my genuine Okefenokee Swamp alligator skull, my Simpsons collection, my Napoleon Dynamite Talking Action Figure (don’t ask) and just piles and piles of junk.
So the next time you need some peace and quiet, go to your own personal Fortress of Solitude and fire up that circular saw. You’ll be glad you did. Unless you cut off a finger or two.