“And on the seventh day God rested; he laid down his Stratocaster, shelved his dark Ray-Bans wayfarers, and turned to his blitzed-out Heavenly host. ‘Buds,’ said he of the spiritual swing. ‘Buds… That was one gnarly Saturday night.’ And the host nodded in agreement, except Miguel – who was all the way in the bag, figuring out which way was up. ‘So, let’s take a breather and adjourn someplace for some R and R.’ And the host gave the BIG GUY two thumbs up while Gabriel eyed a tray of suspicious brownies with fear, loathing and a bit of wanton trepidation; for an Archangel’s partying is never done. And so, a much cooler – with 7.1 digital surround sound extra bass – extension to the Promise Land was quickly erected. And the Lord did smile, dubbing his construct the Man-Cave. And all was perfect… Up until the point, Mike regained consciousness and asked: ‘dude, where’s the hot-tub?’ which just goes to show there’s no pleasing people. “
Genesis: The Cutting Floor.
It is a fact, for those who know of the hidden truth behind the veil, that sometimes a man needs to be a man. Someplace where your own smells, predilections, vices, lewdness, degeneracies and immaturities, are never shunned, but welcomed and expected. Your tiny sliver of celestial bliss; your intoxicating paradise; your testosterone filled, mad-cap, you have the world swinging by your knees, wonderland. A dot on the map, that’s wholeheartedly yours. The final bastion for your “cojones.” A buttress, where, no matter the relationship pitfalls accosting you, you can seek solitude and recharge your batteries. Superman had his Fortress; Stephen Strange his Sanctum Santorum; Bats his hole in the ground. You have your man-cave.
That ephemeral foxhole, that safeguards you against the ravages of everyday existence. That lovable dugout, that’s your last haven against your pillow obsessed better half. I mean really, what’s with the massive collection of furry cushions? That entrenchment where you can fling to, like a desperate soldier evading deadly mortar fire, when your eyes waver a bit too long at that saucy scene with Megan Fox. That fortified stronghold, where shelter is always available, when you indubitably perpetrate the cardinal sin; may the fiery pincers of a hundred pagan Gods rake your soul over coals, if you happen to commit that deplorable ultimate offense. Gasp, the unthinkable.
“What kind of animal, uses the guest towels? The guest towels?”
When that phrase is utter, run – don’t walk, don’t talk, don’t try to impart reason, save not the last strands of logic – but run like the Road Runner. Dash with a cartoon spin; zip with rubber legs. Seek your man-cave and hope that you have stockpiled that baby for the coming Apocalypse.
So, dear reader, you’ve stepped in the brown and smelly stuff. That very same stuff has hit the whirling blades of your fan, dashed your happy place to bits and now a biblical holocaust is steaming just outside your door, making you wish that you could trade places with anybody in The Walking Dead. Fret not, gentle bookworm, for if you’ve prepared just right, you can ride out the coming of Ragnarok with style and grace.
Tips on what’s a must, in your masculine grotto. Those items, that – like the busy little squirrel – you should have hoarded away for such a dire occasion.
1. A 25 to 30 cigar humidor. One of those fancy ones with scratch-resistant felt bottom, hygrometer, and humidifier. If you don’t smoke, then ram in some chocolates; this is more of a mood setter than anything else.
2. A cozy recliner. That one that you’ve always wanted, but the missus constantly told you: “it sets off the Feng Shui.” Well, get it. Overstuffed padded seat, leather skin, and a kick back lever. Watch how the philosophical system of harmonization looks back at you with envy.
3. A rocking, I might have to sell off my kids to slavery just to pay the first credit card installment, audiovisual extravaganza. I’m talking the whole nine yards. 3d Smart Tv, with fangled BluRay surround sound system, the latest gaming drool machine and finally a decent movie collection; The Godfather trilogy, is not only a must but an unbreakable charter. There’s a national law that states, that if you have a film compilation and the Holy Trilogy is missing, you have to turn in your testicles; so, just in case get two and Scarface while you’re at it; which is just sound thinking.
5. A fully stocked wet bar. This is essential, a man can go days without eating but tops eighteen hours before dehydration kicks in. Plus, as an added bonus, you might actually outlive the end-of-days. Perfectly preserved in, if not formaldehyde, at least 18 year-old-scotch; pickled like a lap rat, waiting for the next soiree to get started.
6. A luminous, gaudy, Neon sign. A Las Vegas-style post that proclaims your independence. Something along the lines of: “First rule of man-cave; you do not talk about man-cave,” or “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” or, one the encompasses the complete atmosphere of your endeavour: “Tits & Beer.” Mine’s a five letter homage to Calvin and Hobbes: G.R.O.S.S.
8. A pool table; after all your libations, you’ll need someplace to crash.
9. Finally, a small window. A Winnie Pooh type opening, big enough to let your amigos smuggle you in some cheesy pie.
And there you have it, your panic room… Gawk in pride, as a silent tear falls from your pusillanimous neighbour’s eye; Yup, the very same one that though each kid should have their own room. Now, sport, you’re willing, able and, I’d wager even a bit content and overjoyed, to welcome whatever do-do life has in stored.
The Man-Cave; even God needed one.