In the beginning, there was plenty of space for guys. We called the outdoors home. We roamed the flat earth, hunting, killing, eating raw flowers as men must do. We stayed in caves when water fell from the sky. We drank the water when we were thirsty.
Soon we found ways of fishing and hunting that were better than running and wrestling. When a man named Zippo invented the lighter, we learned to cook meat. When a man named Emeril came along, he spoke our language – BAM! – and showed us he how to kick it up a notch.
Then we settled into those caves. Made them homes. Left women in charge of furniture. These homes may not have looked all that manly, but at least there was a space for US. For some it was a shed behind the cave. For others it was a room inside with something called a Boob Tube. And when we did find the remote control for said Tube we did look upon our space and said, “this is GOOD.” And when Ham invented his radio, we could talk to people around the world and say, “can you hear me now?” and this too was good.
And then suddenly we began to beget. One baby. Two. Three. Children. Nephews. Nieces. Neighbors’ kids. Nerds. Jocks. Snobs. PTAs. This was civilization, expansion, modernization. And we feared it. Suddenly our quiet basement den, where we used to oil our rifles, became a jungle gym with small pink ponies strewn about our once-manly lair. The computer we once used to e-mail people around the world and say, “can you hear me now?” became the land of Pokemon and ILOVEDAWSON’SHEAVEN.COM. Even that hallowed, final, sacred place, the last refuge we had, the one sign that civilization was beautiful and necessary, was now overrun by curlers and plastic jewelry and hair gel, and feminine hygiene products multiplied at a rate faster than could we.
And so we were driven out of our homes and back to the outdoors, but because we needed to pay for those homes where we no longer had our space we could only go to the outdoors for moments at a time – weekend paintball, fishing trips. But it was too late, for we were domesticated.
And if we are going to be domestic creatures – fathers who love and care for their children, husbands who love and support their wives not with money but with laundry and homework – then we must insist that we find a space that belongeth to us larger than a potty seat. It’s a space filled with that which we love: our Hendrix LPs, our tattered Steven King collection, our little green tin box of concert stubs going back to 1973 (Led Zeppelin Boston Garden), our complete set of Craftsman hand tools, our drill, our power painter. It matter not that we hardly ever use or look at these things. They are ours, and we will be happy in these spaces if we can get to them a least one hour a night. So be it!