The Adventures of Cannibal Boy & the Misplaced Mission of Manhood

This is a place where "Tool Time" means something completely different.

Time to hoist up my linen trousers, starch my corporate collar and press my silk boxers - it’s time to be a man.

Alternate opening:

Time to slip on my dirty denim duds, work the cobwebs from my well worn work boots and slip into my favorite grubby sweatshirt - it’s time to be a man.

Whatever your finite definition of “man”, I guess I have to evolve into such a creature – a masculine maturity mammal, an animal of absolute advancement – big shoes to fill when you’re a scared little boy in search of sole. “Talking shop” a few months back, the Dark Pig (shown here) and I had stumbled into a conversation that we’ve had many times in the past but never with such vigor or impact. We both realized that what our dads brought to our little lives (and still do) can never be matched or ultimately equaled by what we’ll potentially share with our respective spawn in the future - quite a revelation if not a disconsolate one.

Our fathers are of the old school pool (not from the piddle pond we’re wading in) – they are break the mould kind of men, larger than life lads – mechanically minded super construction masterminds of unequalled strength, humor and humanity. What do I have to contribute to a child? I guess it’s all of the creative variety over the practical pieces. Where dad would build a television stand of solid oak and glass, I’ll be able to teach a rug rat how to build a horror movie to display on housed television (if we can convince his/her mother to play victim). Where dad would be able to fix a vehicle with a matchstick, chewing gum wrapper and lint mined from the depth of a sock drawer (MacGyver is a pussy!), I can rebuild the computer that will allow me to e-mail him for advice on how to salvage said vehicle. My father can draft up the most elaborate construction plans right down to the last nail but ask him to draw something organic and he’s at a loss whereas I can illustrate the most succulent lopsided breasts right down to stray nipple hair.

Maybe they’re right when they say that new breed males are doomed. I mean, nothing is more satisfying (read: frustrating) than having dad ask me for help with some technology issue or aspect, it’s like the reverence wreath has been passed but that can only take a person so far. As I surveyed how much work needs to be done on the purchased property I couldn’t help but think of how much I need my dad’s help and that no computer in the world can undo the mess the previous owners made on the walls in there (damn you Trading Spaces!). I’ve spent countless hours of my youth holding a flashlight over my dad’s shoulder while he worked on… whatever, and I have no clue on how to do any of it (except gallantly hold a flashlight aloft or fetch tools) . Perhaps I should’ve listened when he said countless times, “pay attention now, son. You’ll own a home of your own one day”. I hate that he’s right all the time.

Favorite lyric of the moment, David Gray – Flame Turns Blue: “I’m in collision with every stone I ever threw and blind ambition where the flame turns blue.”

Dad loves music but has no idea where my instrument of choice, the bass guitar, fits into the mix since all the music he listens to was back before the bass was considered a rhythmic necessity. This makes me sad.

iPod played "Dirty Vegas – Days Go By (Acoustic Version)" while posting