Grillmaster B

“And so, in honor of the laborer, we do hereby create Labor Day. It shall be a day of rest, upon which the laborer may eat, watch TV, and nap liberally and unashamedly.” ~ An unknown 21st Century blogger

I hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day. My day began at the crack of 11:45 AM, with the first order of business being grill assembly. Well, actually the first order of the day was eating a toaster strudel, followed by the second order of the day, showering. But you get the idea.

Once I unpacked the grill and unfolded the instructions, I saw that there were no words, just pictures. Tiny diagrams filled with numbers, dotted lines, and arrows. It looked like a cross between a blueprint and a rebus.

Assaying the situation, I knew that what I had hoped to be a late lunch was most likely going to turn into supper. Or at the very least, lupper. It was an accurate assumption on my part.

The grill was completed around 2:00. It felt good to have assembled something and for once in my life not have any parts or pieces left over. I feel things like this prepare me for when I begin to replenish the Earth with my seed and have to assemble things like cribs, swingsets, and diapers.

Now that the grill was standing on four legs and did not appear as if it was going to fall, it was time to put on my proverbial chef’s hat and begin my transformation to Grillmaster B (not to be confused with Grandmaster B, Thighmaster B, or Bed Wetter B).

Every man believes he has an innate and extraordinary talent for grilling, that within each of us lies an ability to achieve pyro-culinary greatness. And I am no different.

There seem to be fewer opportunities in this day and age for a man to find his inner caveman, but grilling is one of those. There is something inherently manly about cooking over an open fire. Something very primitive about providing food for the entire cave.

Standing there yesterday donning my khaki Gilligan hat, wielding a set of tongs in one hand and wearing a decorative pot holder on the other, I can honestly say that I’ve rarely felt more like a man.

For yesterday, I grilled.

Then I napped.

I am man. Hear me snore.

“And as I think back, makes me wonder how the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia…”

Primary colors

A few weeks ago, I was in a restaurant with several people. In the course of the evening, two of my guy friends, whom we’ll refer to as Friend A and Friend B, shared this exchange:
Friend A: “Hey, Friend B, don’t we know that girl over there in the blue?”
Friend B: “What girl? You mean the one in the turquoise top?”

At this point, I am convinced time did indeed stand still for two to three seconds. When the rotation of the Earth resumed, Friend A and I gave Friend B a confused look, then looked at each other with a did-he-really-just-say-turquoise look.

No man, unless he aspires to be an interior designer, hairdresser, or personal assistant, should ever use any color other than those in the original Crayola 8 pack to describe an article of clothing. It’s just… wrong.

As a matter of fact, I propose we make that a rule. A man rule. Some allowance will be made for the colors tan and gray, and of course, camouflage. Also, one may insert the words “light” or “dark” preceding said accepted colors, without facing repercussions or further questions.

To recap. It’s blue, purple, and white. Not turquoise, lavendar, and eggshell. On this issue, there can be no further debate. Now, let’s look at a couple of other man rule proposals…

I was at a football game last year with another guy friend. During a break in the action, when he should have been watching the cheerleaders, he nudged me and said, “Nice kicks.” I looked over and he was looking down at my shoes.

Man rule proposal #2: No man should ever compliment another man’s attire. Especially another man’s shoes. Especially using the phrase “nice kicks.” And most especially, in public.

If one feels compelled to be complimentary of a fellow Y-chromosomer’s attire, one should save such remarks until they can be uttered in private. Perhaps in the car or something. Although even then, this blogger doesn’t see how that could be anything but an awkward moment:

“Well, Ed, you wanna get something to eat?”
“Sure, Jimbo. By the way, I meant to ask you earlier. Is that a new shirt?”
“Uhhhh… yeah?”
“I thought so! Excellent choice. That cut is fantastic. It doesn’t just hang there. And the color! The aquamarine tint with contrasting midnight stripes flatters your figure while bringing out the blue in your eyes.”

See?

For our final example, I am reminded of a story concerning yet another guy friend. Several years ago, this particular friend had a flat tire. And despite having a spare and a jack on hand, he had to call someone to come get him because he had no idea how to change a tire.

I am not overly proud of the fact that I do indeed have a couple of guy friends who I’m not sure know the difference between a plug wire and a heater hose.

Proposed man rule #3: If something is wrong with your car or hers, at least pretend you know a little something about it. Go out and pop the hood, poke around, unscrew some caps, get your hands dirty. And for the love of Pete, learn to change a flat.

Be looking for my new Oxygen series, Armchair Quarterback For The Queer Guy.

OK, that’s all for today. I gotta get ready to watch General Hospital.

“So don’t be afraid to let them show. Your true colors, true colors, are beautiful,
like a rainbow…”