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 Greetings and blessings to all! Welcome to MANBEAT, a velvet-lined, rough-n-tumble corner of the world where your inner child and inner brute are free to frolic and pummel. Mighty JDog is mah name, overcoming roadblocks to male liberation is mah game.
BOOKS 
Okay, TOTAL CUTIE TIME. My throbbing, gristled man-heart was melted like golden butter by this wonderful book, I’M A BABY, by Phoebe Dunne (Cuddle Books, Random House, 1987). “A wonderful book to share with your baby, it is safe, sturdy, educational, and fun”, states the blurb on the back cover of this 5” by 5” pressboard masterpiece. What this summary fails to convey, however, is that this book redefines the term “concise” in an avant-garde nod to modern European minimalism. All with SUPER-cutie pictures of roly-poly little bundles of love doing what they do best—deliver the goods on “awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww”.
Some books out there waste thousands of pages, some hundreds on each chapter alone, to elucidate their message; here, each 1/8 “ thick cardboard page IS a chapter, not just in the stoic narrative of this book, but indeed in life itself. Page one blurts out, “Hi! I’m a baby.” Did not Socrates himself intonate the fundamental importance of self-awareness; indeed, to “know thyself”? The next three pages (“I eat”, “I play with my toes”, “and I suck my thumb”) as a supporting follow-up, threaten to stumble into the slightly flawed Cartesian camp, but are redeemed by the socio-interactive, it-takes-a-village emphasis implied on page five, with the vulnerable admission, “I visit with my fuzzy friends”. Pages 6 and 7 unabashedly claim “I bathe.”, and “I pull on my socks…almost.” Such reaffirming confessions bolster the human need to belong, and to forgive oneself for shortcomings (such as being too stupid to pull on your own socks). Page 8 is almost too blue to mention in a family-oriented column such as this, but the times, they are a-changin’, and in the spirit of honest disclosure (so lacking in our public officials today, I might add), I can proudly say “I hold my ball and squeeze it hard.” It’s only as dirty as your mind makes it. Page 9 makes a Frankensteinian announcement: “I walk…I take my first steps alone.” Such a frightening yet necessary realization at the dawn of one’s life and throughout its various stages, even if you are not composed of parts from re-animated human corpses. Page 10’s trite and self-absorbed observance, “I cut my first teeth” is hardly worth mentioning, but the somber finality embodied on page 11 stops you in your tracks. It forces deep reflection on your own mortality, and ultimately the meaning of what we do, who we are, where we are going. “I blow out my first birthday candle. Soon I won’t be a baby anymore.” OMIGAWD, that is sooo true, and totally cute. BIG EQUIPMENT In eco-friendly Portland, I choose to thumb my rugged nose (twice broken in the Ultimate Fighting ring) at trendy convention. With the shadow of global warming looming, I decided to grab life by the cajones and get me a big ol’ TRUCK. 
Consumer culture dictates we get more stuff, which means hauling more stuff back to our caves and dumping it there. The new Caterpillar 777F Off-Highway Truck, developed for heavy mining duty, is my new Ultimate Grocery Getter, and it only set me back, like, a million dollars or sumpin’ like that. Station wagons? Uh-uh. S.U.V.’s? More like S.U.C.K.S. The 777F sports a 7-speed Powershift transmission matched with a Cat C32 Engine with ACERT Technology for (suck on this, tree-huggers) reduced emissions. These combine for super performance in the most demanding duties, plus smoother shifting and a Messenger System provides real-time engine operating data for maintaining peak machine performance. All this is fancy talk for “Git-r-dun!”. I have no idea how much or even what type of gas this thing takes; here in the fine state of Oregon, you ain’t allowed to pump your own, and the tank is, like, two stories down and about 50 feet back there, so I can’t even see what the dude is pumping. But that’s what God made plastic for… blind, quick convenience. I think the mileage is somewhere in the 4 gpm (gallons per mile) range, for you bean-counters out there. Plus, peep the tires on that sumbitch. I get, like, TWO WHOLE sides of beef at Les Schwab when I switch ‘em out. Props to Les. 
Now, wait, what about the planet? Well, this truck is hella-huge, but the last time I checked the planet was WAY HUGER. I ain’t even makin’ a dent in it. Plus, this truck has a bike rack, so I can take my bike (and several hundred others in the dump bed) should I choose to “lower my emissions” and “help save the Earth” after I finally manage to find a parking spot (usually 10-12 miles outside of town, in a field or dry lake bed). Also, it is way practical. Last week, I helped some friends move everything they owned over to their new place. Took one load, y’all. ‘Course, they didn’t seem to really appreciate me upending the bed and dumping it all on the lawn, but, hey, I gots places to be, know’m’sayin’? Getting to said places in this fine mamma-jamma may pose a few problems. Sure, you might take out most traffic lights and powerlines while cruising downtown, but ya gotta break a few freakin’ eggs to make an omelette, am I right? And this monsta makes a BIG omelette. Whether crushing city buses undertire during a hurried lane-change on MLK or just letting the engine snort its mighty call from the height of the Saint john’s Bridge on a misty Sunday morning, Portlanders are unlikely to forget you. And they will always know not to f#$% with you. Ever. Back to OnePageWonder.com | |
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