Dug this up from the ashes of my HD....

Ahhh, good ole suburbia! Where men are no longer judged by the content of their character but with the greenness of their lawn. Where any man can be a mans man if he has the Craftsman collapsable workbench in his garage. Where pegboard goes on for miles and the sound of powertools echo throughout the weekends.

Now I know some of you may not know what this little festival of testosterone may be like. Some of you may live in the city and not own a car. Some of you may own a vagina so the whole idea of this may be foreign. Let me try to explain how and why this occurs.

If you live in the suburbs and you are a man, you are one of four types:

1) The guy with the tools.
2) The guy with the great lawn.
3) The guy who works on the car.
4) The guy that comes and drinks beer with you while you work on your car/household project/lawn.

Now being that I live in a condo development, it kind of gets me out of practicing proper lawn care. But I do have a carport and I do work on my car. So from time to time when I need to get under the hood there always seems to be a conglomeration of the local married-with-kids type of guys that always flock to my open-aired 12x12x12 carport. A mans haven if you will. A place where all the men in the neighbourhood can escape the bickering of wives and the screaming of babies. Where you can drink beer and burp and smoke and scratch yourself without getting the talking-to by their significant others.

I have a light above my carport and with Dave's help with his significant knowledge of jerry-rigging, we found a way to hook up a dormatory mini-fridge to the light power source. And with the help of a ladder, one can get to the fridge attached to the rafters with duct tape and bungee cord and retrieve a nice cold beer. Import or domestic, can or bottle, its all there.

Its kind of the neighbourhood mens little secret. We all can take but there seems to be an unspoken understanding that you always put back what you take. When you live in a suburb such as mine, there isn't much left to do. You have already decided to settle down in the peace and quiet that is the suburb. You trade in your Harley for a minivan. You finally throw the little black book away in exchange for the latest Raffi CD. In certain circles, they believe that you simply give in to the whole domestic experience. That is where Dave and I come in. We live here because we got a great deal on the house. We are fairly close to work and like I said, it was cheap and didn't require a security deposit. We are the only single guys in the development. We don't own a Sams Club membership. We don't drive Caravans and we certainly don't have to trade in our beer drinking pot smoking ways for anyone.

So today I decided to adjust the boost on my car. I wanted to go from 14lbs. to 18. Not an easy task being that it requires removing the entire manifold and adjusting a few things underneath it. Should have been an easy 2 hour job. But after it started getting around post dinnertime, the men slowly but surly started coming out of their domestic prisons of laundry and soiled diapers. They came for four things. Male bonding, alcohol, talk of titties and asses and the sharing of the latest bowling scores. That and to look busy while I did all of the work. As I furiously worked on my car, one by one, they came. Like I was the sun and my gravity pulled the married men out of their homes. "Whatcha working on this time Jay?" "How was the weekend Jason?" "Saw ya with that new neighbour today you dog!"

They all crowded around the car but did no work. They simply looked busy and enjoyed the male bonding experience. They asked questions like, "That a 1/2" or a 1/4" socket driver?" and I would reply, "1/4" Steve." "Oh, okay, thats what I would use too!"

They just sat and stared or talked and laughed trading car stories or war stories or bating stats while I just kept on under the hood. So after about three hours of me working while the other men either watched with their arms crossed or smoked that "secret cigerette" all the while keeping an eye out for their wives, I finally was finished. I stood up to see all of the men talking not really paying attention to my achievement until the tried and true attention grabber was layed into action. The slamming down of the hood. I might as well lit off a stick of dynamite because when that 45 pound gloss black painted hood slammed shut, they all stopped everything. Conversations screeched to an abrupt halt. Beer sips were cut short. High fives were stopped midair. And all in unison, their eyes were on me. They knew what was to happen next. The test start.

Like kids on Christmas Eve. They knew what was to come. For this evening, it would be the epitomy of testosterone. The reason a man was a man. The reason why Sears has midyear tool sellathons. For tonight, the sound of horsepower, the smell of 97 octane gasoline and the whisp of a turbos blowoff valve would be heard across the land.

All was quiet then. Not one comment was uttered as I crawled into my drivers seat and shut the door. I slowly checked gauges and made a mental final checklist. And then it happened. I started the car. The sound of German metal slowly turning over, the engine finally catching and the throaty hum of the exhaust. All eyes were on me. They gave me the look that a child gives to a parent at a petstore. They knew what they wanted to hear and they wanted it bad. What was next to come would make the next week bearable. All of the dirty diapers and the nagging screams of their spouses would all be worth it in the next moment. I looked to one of them seeing through the windshield the nonverbal head movement. Moving up and down with eyes nearly squinted shut. Another mans mouth was nearly wide open with excitement. All of them telling me to do it. And then it happened. I stepped down on that right pedal with the strength of Zeus himself. Instantaneously all 445 screaming horses let loose. The car shook. The men took a quick breath. The turbos wastegate expunged its spent gases with a hiss that had never been heard before. And then the sound of 12 men exploded with screams of excitement and manliness into the night. High fives were given, beer was spilled. Fingers to lips made the siren cry for all men to hear. Some jumped up and down. Some stood absolutely still. Others didn't know whether to cry or to give their best effort at a "Whoooooo".

So with a few more tests all was said and done. What work was to be made on my car tonight was over. I slowly reached for my key and turned it to the off position. The engine slowly quieted down, the last throaty note exited my dual chromed turboback exhaust pipes, and the soft hiss of the turbo wound down to its resting postion for the evening.

As I exited the car and walked over to my tools, I received a few highfives, a random pat on the back or a congratulatory handshake. As for tonight, we were men. We talked about women and boobs and porn and cars and beer. Some of us drank, others smoked but we all were a part of something special. We were men. For 3 hours, we got to be what we were supposed to be. No one had to worry about taking out the trash or cleaning dishes or cleaning up baby vomit. We didn't have to answer to anyone and no one could take that away from us.

So as I gathered up my tools, we all traded our "see ya laters" or "I guess I gotta go check on the kids" or "Got a 8am meeting with the client tomorrow" but one thing was for sure, during the next week, we all could look forward to one thing; Sunday. A time for reflecting. A time for relaxation. But most importantly, a time to get away from it all and just be guys.