My friend’s house is really the tale of two abodes. On the upper level is a proper home, with all of the first-world amenities one would expect. There’s a couch and a television, bedrooms and a dining area, even a space-age refrigerator that serves shaved ice and houses more beer than a German brewery. Walking inside, you think, “My, what a nice little slice of the American dream.” That, and “My, what a lovely little drinking problem you have.”
This friend -- I’ll call him “Hyrum,” because nobody is ever named that anymore, or should be -- has a hidden home. This home is in the basement, appropriately swathed in shadows, and he calls it his “man-cave,” a term that’s popping up with ever-increasing regularity. It’s aptly named, since only a man would ever want to go there. It’s chilly and dark and when you plop down on the shredded dime-store couch you’re never quite certain whether you’re sitting on something gross. Or alive. Or both.
I kinda want one.
A man-cave, I mean. A place where I can wipe my mouth on an old rag and toss it into the corner so it can dry next to a half-empty box of energy efficient lightbulbs. A place where I can blast loud music with explicit lyrics that could melt the buttons off a sweater-vest. A place where I can light up a cigar and play poker using cards illustrated with bikini-clad women washing Oldsmobiles. In other words, a place where I can do all the vile, offensive man-type stuff that would be too seedy and shocking in that nice little world of shaved ice and hops-laden craft brews.
Everyone needs a balance of the dark and the light. I envy Hyrum’s. He and his wife have a nice sunny area in which to greet family at Thanksgiving, and then a creepy little hole to which Hyrum can retreat in order to scratch himself in inappropriate areas. That’s the real American dream.
Not that I’ve got it that bad, mind you. I live alone, which by default makes my entire apartment a man-cave, complete with stray water bottles and a recliner that doubles as a laundry basket. But that’s different than having a specific, dedicated area for debauchery. It’s problematic when company comes; there’s nowhere to hide my pig-like tendencies, so even a friendly palaver with the next-door neighbor requires me to conduct a cleanup operation on the scale of Fukushima. (Too soon?) It also means there’s no place to go when I want to be in an area that’s sparkling and nice, like the lobby of a well-kempt hotel.
The very term “man-cave,” however, implies that it’s a hideaway tucked into a vaster dwelling, and so perhaps my desire to have one merely reflects a need for space. Due to various reasons -- bachelorhood, thrift, fear of commitment -- I’m a renter, not an owner, and while I’m generally fine with this, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to have more sprawling quarters. That a man-cave could be a luxury and not a way of life is, in some strange way, a benchmark to shoot for. It’s one of life’s little ironies: You work to upgrade your living situation so you can have a room in which you revert back to the habits of your former living situation. There’s probably something deep there, but I have no idea what it is.
Follow me along on a flight of fancy for a second. I’m walking to work when I pass a weird convenience store in Monument Square that looks like an old-timey post office and smells like stale pizza and cabbage. Rather than strolling past without a thought, as I’m wont to do, I enter said store, purchase a Powerball ticket, and it hits -- I am now the recipient of $400 million doled out in annual payments from this moment to the time of my death, which should be any minute now since I’ve replaced all water with $200 bottles of Cristal. I finally decide to pick a spot and settle there, finding a nice house that’s big but not too big, lest people think I’m some sort of Willie Wonka-type weirdo recluse (even though I am, in fact, a Willie Wonka-type weirdo recluse).
Great. Time to build my man-cave. But what approach to take? It’s fine if it’s nothing more than a spare bedroom with a hand-me-down TV and the reek of old pickles, but now that I’ve got more money than Cuba Gooding Jr. a bit more should be expected. The ideal man-cave is one in which it’s okay to make a filthy freakin’ mess, yet it should be somehow cool, something that would make Hyrum drop his jaw in abject jealousy.
A British man named Darren Wilson has got the right idea.
As detailed in a February article in the Huffington Post, Wilson is both a professional sculptor and a rabid fan of Batman. Which is why, when designing a computer room in his home, he decided to transform it into a real-life Batcave -- complete with papier-mâché stalactites, rubber bats hanging from the ceiling, and about $21,000 worth of Batman collectibles. This man is clearly a massive dork. But he’s a dork with taste and imagination, and I can respect that.
In my Powerball fantasy I basically just copy Wilson’s Batcave idea, only mine is bigger and I’ve nailed down Adam West’s original Batmobile, which rotates on a circular pedestal in the middle of the room while the members of Metallica play “Fuel” at peak intensity. So nyah, Darren Wilson.
Definitely something to shoot for, but in the meantime I can always drop by Hyrum’s for a belch-happy basement visit. I’ll make sure to keep one eye on the shadows, though. You never know what might be lurking down there, and if I see a pair of glowing eyes I’m history.
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