It could be the basement. Or the garage. A den with wood paneling…painted of course, because the wood is too dark. It’s a hideaway, a cross between Walden Pond and a sports bar. Men used to call them a haven, an oasis, or better yet the catchers mitt that enveloped them like a called third strike. These days, of course, HGTV and lost originality call them a man cave.
Constructing such a place requires that it cannot be constructed. It just is. It’s filled with bits and pieces of what makes a man. It’s the place a man needs to reflect, and think, and just be. It’s a place where the neighbors can share a story, where his boys can build a soap box derby car, or talk about the path that life shall take him. It’s where a man can philosophically ponder the imponderables, as the captain would also say.
It’s not a cave. It’s not a trip to Best Buy to extract the largest TV and surround sound system produced by foreign men. It’s not plush leather furniture, the cost of which could feed a family of four in Ethiopia for 12 months.
The Day The Man Cave Died was the day it was named a man cave.