Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

by Tim Allen

  Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

  Tim Allen

  The comic who's a guy's guy, Tim Allen is the star of ABC's Home Improvement, one of television's most successful sit-coms. In this first book, Allen shares his hilarious and helpful musings on being a hapless male in America. Black-and-white illustrations.

  Tim Allen

  DON'T STAND TOO CLOSE TO A NAKED MAN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  All men like to think they can do it alone, but a real man knows there's no substitute for good help, encouragement, or a pit crew.

  So, special thanks to David Rensin for helping me make sense of my thoughts and memories, for patience at the right times, and most of all for teaching me how to use my modem.

  Also, thanks to:

  Kim "Bacca" Flagg, for her brilliant left and right hooks.

  All of my siblings, especially Becky, Geoff, and Steve, for their notes.

  The people on the set of the film, The Santa Clause, for putting up with me finishing my first book during the filming of my first movie.

  Leslie Wells at Hyperion.

  Peg and Mia.

  Bobby Click and a nice letter from the past.

  Apologies to everyone I had to "kill" in print.

  And to all the people in my life for making my life something worth writing about — although I think I also had something to do with it.

  If I've forgotten anyone, it's only because I'm totally egocentric. If I'd had my way, I would have dedicated this book to myself and told everyone else to go straight to …

  INTRODUCTION: the naked truth

  This book is about many things I want to say about being a man. If you've seen my comedy act or my television show, or me in the shower, it will explain why the book is not about many things I want to say about being a woman.

  At first, I didn't want to write this. Don't get me wrong: I like books, I read a lot. I know lots of great authors' names. I can spell "Camille Paglia." It's just that when you're working television, movies, and the stage you want to use your spare time for lots of things that seem more important than writing. Seeing my wife and child more than twice a year comes immediately to mind. Plus I didn't think it would be fair if I didn't write the book myself. So I put it off for a long time.

  The publisher finally took some drastic measures, which convinced me that being an author would be a wise addition to my resume. Here's what changed my mind about doing the book.

  Hyperion is owned by Disney, which also owns my television show. Disney owns Disneyland and Disney World. Disney also owns EuroDisney, Tokyo‑Disney, and a Disney store in every city, town, and hamlet in the world. They also have my cat.

  First things being first, we needed a title, I came up with Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man. I'm not sure what it means-or if I want to know what it means-but I knew it was a winner when the mere mention of it made several people shoot pricey mineral water through their noses.

  This book will be like my taking you for a spirited ride in my 575‑horsepower Mustang. We go where I want, see the things I like. When we really get moving you will have to trust me, since it's the first time I've driven this thing. Also, I'm a very goal‑oriented guy. So I'm hoping that by the end of this book you will not only have thought more about men, and what makes a man a man, as well as about how men and women relate, but you'll also have learned to speak Spanish, cook a souffle, rebuild a Hemi, and remove bloodstains from white shirts.

  The truth is that writing is a challenge. It's great to see your stuff in print. I also desperately wanted to see the words "fart lighting" and "sack" on a page.

  Bottom line-we're getting close to the bottom, aren't we? — I'm a man and I've arrived at that juncture in life when it's time to share what I've learned. It's been an interesting journey. Hell, it took forty years. So much is happening to guys today, from the women's movement to changing social values to the demise of the Sears catalog. This book is about how I got to where I am before this book ended my career. It probably has a few things to say about how you men got to where you are, too. And it will give the ladies a look into secret corners that men rarely discuss, much less sweep up regularly.

  And if all goes well and you buy lots and lots of copies, maybe Disney will give me back my cat.

  my name made me do it

  Even though we've never met, I want you to know right now how much I admire you. You're the greatest.

  "Admire me?" you're saying. "Thanks. But why?"

  Easy. In this era of declining literacy, you're reading a book. Actually reading a book. I'm so impressed.

  Of course, it's my book, which really makes you special. After all, I'm a guy best known for grunting and blowing up toasters, not writing. 1 know there's much more to me, but you took a chance. You trusted me.

  So I'm going to trust you.

  See, I have something to tell you. I've got to let it out and let it go. Unload. Own up. Confess. I just can't hold back any longer….

  I'm a Dick. Yes. I am a Dick. My closest friends know I'm a Dick. In fact, my brothers are Dicks, my cousins are Dicks, and my sister, before she was married-was a Dick. My dad? One incredible Dick, and the Dick responsible for me being a Dick. Timothy Allen Dick. My given name, and a gift to cherish for a lifetime.

  Some of us are just born lucky.

  My name almost got me kicked out of a restaurant once. After I'd politely told the hostess, "Dick, party of six," she said, "Excuse me?" like I'd offended her. I said, "What's the problem? I'm Mr. Dick, and it's a party of six." Her face tightened with contempt, and she said, "Really, sir. I don't have to take this." "Take this?" I was getting (tired of dickering?) ticked off. I said, "Lady, you got a problem with Dicks? I've been a Dick all my life. I'd like to see you be a Dick for just one day!" The hostess was about to signal the manager when my wife spoke up. "Excuse me, miss," she said, sweetly. "My husband's correct. He is a Dick. Which, I guess, makes me a Dick, too." For a moment, she let that hang in the air, then added, "Now what about that table?"

  The hostess grabbed six menus and seated us in the smoking section. It isn't easy being a Dick.

  Now I know what you're wondering: How, where, when, and why would he do something like lose the Dick, and was it on an outpatient basis? I'll never forget that moment. When I did my first TV talk show, the producers said they just didn't feel comfortable flashing my real name onscreen. "Surely you understand, Tim Dick? People will think you made it up just to be funny." I wished I had. I wanted to be a comedian so much. But I relinquished the Dick to keep my spot on their show. The separation hurt less than I thought it would. And so began the career of Tim Allen.

  But why am I even telling you this? A couple of reasons.

  First. I believe my name created my life. Dealing from childhood with people's reactions helped form the basis of my humor about men and the differences between men and women. All my life, no one ever failed to remind me that my name is synonymous with the slang for penis. It's no wonder my self‑image is so closely tied to that organ.

  Second, and most poignant, I've always wanted to see the sentence "I'm a Dick" in print. But then, haven't we all?

  (For some reason, right now, I feel. . oh, never mind. It's silly. well-okay. I'm feeling very close to you, and yet kind of vulnerable.)

  As an experiment, I'm going to use words like "dick" and "penis" here and there. It's not to be rude or offensive. They're just words. The symbols and meanings-positive, negative, enlightening, insultingare in our heads, which is why the power of some words has a lot to do with all the social and sexual dysfunction in this country. What I learned growing up is that we have power over words, not the other way around. People made fun
of my name every day, but I learned to cope. I numbed myself. Maybe I can pass my immunity on to you.

  It's okay. I've been tested.

  - -

  What's in a name? Interesting question to ponder. It depends on your point of view. A scholar might say that words or groups of words define our identities. The head of a successful corporation might say a name contains the power of association and reputation. I haven't really given it much thought. So let's see-what's in a name? I know. Maybe it's an endless cycle of excruciating torture causing tremendous pain and misery to a young boy who is knocked to his knees time and time again and made to suffer hell on earth merely because he is bound to a name that, when uttered, universally conjures up the image of male genitalia (specifically, the penis, and results in snickers and jeers from evil little children, who so easily find amusement in cruelty, and who so relish the poor boy's anguish, shame, and humiliation that he's left only to mutter the words "character building? character building, my ass," over and over like some escaped lunatic.

  Or maybe it's just a collection of vowels and consonants.

  Not that it ever bothered me. As a kid, all I had to do was say, "Hi, I'm Tim Dick," and I already knew that people saw me as a walking penis.

  To this day I'm not exactly sure why it's so funny to everyone. Given the male organ's important role in society, and men and women's fondness for "it," you'd think that, instead of being teased, I'd be revered. The Carnegies of Pittsburgh. The Rockefellers of New York. The Dicks of Denver. I should have been a deity in high school. Girls should have sought out my advice, stood in line to date me. I should have been given the key to the city. (By the way, it's not too late for that.)

  Tim Dick. Tin Dick. Thin Dick. Pin Dick. And then there's my Uncle Richard-a double Dick. And he named his son Peter. Nice.

  In grade school the kids snickered at my name the same way they giggled when they had to sing the word "bosom" in "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

  When I was older, my gym teachers-who clearly wished they were still in the Marines-always paused at my name.

  In class, I knew the alphabet better than anybody. And I feared whosever name came before mine, especially on the first day of school. I can still feel the old heartburn and anxiety. "Aaron, Becker, Bendleston, Cochran, Dachman, Decker, DICK!" It seemed like the guy was yelling it through a megaphone. The whole class would stop talking, and everybody would stare at me like I resembled my name.

  The guys in high school were relentless.

  "What's your name?"

  "Tim Dick."

  "Dick! Hahaha! Like Penis"? Hahaha!" I wasn't just going to stand there and take it, so I'd have to run through a whole routine just to defuse the situation. When they'd say, "Your dad shoulda called you Harry," I could mouth the words along with my tormentors. I'd go, "Oh, wow, Harry. You should be a comedian. Harry. Real original! I've never heard that one. How about Big? That's a fine Irish name! Lotsa guys named Big. How about Thick? You're a funny guy!"

  For a while I hated everyone and the teasing caused me unnecessary grief. But in retrospect, it made me a better person. Now I have to thank my name for making my life special. This wouldn't have happened if I were Tim Dack, or Tim Deck, or Tim Dock.

  Maybe Tim Cock, though.

  After graduation, just when I thought I'd been through it all, I met a woman in a sporting-goods store where I worked. She was mature and had six kids. Out of nowhere she said, "Too bad you don't have a sister named Anita."

  Anita Dick. Now that is really funny.

  - -

  When you're a kid you never really call what you've got by its real name. Anything but that. Dicks were big in my family-naturally. Then there's boner, chubby, Hank, pecker, willy, Mr. Happy, pocket rocket, trouser trout, joystick, and "it." There are millions of synonyms. Of course, my all-time favorite is Big Sam and the Twins. Go figure.

  Women have names for it, too.

  But they won't tell us.

  You can say "penis" in front of your parents. Otherwise, we use the word only when speaking medically. Doctors say, "I have to see your penis," which sounds like you need to get something lanced. My doctor calls it a "unit." I don't argue. I've seen how he holds his golf club.

  When you're a boy, the penis is mostly a yardstick by which to measure growth.

  I remember the first time I saw my dad's. He, my brothers, and I were gathered in the bathroom. Then I looked at it. I have no idea why-maybe because I was just waist-high-‑and it was the most shocking thing I'd ever seen. It was so frightening that I swore I would never want anything like that in all my life. I now know that you have to be careful what you wish for.

  - -

  "Vagina" is a funny word. Almost as funny as "penis." I always stumble over it-I mean the word. Va‑gi‑na. Women don't even use the word. I know one woman who uses "ginnie." Ginnie is more personable, I guess.

  I say this all in the most respectful way, you understand. Since I have a daughter, I have to teach her what to call it, and it can't be "down there"-the name I cleverly created-all her life. One reason I think we get so screwed up is not calling things by the right name.

  So: A man has a penis. A woman has a boom‑ba. Okay, I'll be honest, she's got a goo‑goo. I don't know why this is so difficult. My daughter already calls it a butty‑butt. I said, "You have, as you well know, a butty‑butt." But she calls everything in that area a buttybutt.

  Please tall me this will pass.

  My daughter also has major questions about why I can pee standing up. She automatically assumes it's a better deal. I didn't say anything, but who knows what she hears at school. So I said, "No, you're lucky. You get to sit." She goes, "When I grow up I'll be able to pee standing up." I thought, that'd be interesting. I feel bad for women. They have to go through such a to‑do to go to the bathroom. And they can't write their names in the snow without a lot of acrobatics.

  - -

  Before we figure out that we can play doctor, we rely on sex-education films, science books, and that old standby National Geographic, to reveal what we've got. . down there.

  Those medical illustrations are pretty weird, aren't they? The man is cross‑sectioned so that you get a limp side view. And women are cut along an axis between front and back, which makes their internal reproductive system look like there's a water buffalo trapped inside. Or an inverted penis. After seeing those diagrams, I actually believed that if a woman blew on her thumb hard enough, she would have what I have-that it would just pop out.

  This was all very confusing when I was a kid. My dad died when I was young. Although my mom was very good about explaining the birds and bees, whenever my brothers and I would ask about how the male and female actually got together, it was suddenly dinnertime. Since then, the smell of home cooking always makes me feel silly and sexy.

  - -

  The penis is an emotional organ. Like hunger and fear, it operates deep beneath the surface of your life. It's a barometer of something else. It's a gauge. That's why it's a little frightening to get a boner when you don't want one. It's a little disheartening, a little unusual, and a` little scary. Also quite exciting. I can get one from a magazine. A good‑looking car. A hot tub. A real man. (Just kidding.) I went skinnydipping once in an ice‑cold lake; got a chubby.

  This makes activities like dancing difficult. During the sloe numbers in high school I always wondered if a girl could tell if I liked her. They can tell, can't they? Well, can't they?

  Guys can't tell about women, though. There's no visible sign. If we're skinny‑dipping in that icy lake you can tell she's cold. Is that the same as excited? There ought to he a signal to let us know when were making fools of ourselves.

  Men usually don't make a big deal out of what they've got until women make it a big deal. Until sexual awareness hits, the penis is just something that performs a useful function. Then it suddenly develops a mind of its own. The point is that guys never really notice what's between their legs until they notice women. Then the
only thing we relate it to is women.

  - -

  Penis envy really only exists among guys.

  I learned this when I was still just a little guy in transition from elementary school to being forced to shower with the boys in junior high gym class. That was a scary day, and sex wasn't even in the picture. There were several boys who refused to shower in public. It wasn't like they had anything to hide. They just did not want to be naked in front of guys like Tommy Rodriguez.

  I say you've never seen envy until you've seen Tommy Rodriguez in the shower. Now that was envy. Seventh grade and he already looked like Burt Reynolds! (I really shouldn't compare the two since I think Tommy's been married to the same woman since seventh grade.) I'd seen my dad's, and even he didn't look like Tommy Rodriguez. I thought, something's really wrong here. I carried that frightening image with me for quite a while. Maybe because I kept trying to sneak glances at it. And that's not something you want to get caught at.

  There's always a guy like Tommy Rodriguez wherever you turn. I've seen Playgirl magazine. These guys should be named Dick. If they got excited they'd probably faint from the blood loss. Even if the body could adjust, there'd still be some numbness in the shoulder.

  But that's all behind me. Now that I'm a man, I'm finally comfortable with what I've got.

  It's been over an hour by now.

  - -

  Can we discuss, uh. . testicles for a moment? I promise this will only take a few seconds because even the word scares men. We very rarely talk about it. Even God didn't want to think about it. He said, We've got some extra elbow skin left over? Okay, use that." This aversion starts in Little League when you learn that you have to protect our valuable area with jockstraps and cups. That is the reason I've never understood why balls are spoken of in the same context as courage. If they were so brave, they'd say, "The hell with the cup!" Instead, they're the first things to shrink when you're really petrified.