It’s a universal law that guys love gadgets, usually defined as toys and tools.

It’s in a our DNA to get all excited when we see something shiny and has lots of moving parts.

I suspect that’s why we like women in sequins.

It doesn’t make a lot of difference if it’s actually something we need – it’s now something we want.

And if you’re a manly-man you never throw any of them out.

Remember – he who dies with the most toys wins.
I’m sure it’s written on a tablet somewhere.

If you were to look at my garage you would see I’m very proud to be probably in the Top 10.

I have stuff in boxes that go back so far I don’t remember what’s inside.

The wife keeps nagging me to throw some of it out.

How could I do that?

I don’t know what’s inside and it could be something important and shiny and maybe I’ll need it some day.

She’s been the benefit of this inventory when she needed something like a 3-prong globstapper measuring device at 10:30 at night.

I produced one from a box inside 20 minutes.

I have computer parts that go back almost 35-years.

One never knows when I might need them or have to modify them into something else for a particular purpose unknown to me at the present time.

One must always be prepared.

I suspect the NSA is monitoring me carefully because of my garage.

I prefer to think the true measure of a person’s acquisitiveness resides in his garage.

The NSA looks at it as when someone has boxes of unknown electronic parts it never can be sure what they might be up to.

Given the paranoia in Washington right now I could well the #1 “listen and follow” suspect.

Another honor in a life filled with them.

While I don’t remember, I could have bought something a long time ago when it was legal but now brands me as some sort of evil anarchist.

Normally that would be good reason to throw some of it out but I’m sure they are going through the garbage at the dump just waiting to catch me making a mistake.

One can’t be too careful.

For that reason I’m going to keep my stuff where it is.

Not just any office, mind you.

I’m thinking of running for President of the United States.

One should always aim for the top.

I formed an exploratory committee consisting of the wife and she said I’m nuts and If I win she won’t go.

There’s nothing to worry about because I don’t care for the job much.

Too much stress, too little money and there’s always a significant number of people unhappy with you.

People wanting to hug me would probably get a cavity search by the Secret Service.

The wife’s girlfriends would stop and that’s a bummer.

To quote some Scottish guy, “if nominated I’ll decline. If drafted I’ll defer. And if elected I’ll resign.”

But I still want to run for President of the United States.

I won’t campaign, I won’t raise money and I won’t open a campaign headquarters.

Real politicians love that stuff.

Former Mayor Frank Fasi used to dedicate bus stops at election time.
He loved it.

When he was running for re-election, he’d send his cabinet out to plant flowers along the highway.

Five minutes before the TV News cameras arrived, Fasi would show up and start looking busy.

Five minutes after they left, so did he.

The guy was a master at this.

None of that stuff for me.

I just want to run for the office so I would be known as a “former candidate for President”.

That would be so cool.

Doing stupid things is not reserved for teenagers.

I do stupid things in my 60’s, although not as much as when I was 18.

It’s more a matter of less energy than more brains.

About three years ago, in a moment of insanity I looked at the wife and said, “I’d like to get a motorcycle.”

“OK”

Could have knocked me over with a feather.

That was the first time I wondered if she had a boyfriend.

Women only let you do something like that if they’re happy and they are never really happy with their husband.

I always figured husbands are like an old favorite shoe the wife parks by the door.

Easy to put on when needed but certainly nothing to gush about at work.

Being happy like that usually means someone else is showering them with flowers and candy.

I was wrong .
She was just feeling generous.

Off I went before she could change her mind, which can be instantaneous.

Only a motorcycle rider could understand the freedom of the wind in your face, ladies glancing at you cause you’re dangerous, kids impressed by the rumble and some folks at stop lights not wanting to look at you because they think you’re going to say something scary.

There’s something that feeds the soul by looking badass riding around on 800 pounds of chromed-out wonderfulness.

Nice looking, huh?

And how about that inappropriate paint job on the gas tank.

I’m sure it offended a few people.
Made my day.

Real bikers – the mean ones that’ll eat you for breakfast – waved when they went by. And you damn better wave back.

I think we all wish for a bit of Clint Eastwood inside us.

Like all good things in life, it came to an end with a crunch one day.

Some lady in a hurry to take her dog to the park so he could poop turned left in front of me.

It’s amazing how far you can slide on asphalt.

It’s also amazing how much skin asphalt can take off while you’re sliding.

Anyway, the bike gets repaired and I finally get off the crutches and the wife looks at me, “I’m not going to tell you not to ride, but you know how I feel.”

Ladies, this is the most perfect thing you could ever say to ruin your man’s day.

Those 15 words leave no wiggle room.

She didn’t tell me not to do it so I would rebel like a 13-year old.

So the bike is a garage queen and I do my tooling around in a yellow jeep.

Mr. Eastwood has gone away.

No one looks at me now except to wonder why I have such an ugly colored Jeep.