Our new commander, General I. Zation

All generalizations are foolish.

Including the one above.  But sometimes, the common rule of things holds true.  Yes, most people like pizza, and almost every music lover loves some rock 'n' roll.  Hardly anyone would choose a big steamin' bowl o' broccoli if they had to choose between that and some ice cream.  

People always assume that as a tall American, I love basketball, but I don't care for it.  

It goes on and on, but I am going to speak to and for men right now, if I may.  

We men need to understand that it seems to be in our DNA, or whatever binds us together, to be "fixers."  No, not the guy who pre-arranges the outcome of a race at Pimlico, and no, not the guy who makes the icemaker work again in the Frigidaire. 

Pardon me, vegans

A guy's mind works like this: his buddy tells him that he has two tons of rocks in his back yard that need to be relocated. Mr Man's mind swings into action and arranges to borrow a pick-'em-up truck, round up three sober buddies on a Saturday (not always easy) and get some shovels and get to it!  By that Saturday night, all the rocks are in the riverbed at the state park and the five guys are at Five Guys belting back burgers and scarfing free peanuts, basking in the glow of collaborative effort.

And then comes Monday, and the same guy goes to work and his work wife tells him that her boyfriend has been cheating on her, keeping company with a woman of lesser degree from Accounts Receivable.  Again, Mr Man's mind swings into action, and he stomps down to Acc'ts Rec'ble and tells Tootsie to keep her mitts off of Linus, or whatever his name is, and then he invites Linus over for a private showing of "Fatal Attraction."  (He needed to return Linus's truck anyway.)

In example 'A' above, Mr Man did the right thing.  That's called being a fixer, and helping a friend get his rocks off is always a good thing.  

I could not feel worse about that joke, by the way.

In example 'B' we need to throw the penalty flag.  Sometimes, people just want to vent and do not want us slipping into a phone booth, taking off our glasses and our suit, and emerging as Superman, able to fix all things and heal all wounds, righting all wrongs and wronging all writes.  It would be better, before charging all over Hell's 1/2 Acre, to just listen.  With two ears and one closed mouth.

Plus, just try to find a phone booth these days! I once knew a guy whose job it was to collect the nickels and dimes and quarters from phone booths all over town.  I guess he isn't nearly as busy as he once was. I'd call him, but I don't have a quarter right now.