Some tongue-in-cheek observations about the term "man cave," reminiscent in tone of my piece "Practice Savory Eating: Use a Condiment" -- AT, October 15, 2010.

Cave or castle?

Am I off base to consider the term "man cave" a micro-aggression?  Is the term not only insulting of a poor soul somewhere who may still live in subterranean digs, but also a stereotyping of us Neanderthals who find solace in remote places we call our own?

Where are the protectors against insensitive language when it comes to a threatened species called "the male?"  Doesn't the absence of any P.C. outcry suggest that there really may be a war against men, misogyny turned on its heels?  Are males not entitled to the same sufferings afforded their counterparts?  Does "cave man" not call to mind an image of Fred Flintstone or Barney Rubble, huddled in a secret mountain hideout, chipping away at stoneware or sharpening spear points, or perhaps temporarily escaping the carping of Wilma or Betty about the lack of equal pay for hunters and nurturers?

Instead of "man cave," why not something like "male bastion," the latter a more accurate and less offensive description of a getaway where a man can find some peace of mind in a world where a lot doesn't make sense anymore?  A place where, say, "décor" is a dirty word, and where the absence of color coordination is everywhere apparent?  A place where, despite rampant disarray, an escapee nonetheless knows the whereabouts and potentially practical value of every scattered tool, doodad, and even gimcrack?

Such is my basement refuge, away from which I'm oft times a man out of his element.  Below, at my underground workbench perch, I look out at a wall of pegboard-affixed hand tools: bolt cutter, carpenter's square, hack saw, trowels, and copper pipe cutter, and shelves of labeled old cigar boxes containing such oddities as picture hangers, wire, toggle bolts, electrical connectors, tubing, clips, etc., any of which I can summon in a wink, often to remediate a problem upstairs in the real world.  Just one piece of comforting art hangs on the wall: a framed, wrinkled, and fading poster of a 1940 Ford pickup truck, captioned "Work Horses of Yesteryear."

That, along with my stuff, inanimate as they may be, are much more my "Friends" than any Facebook user who might choose to "like" one of my posts, of which there have not been many, or any worth noting.  Call me elitist or Luddite, if only because I know the difference between an eyebolt and a thumb screw.

Not that, under ground, I'm totally divorced from technology.  In the interest of full disclosure, on my longish work surface, otherwise cluttered by paraphernalia too numerous to list, sits an iPad connected to a wireless network, in my breast pocket an iPhone.  These don't take up too much room, even as they, too, serve important, practical purposes: I'm sure not to miss a text squawk announcing a grandkid's next soccer game, or an email post about grandparents day at the elementary school.

Out and about, shed of my pelts and coonskin hat, I can hold my own in polite company.  However, sometimes I'm made uncomfortable, feeling obliged, say, to hug another male I hardly know, as if we're long separated dear friends.  These are situations where formerly a firm handshake and a smile were thought appropriate and sufficient.  In former times, the rare embrace between American men was a gesture reserved for a loved one or close friend perhaps in need of consolation.  As such, it was heartfelt.  Today, the universal application of male-to-male body contact seems the equivalent of grade inflation.

I'm pretty good at watching my language.  I say "pretty good" because even though I don't use the traditional swear words in front of women and kids, I'm sometimes now called to task for unwittingly speaking words or phrases today deemed by some even worse – e.g., "black" instead of "African-American."  If a perfectly innocent question like "Where are you from?" can be interpreted as racist, depending on the disposition of the person asked, I need to be on my guard at all times, perhaps even tongue-tied.

In the nonrestrictive clime of my cellar retreat, I don't have to watch my language.  There, all micro-aggressions are self-inflicted: a small starter hole administered by an awl in anticipation of a wood screw, or a splinter in my finger.  Perhaps, heaven forbid, a misplaced hammer hit to my thumb.

Just puttering around in the disarray, I do my best thinking, away from the upstairs banter of TV pundits whose opinions I've carried downstairs to sort out in my own mind.  Why, I've even come to change my mind at least twice about the viability of one finalist in the present presidential campaign.  Absent a flooded basement, I may change it again before November.  There's just something about the air down here...maybe it's the conflation of paint thinner and turpentine fumes?

It was once said that a man's home is his castle.  (Think of the justifiable pushback that old adage might incur today.)  I'm okay with that.  I'll settle for a substitute like "underground escape" along with a stereotyping of me as "fugitive."  Enough already; gotta hunt up some dinner.  Now, where did I put my quiver?

Rod Jaros is a retired public school educator.