Throw in my collection of old Marvel comic books and Topps baseball cards and I’m a Kung-Fu Grip G.I. Joe doll removed from Steve Carell in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin.”
Strangely, for a room devoted to my whims, I rarely hang out there — unless I’m changing the furnace filter or adding salt to the water softener.
The problem is I can’t bring myself to occupy a folding chair in my man cave sanctum. I desperately need a beat-up La-Z-Boy ... and an air hockey table for drinks.
While there is a door to the man cave, I don’t have a lock on its use.
My cave has been subjected to Christmas cookie storage, in-law suitcases and a doll house refuge from, ironically, little boys. I even caught Barbie parking her pink car in the man cave — at least it was a vintage Corvette.
At this rate, the man cave could be co-opted as a walk-in closet or pre-teen girl giggle hideout. Perhaps I’ll have to dig deeper into my inner-Grog — or the adjoining basement crawl space.
Reach Garret Leiva care of the Record-Eagle or via email at email@example.com.