It’s that time of year yet again.

Christmas is just around the corner and I can hear those sleigh bells ring-a-ling’n and ding-a-ling’n all the way home while riding along in my one horse open sleigh (hey!). The children are snugly wrapped up into 4 layers of clothes and brightly colored fleece jackets, the homeless have started small trashcan fires under the underpasses, and little birds have flown south to enjoy a margarita or three while the rest of us poor saps wait it out until the spring.

Hot mugs of coco, warming our hands on the chilly December morning, the excitement that swaddles us in its embrace as we rattle gaudily wrapped boxes held together with odd bits of ribbon and twine. The glee is evident on the faces of family that are gathered around the Christmas tree as new socks are shown off with good natured contempt and jewelry is rewarded with tender kisses.

It is astounding how a toy can brighten a dull moment of sock induced disappointment into a radiant jeweled moment of rapture.

My toy happened to reveal itself in 1981.

My relationship with this toy began with my awareness of it.

After seeing this amazing creation, my heart screamed out to possess it. It was Oct 13th, Tuesday 4:38pm on channel 11 immediately following the first part of Gilligan’s Isle that my poor little foolish heart fell in love with a toy.

My interest in the Dark Tower was so profound that if the T.V. ad came on again after that I would make everyone be quiet so I could listen to Orson Well’s divine words describe the game over and over again in great detail. If we would have had a V.C.R. or even a Beta Max, I am sure I would have watched it on a loop tape.

As Christmas time drew near, I became more anxious in my mentioning of the Dark Tower repeatedly and as nonchalantly as I possibly could imagine. One day wonderful day (long after my brother grew weary of listening to me talk endlessly about a toy I had only seen on T.V. commercials) decided to take me to the toy store so he could see what I had been talking about.

Lo and behold like a beacon leading one toward the Holy Grail, The Dark Tower crowned an end-cap and was displayed on the entire aisle within our local Toys-R-Us. I rushed to it and picked it up in my little hands. The box was heavy and bulky and big and most astoundingly beautiful.

With my Milton Bradley designed crack wedged between my hands and pressed up against my chest, I ran back to my brother screaming aloud how this was the toy I had been talking about all along, and wasn’t it the coolest cool thing ever.

He nodded casually, made me put down the box and ushered me out of the store as quickly as he could. All along the ride home he explained to me that though it was a cool toy, and I had been a great kid all year there was probably a good chance that we couldn’t afford such a toy for me for Christmas that year. It was very expensive after all (it cost $49.99 if I remember correctly), and that I should be thankful for anything I received.

After all Dad’s doctor bills had been very high, it was not going to be a very big Christmas.

I resigned myself to this truth as best as I could, and knew that though I wanted this toy for Christmas, it just wasn’t going to happen. I had a small cry about it in my bedroom, accepted the facts as they were and decided that Christmas was going to be great no matter what.

On the week before Christmas it happened.

When I got back from school I looked under the tree to see if anything had been changed since the last time I had inspected what underneath it and for whom (hoping against hope it was for me) was a box shaped I recognized. It was a huge box wrapped up in stripped paper, on the front of the box was a simple note.

To: Johnny
From: Santa

I picked up that ever so familiarly wrapped box… no it couldn’t be. The box was the exact same size as the Dark tower game… the exact same weight… Oh no… it couldn’t be…. Santa screwed up.

“Mom,” I cried out while holding back some tears of disbelief,” Mom! Where did this box come from?”

“What box dear?” She answered from the kitchen as she walked her way into the living room.

“The big one with Johnny’s name on it, where did it come from?”

“Who does the label say it is from?”

“Santa”

Mom looked perplexed for a moment and then “Then Santa must have placed it under the tree for him today while I was out. Gee, it must be an awfully important present if he came by early to drop it off for him.”

I never received a better answer than that from anyone about the Dark Tower box that resided under the tree, that I knew was under the tree. The Dark tower game that was being given to my older brother from Santa.

Something sure smelled fishy to me.

That night while everyone was asleep I decided to do a bit of investigating to find out if my reasoning about the box was true… after all in the end it could have been anything. So I dived under the Christmas tree and gently laid the box on its side. Under the twinkling lights I gradually removed the tape from the edges of the box and carefully pulled back the paper just enough to read the box.

It read simply…

It’s more than a game, it’s an experience

Dark Tower

A Fantasy adventure, born of electronic wizardry

With tears welling up in my eyes, I hurriedly resealed the box and went back to bed to weep and cry about the injustice of life.

Each day as I passed the Christmas tree, the Dark Tower would mock my presence. It was there, in my very home, underneath my own Christmas tree, and yet it was still completely out of my reach.

I honestly tried not to be sad, but try as I might whenever I went into the living room, my eyes would be drawn to the Christmas tree with its mocking lights dancing merrily over the object of my desire that burned and ached within my very soul. I would stare it with avarice, while the tears would begin to form in my eyes. Whenever a family member would spot me they would ask me with a huge grin if everything was alright, I would find my way outside before I would burst into tears over the toy that would never be mine.

Finally Christmas day had dawned.

Here my family had gathered underneath the tree as we had done since before I was born. There was wrapping paper all about, and I had three tidy stacks of underwear and socks positioned about me. All the presents had been opened, except for one…

“To Johnny, from Santa” My father read aloud as my eyes began to spring a leak.

My brother gently shook the large box with joy,” I wonder what is inside.” He exclaimed with a grin.

“You know what it is,” I bellowed,” It’s my toy… it should have been my toy.”

My brother unwrapped the package with great care… only to reveal another wrapped present underneath the wrapping paper.

“My, that is odd,” my brother intoned with mock surprise,” it looks like this present isn’t for me after all.”

My brother handed the present back to Dad who then read aloud

“To Debrin, From Johnny”

With shock and awe I snatched up my present and soon with wrapping paper flying about in the air the whole package was unwrapped… I stared in amazement at my very own Dark Tower game.

I opened the box, removed the namesake tower from its protective cardboard encasement, placed batteries into it, set up the board per instructions and blackmailed my family into playing the game with me… and then discovered to my disappointment, that it was broken.

There is something truly uplifting about disposing of excrement in the most inappropriate of places. I believe it all goes back to those camping trips where I learned a simple fact about life.
Men are disgusting oafs. Pigs, if you wish. Yep that fits… pigs.

No doubt about it, if a young boy learns nothing else in life about manhood he will learn this truth. When you got to go… you got to go, no matter what and no matter where.

A tree, a street corner hidden from view, a cornfield in the middle of an august afternoon… just whip it out and go. So long as you aren’t seen by the cops, it’s perfectly legal.

We’ll whip out our best pal even if there is a fully functional bathroom not 30 feet away.
In a way it is kind of liberating to the human spirit.
Giving back to nature from the very fruits of the bounty you have received.

God, I love nature.

The soft loamy smell of a meadow
The sounds of a campfire consuming wood with snaps, crackles and pops (like rice crispies)
The night time chorus of crickets and frogs
The stale smell of freedom wafting through the air from the gnarled old tree that everyone at your campsite has pissed on for the past four days

The first thought of many ladies reading this may think is “How disgusting!”
On the contrary, this is neither vile nor putrid; it is freedom in its purest and simplest form.
A freedom you are not entitled to nor even designed to comprehend. Finally something we men can claim for ourselves. A universal bond between all men. No matter our race, sexual preference or religion, we are all brothers as we pee standing upright.

Before any female gets it in her mind to say they also can stand upright and pee; I simply respond with this word… Hogwash. I’ve seen what you call urinating while standing upright, and frankly I am unimpressed.

As all men know there are times when we are unable to leave our encampments (i.e. the city), yet nature fervently beckons us to give back to the land as our fathers and forefathers have done for countless generations. In these desperate moments, a man with a true understanding of the balance of nature will understand that at these times a man has to pee in the sink.

Peeing in the sink is not without its evolutionary necessity; after all we were using and sharing public facilities as far back as the Stone Age folk. As we evolved I am sure that somewhere along the way (long before we developed language) we probably developed a sense of modesty which demanded privacy while taking care of our business. This probably led to a need of men to go forth and mark new territory as our communal territory was occupied with women folk tying bones in their hair and smearing rancid animal fat over areas of their bodies to look more appealing.

Hand in hand with peeing in the sink, must also be knowledge of how to do it secretly. Little did I realize that it was not only a counterpart, it was a prerequisite.

I remember the first and last time I was caught.

“What in the name of god are you doing?” Shrieked my mother.
There I stood on the edge of the sink. My white Y-fronts with an artful skid-mark were scooted down my legs a bit past my thigh, and a strong stream of piss gently cascading into the porcelain sink.

“Nothing,” was my most plausible excuse.

With terror she stared at me as I continued peeing.

“Stop that right now, stop it this instant!!” She bellowed, as I continued peeing.

You could hear my dad’s footsteps echoing through the hallway of our old A-frame house as he charged down the hall to our bathroom.

He came into the bathroom with anger in his eyes, and saw me perched there on the edge of the sink… still peeing, mind you. Without missing a beat he laughed so hard my ears began to hurt, but I kept on peeing.

“This is not funny,” stated my mother through gritted teeth.

He was about to disagree with her, then he snickered and said.

“You’re absolutely correct… I’ll have a talk with the boy.”

My father picked me up off the sink when I was finished, pulled my shorts up and carried me back to my bedroom as quickly as he could, all the while trying (and failing) to restrain his laughter.

As we entered my room, the he quickly shut the door behind us. When I looked up into my father’s eyes I could only see the huge grin on his face. He pulled a finger to his lips to silence me and then whispered.

“If you are going to do that, turn on the faucet first so you drown out the noise and wash away the smell.”

Still he had no other choice than to ground me for the night, due to mom not understanding my masculine urges. In the middle of the night after my mom had gone to bed, My Dad took it upon himself to rescue me from my captivity.

As the night progressed with at least five beers for Dad and two cans of Coke for me, we went out into the backyard to pay homage to nature and together we peed on the chain link fence where the honey suckle vines were lush and overgrown with flowers of white and orange trumpets.

I’ve never felt closer to my Dad before that moment in my life.
In the soft moonlight as our piss hit the fence in streaming unison; we were truly brothers.