Of guys' guys

In my upcoming book are two stories in particular that speak volumes about my recent life. One relates an unfortunate incident involving my brother-in-law Neil and our backyard (think Second Great Chicago Fire); another talks about how, try as I might, I've never been one of those "guys' guys." Memories of both of those stories came back last night.

Last night, Neil and I found ourselves again in the backyard. We had started a fire (a sensible one). Cocktails were flowing, as always. Life was good.

Out of nowhere, a giant insect, roughly the size of a small-but-pissed sparrow, flew at the two of us. I did what, at the time, seemed the best solution: I mewled ("Eeeeehhhnnnhhh") and turned to run. I planned to run as far as my legs would take me, to some place where massive flying bugs aren't indigenous.

Unfortunately, I couldn't run. I couldn't run because Neil had grabbed my shoulders and employed me as a human shield. I was the filling of a sandwich where Neil was one slice of bread and ThunderBug was the other. I wasn't happy.

Only when Neil had dragged me back to the patio door and escaped inside did he release me.

It would seem he's no guys' guy, either.