River of...

I can't believe I'm telling this story.

And yet, there's a sense of obligation that is difficult to suppress - a sense, I suspect, that is part and parcel of every male.

Inside all of us, even the most sober, quiet and mature, survives an affinity for the gross-out, the mildly shocking, the surprise attack, and almost always bodily in form.

This is developed, valued and retained, I suspect, in an effort to protect ourselves in an increasingly feminized world, to assert our identity despite girlfriends, wives, daughters and female co-workers; our last, sneaky defense, if you will, in a battle lost long ago.

It may also be an effort to keep ties with our earlier incarnations, the boyish personas from which we grew, and thus have some link to denial of death.

Put more simply, we still love turn our eyelids inside out, show off any sensor ally assaulting gashes, graphically describe the make-up of our morning constitutionals, or otherwise "tease the girls." And if you leave us to our own devices - poker games, business lunches, stag parties or the quick beer after the game - a few minutes of each of those rituals will inevitably be devoted to the latest shit, piss or injury story.

My "big bat" in any of these sessions is, like most significant things in my life, tied to the movies, in this case, David Lean's 50's style masterpiece, The Bridge On The River Kwai.

It's important to remember that this story is a product of its time: 1977 to be exact, a time at which I was 15 years old, had yet to see this much ballyhooed film, and in which VCRs or DVD players did not exist; the only way to catch something was on television, usually late at night. Unfortunately, the night I stayed up to watch the close to three-hour Kwai, was one on which I had eaten close to two pounds of grapes.

By about two thirty AM, my inner works were begging me to call it a night. But hell, the climactic final sequence was coming, the much written about train wreck, and there was no way I was going to miss it. So, by the time the first foley of the train whistle came calling out of our basement TV set, the first sounds of what was sure to be a tsunami of half-formed grape juice came whistling out of my then-fashionable wide-legs.

I tried to buy some time by whipping off my belt, freeing my stomach to relax, I hoped, so that I could catch the rest of the sequence. But by the time the trainload of supplies was taking the bridge, I was watching it while jumping up and down like a madman, doing everything I could to remind my body that I was its master, and to tell those grapes that they would be allowed out only when I said so.

It got me as far as Alec Guinness' death scene. When Guinness hit the plunger, so did I; the train's explosion was perfectly synchronized with mine, and logs, both Hollywood-made and Dan-made, exploded all over the room.

Guinness had it easy: his collapse, while dramatic, didn't include having to explain the mess to his mother. The next day, the woman was able to put two and two together despite a maniacally scrubbed shag rug.

Mom's reaction was all a boy could want: outrage, disgust, incredulity; in short, the dream of every male who still occasionally chances this kind of macho peek-a-boo.

As for me, I've chanced it less and less, understandably, as time has gone on. Lean may have been able to top Kwai with Lawrence of Arabia, but I knew then what the subsequent laughter of my peers continues to confirm: that my sideline as a gross-out artist peaked to the tune of The Colonel Bogey March.