My dad is a real manly man. He repairs cars for a living, and there are all kinds of ways that his manliness stands out in my mind: the way he drinks like half a gallon of milk every day; the way he takes his shirt off to mow the lawn even when it's not all that hot out; the way he's had several of his fingers cut off in work accidents and then sewn back on.

His brother on the other hand, well, the first time Wood met him she was like, "Dude, your uncle is gay."

For the record, he's not; he just kind of talks like he is. There's a certain unmistakable effeminate lispiness in his voice when he says certain things, so I can see why she thinks so. He lived with his parents into his late twenties and then spent some time living at a Manhattan Y.M.C.A. in the mid-seventies, but the guy is straight. He has tons of kids. When I was younger it was like they had a new baby every time we went over to their house. But I think it was all those kids that made him talk gay. I remember him changing diapers at the Thanksgiving table, and peering over and looking into the plastic he peeled away from my youngest cousin's ass and with a snarled face saying in the gayest voice possible:

"Ucky-poo!"

Ucky-poo? I guess that's what having four kids will do to you. By the fourth you're changing diapers at the Thanksgiving table and saying ucky-poo about what's inside, or saying ucky-poo when your four-year old is eating something he found on the floor. I can still hear his voice saying ucky-poo. It haunts me.

I'm not the manly man my father is. I don't work with my hands or know how to apply bondo to a dented fender. I don't watch sports and I read poetry and watch movies where everyone speaks in French. There are fathers who speak to their children in deep, sonorous bass or baritones. My voice when talking to Juniper migrates a few octaves north. Up to woman territory.

A few weeks ago a colleague and I were taking a job applicant out to lunch at Boulevard and on the way back a dude walked past with two lovely weimaraners. I instinctively turned to watch them pass and said, "oh, look at those pretty doggies!" My co-worker and the interviewee gave each other a knowing glance.

It's not just the pitch of my voice, but the way I say things. When I talk to Juniper, it's like I'm suddenly a ventriloquist dummy controlled by a guy who works at the makeup counter at Nordstroms. Everyone hates the way they sound when their voice is recorded, but I have hidden the videocamera because I can no longer stand listening to the crazed homosexual urging Juniper to "make the sign for horsey" or "walk towards me, sweetie!" I pray that the guy subletting from the crazy South African woman upstairs can't hear the way I talk to Juniper in a voice suited for selling Qing dynasty wedding cabinents in an antique store on Castro Street or announcing the contestants in a tranny fashion show in the Tenderloin. Sometimes I even find myself thinking in my gay voice when I'm out in public, when a lady dropped her cup on the floor at the coffee shop I think, uhhh-ohhh! When we walk past the giant globes on the bridge in Golden Gate Park I tell Juniper to, "look at those great big balls honey!" I get so excited talking to her, I just can't restrain myself.

I've watched my father talk to Juniper, and he somehow manages to still be a manly man down on his elbows excitedly helping her stack those various-sized rings on a pole. I am totally going to have to nip this in the bud or someday my sister's kids are going to speculate about what their Uncle Dutch was doing all those years in San Francisco.

The plan is to start talking exactly like Randy "Macho Man" Savage, that paragon of masculinity, every time I have something to say to Juniper: "You want some more peaches? Ohhhhh Yeah! You wanna go to the swings? Ohhhhh Yeah. When I get done with you you're going to have had so much fun you won't know what hit you. Ohhhhh Yeah. . .In the great green room there was a telephone. Ohhhhhh Yeahhhhhhh!"

Excuse me while I go listen to Macho Man's rap album for inspiration.