The mullet. The mere word brings out painful feelings in everyone. It is a hairstyle that makes you pick one of two camps on your feelings about it. You either:
1) Find it repugnant
2) Find it repulsive
There is no gray area with a mullet. After all it's all business in front and all party in back. I'm not one to hide from my past. Yes, I once sported a well coiffed mini-mullet as a rebellious 20 something back in the late 80's and 90's. Yes, the front looked like Opie's, but the back, the glorious back was long like a mane. In fact, I once challenged myself to grow it long enough to so that I could chew on it.
Yes, one must have goals in this lifetime and I set mine pretty high.
I made my goal and instantly found out that chewing on hair was pretty gross. But hey, I looked cool and if that was the price I had to pay, so be it.
When looking at old pictures of myself I do realize that fashions disappear for a reason. Mullets just don't look good unless you are:
1) Playing hockey or soccer.(Click here or here for some excellent examples)
2) Playing rock and roll in a kick *ss band.
Ah, and it looked cool during my running career as it (sort of) flowed behind me in the wind.
For those of you too young to remember, imagine a time of neon shirts, scruffy facial hair, and large, flip up sunglasses.
Gosh darn it, I do miss it so.
Now, those of you in New Jersey probably don't understand the gradual loss of the mullet in American fashion. This is due to the fact that it is still in style there. For that, the world mourns.
However, I did see something the other day that could honestly have serious repercussions on the world that we know. It could be a sign of the apocalypse, or, in a worse case scenario, the start of a new fashion.
I was in an ACE hardware (motto: half the stuff, twice the price) (Motto 2: we're no LOWES) minding my own business, when a man walked out of the aisle wearing fading red camouflage pants. Now, under no circumstances are you allowed to wear camouflage ANYTHING once you turn 18 (unless you're in the army). However, my eyes quickly went up, past the red 'wife beater' (which in itself was hard to ignore) and to his head.
Ahh, his glorious head. There, on top of his noggin, was a mullet that quite honestly, could have been placed in the mullet hall of fame. I wish I had a camera because it is impossible to describe, but yet, I'll try:
Twas brown in color, with a bushy, round, bowl-like look on top. It was sort of like a hedgehog's spikes on top in form, yet not actually spiked with any sort of gel at all. Then, dangling down to near the mid-point of the back were a morass of not quite washed today and possibly not yesterday hair. It was flowing exactly not quite like that of a model or rock star who is standing next to the modeling fan at a photo shoot. No, its movement twas more of a gentle rocking back and forth motion due to the oily build up. I watched as he passed, unable to keep my eyes from its majesty. For one moment I did glance away to check my watch. Yes, it was still 2007. No, I had not been transported back in time. I sighed, slightly depressed in the knowledge when something so mind-bogglingly amazing happened, I thought that I might have passed out and woken up in Hoboken.
Trailing behind this gentleman was a child of not more than seven or eight earth years. He too was dressed in camouflage pants and more importantly, had the exact same mullet. I believe the two of these gentlemen could have exchanged hair, and no one would have been the wiser. And like Dr. Evil had Mini-me, Mr. Camo-mullet man had his mini-mullet man.
As they passed and left the store, I was perplexed. Was this child abuse? Should I call social services? Hasn't anyone pointed out the modern mullet was like GW Bush; something that was a bad idea in the first place and probably never should have happened?
But the more I thought, the more I realized something about a man who is stared at in stores across this county.
Nay, this man is not a pariah. This man is a trend-setter. The mullet is gone. Lost in the dustbin of history it ponders a time when MTV actually played music, but he alone in our town is taking the mullet back. His independent spirit is made of exactly what made America great. He should not not be ridiculed, nay, he should be embraced by our community. And once our souls are cleansed of our prejudices and his body is cleansed of the last weeks grime, we should tell our barbers we want it cut short on the front, but boldly shout, "Leave the back alone!" Like hands across America, we will unite this country, mullet to mullet bringing peace and love to those around us.
Now if I can only find my hair.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Technololgy and the Modern Man
As one gets older, it gets harder and harder to keep up with the new technology, or as you're forced to say once you turn 40, "These newfangled electified gagets." However, I'm not too worried about keeping up with everything. They pretty much idiot proof everything now-a-days, unlike in the time when I grew up, where toys and gadgets were only really fun if they could actually hurt you. Dan Akroyd's "Bag of Glass" really isn't far off many of the toys of my youth. Today's whipper snappers are a generation of "plug and play" people, who will never know the joy and excitement of taking three hours to make a mixed tape, or the wonder of using a public phone (Wonder, as in, "I wonder what this sticky stuff is on the phone receiver?")
However, the technology that worries me is much more mundane. Unfortunately, a lot of it happens to be in the bathroom, which my loyal reader knows I already have personal problems with. When I was a kid (Did I just say that? Just shoot me now.) you didn't have your self flushing toilets, automatic paper towel dispensers, automatic hot air hand dryers, and of course, automatic sinks.
But now you do.
Or you don't.
And that's the problem.
I'm leaving bathrooms with the water running, since their faucet wasn't automatic. I'm placing my hands under the the sink and waiting, only to notice that this one has actually little spinny hand things (technical plumbing term) for turning on the water. It's difficult to look cool when one is talking to the faucet in the bathroom. The youngsters just shake their heads and walk away. Plus, half the automatic faucets need your hands in a sight zone about 3 millimeters wide, so you end up moving your hands around the sink like a disco dancer.
I'm mostly having issues with paper towel dispensers. I feel as I'm begging for towels, as I place both my hands together and slowly move them below the towel dispenser and wait in anticipation. Will it work? Will the guy behind me start screaming I'm an idiot? For crying out loud, I can actually program a VCR, yet I can't get the towels to come out.
In one restroom, there was no little black indicator or a little silver winder at all. I proceeded to move my hands around the dispenser as if it were a crystal ball, my son looking on in anticipation.
"Where are the towels, Daddy," asks the kid who expects that I know everything, who also has a huge thing about wet hands.
Channeling my best James T. Kirk, "I...just...don't...know."
(Crying)"Daddy, you weren't supposed to disappoint me until my teen years!"
(unable to swear, must calm down) "Dear God, why hast this towel dispenser forsaken me?"
Turns out if you rubbed this towel dispensers belly, it actually dispensed its product. How the @#$# am I supposed to figure this stuff out?
And how about those automatic toilets? My kid won't even get near one, for fear of it flushing when he's on it or even near it. And as you know, if the toilet flushes when you're on it, the monkeys living in the sewer can get you.
Finally, I've even been in a rec center shower that had no levers or handles of any sort. Now if you want embarrassment, trying to figure out how a shower at the rec center works as you squat naked and look at the one little piece jutting out of the wall. Do I do the wave? Nope. Maybe if I stand in front of it? No way. Should I be moving? Nope. What if I do a little shimmy? Nope. Why is that guy across the way showering? More importantly, did he notice the shimmying?
Wait! What if I push the little round thing? Water! Water! Holy @#$! Really @#$@#ing hot water!
Now I'm jumping up and down trying to figure out how to turn it off!
First squatting naked (which of course, is a major no-no). Now jumping up and down.
At this point, I'm hoping the guy in the next shower hasn't done any prison time, as I notice that the entire locker room is empty.
Of course, I can't actually change the water temperature. It's either on or off, plug and play, hot or scalding.
In my case, squatting or jumping...
That's my problem. Since EVERYTHING isn't automated, it seems that there is a heck of a lot thinking that has to go on in a bathroom now days. I don't want to think in a bathroom, I'm too busy trying not to make eye contact.
Don't even get me going on automatic doors. Since they got rid of those black foot sensors, you're left to guess if it's going to open or not without actually incurring a concussion from the door either opening up and smashing you in the head or just plain smacking into it when it turns out it isn't automatic at all.
Plug and play.
Or not.
Think about it, we used to control the bathroom fixtures. Now, they sort of control us. Maybe they'll work, maybe they won't...
Maybe these devices will rebel and we're left in a post-apocalyptic world, fighting urinals and faucets for control of humanity.
Ohhh. That might be my big Hollywood movie script right there. The Terminautoflushinator.
However, the technology that worries me is much more mundane. Unfortunately, a lot of it happens to be in the bathroom, which my loyal reader knows I already have personal problems with. When I was a kid (Did I just say that? Just shoot me now.) you didn't have your self flushing toilets, automatic paper towel dispensers, automatic hot air hand dryers, and of course, automatic sinks.
But now you do.
Or you don't.
And that's the problem.
I'm leaving bathrooms with the water running, since their faucet wasn't automatic. I'm placing my hands under the the sink and waiting, only to notice that this one has actually little spinny hand things (technical plumbing term) for turning on the water. It's difficult to look cool when one is talking to the faucet in the bathroom. The youngsters just shake their heads and walk away. Plus, half the automatic faucets need your hands in a sight zone about 3 millimeters wide, so you end up moving your hands around the sink like a disco dancer.
I'm mostly having issues with paper towel dispensers. I feel as I'm begging for towels, as I place both my hands together and slowly move them below the towel dispenser and wait in anticipation. Will it work? Will the guy behind me start screaming I'm an idiot? For crying out loud, I can actually program a VCR, yet I can't get the towels to come out.
In one restroom, there was no little black indicator or a little silver winder at all. I proceeded to move my hands around the dispenser as if it were a crystal ball, my son looking on in anticipation.
"Where are the towels, Daddy," asks the kid who expects that I know everything, who also has a huge thing about wet hands.
Channeling my best James T. Kirk, "I...just...don't...know."
(Crying)"Daddy, you weren't supposed to disappoint me until my teen years!"
(unable to swear, must calm down) "Dear God, why hast this towel dispenser forsaken me?"
Turns out if you rubbed this towel dispensers belly, it actually dispensed its product. How the @#$# am I supposed to figure this stuff out?
And how about those automatic toilets? My kid won't even get near one, for fear of it flushing when he's on it or even near it. And as you know, if the toilet flushes when you're on it, the monkeys living in the sewer can get you.
Finally, I've even been in a rec center shower that had no levers or handles of any sort. Now if you want embarrassment, trying to figure out how a shower at the rec center works as you squat naked and look at the one little piece jutting out of the wall. Do I do the wave? Nope. Maybe if I stand in front of it? No way. Should I be moving? Nope. What if I do a little shimmy? Nope. Why is that guy across the way showering? More importantly, did he notice the shimmying?
Wait! What if I push the little round thing? Water! Water! Holy @#$! Really @#$@#ing hot water!
Now I'm jumping up and down trying to figure out how to turn it off!
First squatting naked (which of course, is a major no-no). Now jumping up and down.
At this point, I'm hoping the guy in the next shower hasn't done any prison time, as I notice that the entire locker room is empty.
Of course, I can't actually change the water temperature. It's either on or off, plug and play, hot or scalding.
In my case, squatting or jumping...
That's my problem. Since EVERYTHING isn't automated, it seems that there is a heck of a lot thinking that has to go on in a bathroom now days. I don't want to think in a bathroom, I'm too busy trying not to make eye contact.
Don't even get me going on automatic doors. Since they got rid of those black foot sensors, you're left to guess if it's going to open or not without actually incurring a concussion from the door either opening up and smashing you in the head or just plain smacking into it when it turns out it isn't automatic at all.
Plug and play.
Or not.
Think about it, we used to control the bathroom fixtures. Now, they sort of control us. Maybe they'll work, maybe they won't...
Maybe these devices will rebel and we're left in a post-apocalyptic world, fighting urinals and faucets for control of humanity.
Ohhh. That might be my big Hollywood movie script right there. The Terminautoflushinator.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Modern Man Gets Flushed!
One of the great things about being a modern man AND getting older is the wide variety of medicines that doctors want you to take. Some have been life savers, like prilosec, which has saved my esophagus from rupturing out acid and destroying everything in site, like a wounded Alien in those, er, Alien movies. There have been no side effects except for now being able to eat raw vegetables, which even children know can't be good for you.
But others have side effects. You know, that list of things the world's fastest talking man rushes by during those medicine commercials for things they won't tell us the medication actually cures? I can take most of these side effects, in fact, most of my relatives believe my current condition and personality is basically one giant side effect to begin with.
But flushing? I'm not talking about toilet humor here, or Flushing, where tennis players go to be heckled for a couple of weeks. No, I'm flushing like a menopausal woman right now, and gosh darn it, I'm really not that okay with that.
When your HDL's are low enough that the doctor feels you pulse to make sure you ARE alive, you know you may have to do something about it. You realize life isn't fair, as the 350 pound man next to you at the restaurant is eating piece of cow that could clog the arteries of a wookie, yet his levels are fine. He waves nicely at you as you smile at your piece of "today's white cooked fish" and you curse his family quietly under your breath. Ah, the mental flip off, it's not at good as the real thing, but it's better than nothing.
So my doctor prescribed a medicine that not only can damage your liver, but also an amount of niacin my doctor may have described in professional medical terms as "ridiculously large."
Niacin side effects, as described on bottle: Turning redder than Brezhnev.
So here I sit, after my students have screamed "Why is your face so red? Do we need to call an ambulance? What's wrong?"
ME: "I'm taking a drug that's making my face do that, so don't worry."
THEM: "My daddy got taken away by the police and sent to jail when his face was that red from the drugs he was takin'"
ME: "I meant medication?"
THEM: "Like them things baseball and football players take?"
ME: "NO! It's NIACIN!"
THEM: "Yeah, probably crystal 'niacin'."
Hence the reason that I'm hiding right now in my office. My face is the color of a tomato, if you first embarrassed that tomato and then beat it in some sort of UFC fight. No, that's not right. It's more red. It's post-caning red, for those of you who live in Singapore.
Am I just embarrassed? Am I turning into a communist? Do I need a hysterectomy? Are my child bearing years coming to an end? Can I claim myself as an alternative heat source on my taxes? What if I'm flushing while I'm flushing? These are the sorts of questions a person should never have to answer at any age, unless you are named Ann Coulter.
But excuse me, I'm feeling another flushing coming on. I need to go, the police need a temporary stop sign down at the corner.
But others have side effects. You know, that list of things the world's fastest talking man rushes by during those medicine commercials for things they won't tell us the medication actually cures? I can take most of these side effects, in fact, most of my relatives believe my current condition and personality is basically one giant side effect to begin with.
But flushing? I'm not talking about toilet humor here, or Flushing, where tennis players go to be heckled for a couple of weeks. No, I'm flushing like a menopausal woman right now, and gosh darn it, I'm really not that okay with that.
When your HDL's are low enough that the doctor feels you pulse to make sure you ARE alive, you know you may have to do something about it. You realize life isn't fair, as the 350 pound man next to you at the restaurant is eating piece of cow that could clog the arteries of a wookie, yet his levels are fine. He waves nicely at you as you smile at your piece of "today's white cooked fish" and you curse his family quietly under your breath. Ah, the mental flip off, it's not at good as the real thing, but it's better than nothing.
So my doctor prescribed a medicine that not only can damage your liver, but also an amount of niacin my doctor may have described in professional medical terms as "ridiculously large."
Niacin side effects, as described on bottle: Turning redder than Brezhnev.
So here I sit, after my students have screamed "Why is your face so red? Do we need to call an ambulance? What's wrong?"
ME: "I'm taking a drug that's making my face do that, so don't worry."
THEM: "My daddy got taken away by the police and sent to jail when his face was that red from the drugs he was takin'"
ME: "I meant medication?"
THEM: "Like them things baseball and football players take?"
ME: "NO! It's NIACIN!"
THEM: "Yeah, probably crystal 'niacin'."
Hence the reason that I'm hiding right now in my office. My face is the color of a tomato, if you first embarrassed that tomato and then beat it in some sort of UFC fight. No, that's not right. It's more red. It's post-caning red, for those of you who live in Singapore.
Am I just embarrassed? Am I turning into a communist? Do I need a hysterectomy? Are my child bearing years coming to an end? Can I claim myself as an alternative heat source on my taxes? What if I'm flushing while I'm flushing? These are the sorts of questions a person should never have to answer at any age, unless you are named Ann Coulter.
But excuse me, I'm feeling another flushing coming on. I need to go, the police need a temporary stop sign down at the corner.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Getting Hit by 40, part II
So my 40th birthday is long gone. I've gone mano y mano with Death, wrestled with the meaning of life (which appears to have something to do with a food product call 'bran'), and drank too much beer for a person of my age (3), and against my better judgement, had a good time.
During this partying like it was 1999, I decided to to a little introspection. You know, see where I've come from so I can figure out where I'm going to. Therefore, I've compiled things that have changed since I was 20. Maybe you've noticed some of the same things in yourself. I certainly hope not.
Hey! As you see, things haven't changed all that much! So I'm going to hit this 40's thing positively. My back may have issues, my knees may be shot, I may have high cholesterol, and have to swim to keep fit. Wait, I forgot where I was going with that.
Oh, yeah. I'm still breathing! (except when swimming)
So, I will leave you with a self-depreciating top ten list to start of the year in good standing!
During this partying like it was 1999, I decided to to a little introspection. You know, see where I've come from so I can figure out where I'm going to. Therefore, I've compiled things that have changed since I was 20. Maybe you've noticed some of the same things in yourself. I certainly hope not.
| The 20’s | The 40’s | |
| Can run over 100 miles per week. | Can run to the bathroom 12 times a night due to inadvertently seeing a glass of water after 7 PM. | |
| Can party and stay up to 4:00 AM, sleep until noon, and then repeat the same behavior on Saturday night. Barely hung over. Generally high on life. | Go to 4 year olds’ birthday parties. Repeat the next weekend. Hung over on too much sugar, caffeine, and jumping in that bouncy castle everyone gets for their kids' party. Generally high on frosting and Starbucks. | |
| Women think I'm a wild and crazy guy. They're all over me like a duck on a junebug. | Wife thinks I'm crazy. Reminds me women never were all over me, except for help with their homework. | |
| Official "Wine tasting" during waiting job becomes a wine tasting contest. This leads to a major life lesson: never mix wine and margaritas, unless of course you want to have a fabulous time. | Wine tasting leads to being in bed and out cold by 8:00 PM. Dream of margaritas. Run to the bathroom 12 times after touching a glass of water accidentally at 7 PM. | |
| When playing basketball, can dunk at will. | Realize last statement was after a wine drinking contest. Still can’t dunk. | |
| Groggy when waking up before 8 AM. Hit snooze, sleep until 10. | Woken by 4 year old at 6:30 AM. No snooze. Dear Lord, where is the snooze!? | |
| Eat pizza unburdened by any consequences. | Look at pizza, gain 3 pounds. | |
| Enjoy arguing about the beauty of the music of YES, the genius of Seinfeld and the Simpson's, the greatness of Terry Gilliam, tell lengthy self-depreciating stories, and brew my own beer. | Err. Exactly the same thing! | |
| Cheer for the Lions, the worst team in the NFL. | Exactly the same thing again! Only they're worse now! | |
| Didn't know how to blog. | Still don't know how to blog. |
|
Oh, yeah. I'm still breathing! (except when swimming)
So, I will leave you with a self-depreciating top ten list to start of the year in good standing!
Top Ten Signs you may be turning 40
10. You can’t believe you just said, “That’s a good looking minivan,” in a conversation with a neighbor.
9. You can’t pull the grey hairs without leaving bald patches the size of small islands.
8. Hemorrhoids so large, they being tracked by NASA.
7. Your biggest Saturday fashion question: Pants or no pants?
6. Romantic dinners now confined to Chucky Cheese.
5. There is no way to say, “Fo’ shizzle, that IPOD is hella tight,” without sounding like the whitest, oldest man on the planet.
4. Hobbies include resting AND sleeping.
3. Spend all your free time looking for your car keys!
2. You’re swallowing more medication than beer weekly.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Getting Hit by 40 (Part I)
The problem with whining about one's age is that there is always someone older than you who tells you to shut up and someone younger than you who can't believe your still breathing since you've never actually watched American Idol.
I mean, how uncool am I?
They say for most of your life you 'turn' a certain birthday. You turn 5 for example, and at that age, you tell people you turned 5 and a quarter, 5 and a half, and even 5 and 9/10ths. I even "turned" 30, however, I believe I turned 30 with my friend Margarita, and don't have much of a recollection of that. However, they say you don't turn 40, you hit 40. I have firm evidence that this is incorrect.
You don't hit 40, 40 hits you. I've been told I can't have a birthday cake due to the fire hazard from all those candles.
As of this writing, I'm not 40 yet, but I feel it lurking, waiting to attack, like Jack Nicolson did in The Shining, only it wants to kill me a lot more slowly. 40's already jabbed my back, hit my knees with a baseball bat, and has suddenly removed me from any popular demographic advertising considerations.
40 has also called up his friend Death, just so he can keep an eye on me. I met this death fellow once as I pondered the following word sitting behind an 18 wheeler, waiting for the world's slowest train to cross the road. That word would be:
SEMIPERMANENT
The word was on the bottom of the Maine license plate of the 18 wheeler in front of me.
Now, I call my wife and tell her what I've seen. I ponder its meaning. How the @#$ can something be permanent in a semi sort of way? I could tell my wife was just humoring me as I ranted about semipermanence and eventually told me she had to go do something more important, like feed the goat.
I didn't even know we had a goat.
As I waited for the slowest moving in train in history to pass, I had a vision, or it could have been a diesel fume related aberration. I figure if Jerry Falwell can predict the future in his talks with God, why can't I have the occasional non-drug related hallucination, especially if it helps the literary worth of this mediocre piece of writing.
Hallucination starts here:
Death opened the door and sat next to me. Surprisingly, he looked a lot like Dick Cheney, only healthier and less dangerous. Our conversation may have been something like this:
ME (looking dismissingly at Death sitting in my front seat) : What do you think of this word, SEMIPERMANENT?
Death: Aren't you worried I'm doing to take you away?
ME: That would be so cliché, with me turning 40 and all.
DEATH: You're probably right. Plus this blog really needed something more interesting. Did you lose your sense of humor knowing you're turning 40 soon?
ME: Maybe...
DEATH: Are you feeling stressed, out of control, worried, and depressed?
ME: A little...
DEATH (smiling insincerely and marking something on his PDA): Keep it up. I'll guess I'll be visiting sooner than scheduled.
ME: Eerp!
DEATH: However, on the word semi-permanent. Didn't you think that semipermanent might mean our lives here on earth? The fact that you feel like a permanent fixture on this planet with all your life problems? Not giving yourself enough time to enjoy the good things? Then suddenly one day you’re lying in an ambulance wondering what happened to all that life you used to have? You know, life if kind of semi-permanent. As
ME:
DEATH: No, the awesome 70's rock group.
ME: That is truly inspiring, oh Death. I'm going to live for the moment more often! I'm going to change my ways!
DEATH (with another sly smile, opening car door and stepping out): Habits are stronger than desires, my friend. Now, I'm going to leave you with this one, incredibly important piece of information.
ME: Yes, Mr. Reaper?
DEATH: (slightly sarcastically): SEMI PERMANENT probably just means the SEMI TRAILER in front of you has a permanent license. It probably doesn't need to be renewed.
ME (sadly): That kind of ruins the whole metaphor.
DEATH: I'm not here to spread happiness, bozo, unless you count the body counters down at the Pentagon or those crazy radical Islamists. Man, they love to see me. I love those guys! But maybe there is something to that semipermant thing after all. It's you that makes sense of this world, grasshopper.
ME (more happily): Yeah! Imagine that!
Death (leaving car and pointing at me): Happy birthday! Now I've got my eye on you, not-so-young man. So do something foolish! Drive fast, take chances! Start drinking hard liquor! Hope to see you soon!
ME: Not if I can do anything about it!
Death (winking): You can't.
Ah yes, turning 40.
(To be continued)
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