"Inappropriate self-disclosure" is something I heard somebody accuse somebody else of once, and, self-obsessed person that I am, I wondered if maybe I have ever been guilty of inappropriate self-disclosure. Nah.
When I was teaching, you see, I used the anecdote as a tool to get wandering minds to start listening to me again ... like watching hockey for the wrecks, or Nascar for the fights. People listen if they think you're going to say something scandalous. It was all well planned in advance.
So anyhow, I thought I'd provide a haircut update. A haircuptate, if you will. my barber told me today that he's retiring ... he's only cutting hair from nine to one. I went in at 12:15 and there were five guys waiting. I had to leave unshorn. Not normally worth discussing, but in light of the previous post, what the hell.
So I went to this great new topless salon across town.
Okay, no, I went to Quizno's for a sandwich, with my sloppy hair waving in the wind.
But anyhow, what I really wanted to document was that last night I dreamed I was staying at my cousin's place, and he wasn't there, and there were these two weird awful animals and I had to kill them. After that, I totally trashed his place; I don't know why. Then he came back, and he had my aunt and uncle and our grandmother with him. That was kind of awkward!
So now I can cross Tylenol 3 off my list, along with Percocet and all the other real painkillers ... do not take at bedtime! Although I do enjoy a good nightmare.
Style note: I'm going for more short paragraphs ... I think the long paragraphs put people off. They interfere with the whole surf/browse/don't actually read thing we do instead of reading now that we have the internet.
March 31, 2008
Proustian haircut
Today, if all goes well, I'll get a haircut. I'm ambivalent about the prospect. Certainly I need a haircut--not like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, but enough. My ambivalence stems from the fact that I don't like to spend money on something I can't keep. And while I mean no slight against any barber or stylist I have known, I've never walked out of a shop, looked at my head--my pate, if you will--and said to myself, "Damn! That's a great haircut!"
My first stylist was my mother, who trained as a cosmetologist and favored the indeterminate hairstyles popular in the decade of my infancy. My father soon took over, and his specialty was the crew cut, at that time a clear marker of gender and politics. If you're thinking of the haircutting scene in Sons and Lovers, you're not far off the mark. My father cut my hair in the basement; the barber chair was a stool made from a wooden chair that had the back cut off of it.
At some point in the early 1970s it was decided that my father and I would get our haircuts at the barber shop in "town" ... town being two stores and a post office along a road with no real intersection, much less a stop light. But town it was, and the barber shop had a proper barber pole and all. Soon after, the barber, Randy, set up shop near his home, which was a few more miles out. Randy and his wife were friends of my parents, and their sons were friends of mine as well, so getting a haircut was an event; we'd usually spend the evening over there. Randy was tall, with an Amish style beard, and he chewed tobacco. He cut hair with immense concentration. My chief recollection is of him bending down, inches from my face, peering unblinking not at my face but at my forehead, his tongue jammed in his cheek to keep the wad of chaw from falling out in my lap.
I think he cut my hair until I started college, although at some point his sons and I were no longer close friends. In college, everything changed. If I could have afforded it, I would have got my hair cut twice a month--okay, twice a week. That's when I temporarily got over the awkwardness of seeking a haircut in a "salon" and entered a brave new world.
I don't remember the name of the stylist, but she was beautiful, and she was nice, nicer than women that beautiful usually were to me. Why? Was it because, as an older woman (that's funny ... she was probably twenty-five, certainly not even thirty) she viewed me as a child? Maybe. I've read "Araby," and I understand that kid very, very well. But still ...
I hadn't thought of her in years, until when rewatching Firefly I realized that the woman who played Saffron in a couple of episodes reminded me of her. I don't say that the stylist looked like that actor, only that the actor reminded me of her. Fantasy tempered by realism. She did have reddish blonde hair and very fair skin. She was of medium height, with a generous figure.
"Generous figure." Go ahead and laugh. I'm trying to be a gentleman here. So why does this woman, who cut my hair maybe half a dozen times, still occupy my selective memory after so long? I'd like to be able to say it's because she was nice to me. But come on. Was it because when she pulled my head up to behold the finished haircut in the mirror after leaning it forward to use the electric razor on my neck, her hand was cool on my forehead and I could feel her standing behind me, my head leaning on her slightly, feeling her chest rise and fall through maybe two breaths? And that her eyes were looking at mine in the mirror? Now what do you think?
***
I go to a barber shop now. One guy, one chair. At nine bucks a haircut, I don't see how he makes rent on his shop. He's an older guy, and he likes to talk. In the middle of the conversation, he'll whap me with the back of his hand and say "hey!" as if to get my attention, as if he didn't already have it, waving scissors around my eyes and talking about politics.
My first stylist was my mother, who trained as a cosmetologist and favored the indeterminate hairstyles popular in the decade of my infancy. My father soon took over, and his specialty was the crew cut, at that time a clear marker of gender and politics. If you're thinking of the haircutting scene in Sons and Lovers, you're not far off the mark. My father cut my hair in the basement; the barber chair was a stool made from a wooden chair that had the back cut off of it.
At some point in the early 1970s it was decided that my father and I would get our haircuts at the barber shop in "town" ... town being two stores and a post office along a road with no real intersection, much less a stop light. But town it was, and the barber shop had a proper barber pole and all. Soon after, the barber, Randy, set up shop near his home, which was a few more miles out. Randy and his wife were friends of my parents, and their sons were friends of mine as well, so getting a haircut was an event; we'd usually spend the evening over there. Randy was tall, with an Amish style beard, and he chewed tobacco. He cut hair with immense concentration. My chief recollection is of him bending down, inches from my face, peering unblinking not at my face but at my forehead, his tongue jammed in his cheek to keep the wad of chaw from falling out in my lap.
I think he cut my hair until I started college, although at some point his sons and I were no longer close friends. In college, everything changed. If I could have afforded it, I would have got my hair cut twice a month--okay, twice a week. That's when I temporarily got over the awkwardness of seeking a haircut in a "salon" and entered a brave new world.
I don't remember the name of the stylist, but she was beautiful, and she was nice, nicer than women that beautiful usually were to me. Why? Was it because, as an older woman (that's funny ... she was probably twenty-five, certainly not even thirty) she viewed me as a child? Maybe. I've read "Araby," and I understand that kid very, very well. But still ...
I hadn't thought of her in years, until when rewatching Firefly I realized that the woman who played Saffron in a couple of episodes reminded me of her. I don't say that the stylist looked like that actor, only that the actor reminded me of her. Fantasy tempered by realism. She did have reddish blonde hair and very fair skin. She was of medium height, with a generous figure.
"Generous figure." Go ahead and laugh. I'm trying to be a gentleman here. So why does this woman, who cut my hair maybe half a dozen times, still occupy my selective memory after so long? I'd like to be able to say it's because she was nice to me. But come on. Was it because when she pulled my head up to behold the finished haircut in the mirror after leaning it forward to use the electric razor on my neck, her hand was cool on my forehead and I could feel her standing behind me, my head leaning on her slightly, feeling her chest rise and fall through maybe two breaths? And that her eyes were looking at mine in the mirror? Now what do you think?
***
I go to a barber shop now. One guy, one chair. At nine bucks a haircut, I don't see how he makes rent on his shop. He's an older guy, and he likes to talk. In the middle of the conversation, he'll whap me with the back of his hand and say "hey!" as if to get my attention, as if he didn't already have it, waving scissors around my eyes and talking about politics.
March 27, 2008
I don't care for 38 Special
Every now and then I find myself listening to "classic rock" radio, because stations of that junkre are more likely than most to play something I actually don't mind hearing, e.g. Van Morrison. Unfortunately, stations of that ilk are also more likely to play 38 Special (pronounced Spatial and spelled Spayshul by those in the know).
Please note that I do NOT hate 38 Special, because hate suggests passion, and I cannot understand anyone feeling passionate about that music (nothing against the guys making the music; I'm sure they're talented, and they seem quite earnest as well, and they've certainly enjoyed a measure of commercial success). But their music seems as processed and prepackaged as anything contemporary radio today. I mean, put "Hold On Loosely" next to "Caught Up on You"--aren't they the same song? And "Back Where You Belong"!
I thought about linking to Youtube with those song titles, but really, you've heard the songs before, right? And I won't link to anything I won't sit through. I know these guys are from the south and are related to Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I don't think it's fair to southern rock to lump them in there. I'm not a Skynyrd fan by any stretch of the imagination, but at least they earned their keep.
For some decent southern rock, you could check out the all but forgotten Wet Willie (not to be confused with the finger in the ear prank of the same name), or howzabout some Little Feat?
If you know anything about me at all, you know where I'm at with those shots of Bonnie Raitt and Emmylou Harris from back in the proverbial day. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.
Please note that I do NOT hate 38 Special, because hate suggests passion, and I cannot understand anyone feeling passionate about that music (nothing against the guys making the music; I'm sure they're talented, and they seem quite earnest as well, and they've certainly enjoyed a measure of commercial success). But their music seems as processed and prepackaged as anything contemporary radio today. I mean, put "Hold On Loosely" next to "Caught Up on You"--aren't they the same song? And "Back Where You Belong"!
I thought about linking to Youtube with those song titles, but really, you've heard the songs before, right? And I won't link to anything I won't sit through. I know these guys are from the south and are related to Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I don't think it's fair to southern rock to lump them in there. I'm not a Skynyrd fan by any stretch of the imagination, but at least they earned their keep.
For some decent southern rock, you could check out the all but forgotten Wet Willie (not to be confused with the finger in the ear prank of the same name), or howzabout some Little Feat?
If you know anything about me at all, you know where I'm at with those shots of Bonnie Raitt and Emmylou Harris from back in the proverbial day. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.
March 26, 2008
Because I'm psychic
I'm getting a premonition ... it's fuzzy ... wait ... Oh, now I see:
The next person who uses the word "spendy" in my presence is going to get slapped. Slapped, I tell you.
The next person who uses the word "spendy" in my presence is going to get slapped. Slapped, I tell you.
March 25, 2008
Mudcrutch
Acting on a tip about a listenable radio station in Philadelphia, I've been enjoying a "new release Tuesday" this morning. Right now I'm listening to a new Mudcrutch song--Mudcrutch being Tom Petty's band before the Heartbreakers. I'm not sure about the personnel, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there's a few HBs in it. "Scare Easy" sounds pretty good. It's the second cut, the first being one of my all time favorite songs, "Shady Grove." Can't wait to hear it.
If you're interested, the Garcia & Grisman version is posted on Youtube.
And here's a slightly different take on the song, from Quicksilver Messenger Service. The video looks vaguely familiar!
If you're interested, the Garcia & Grisman version is posted on Youtube.
And here's a slightly different take on the song, from Quicksilver Messenger Service. The video looks vaguely familiar!
March 24, 2008
Tom yum goong
This film, aka The Protector, just blew my mind. I wasn't expecting to enjoy it, but it's the only martial arts movie I know of that is based on the quest to recover two stolen elephants. It also sports a cut-less fight scene of four and a half minutes. Yep, a continuous shot. It's pretty remarkable.
It's also largely devoid of special effects. There's no magical running through the treetops here, no wirework ... or at least not much. There is elephant throwing, a transsexual villainess, and a whole roomful of broken arms. The film is not ironically self-aware (no Tarantino-esque "hey, look what I'm doing--I'm slumming! Look at me, I'm slumming! Hooray for me!"). And it's not a funny Jackie Chan flick either.
In fact, given the fact that it's about protecting elephants, I feel pretty damned green and smug for liking it. Because dammit, baby elephants are cute.
It's also largely devoid of special effects. There's no magical running through the treetops here, no wirework ... or at least not much. There is elephant throwing, a transsexual villainess, and a whole roomful of broken arms. The film is not ironically self-aware (no Tarantino-esque "hey, look what I'm doing--I'm slumming! Look at me, I'm slumming! Hooray for me!"). And it's not a funny Jackie Chan flick either.
In fact, given the fact that it's about protecting elephants, I feel pretty damned green and smug for liking it. Because dammit, baby elephants are cute.
My gift to you
Today, my friends, I give the you the gift of a new word for your word-hoard:
Junkre: a type or category (as of art, film, music, literature, etc.) that is, by nature, crap.
This word is to be pronounced in a burlesque pseudo-French accent if at all possible. No offense to my burlesque psuedo-French readers is intended.
I coined this word about fifteen minutes ago in relation to the vampire romance junkre, and now I'm hoping it will propagate itself, erotic vampire style, across the universe. A cursory Google perusal--a "perugle," if you will--suggests that the coinage might be original. But if not, that's okay too.
I'm willing to let perugle go, if only my brainchild junkre can live.
Junkre: a type or category (as of art, film, music, literature, etc.) that is, by nature, crap.
This word is to be pronounced in a burlesque pseudo-French accent if at all possible. No offense to my burlesque psuedo-French readers is intended.
I coined this word about fifteen minutes ago in relation to the vampire romance junkre, and now I'm hoping it will propagate itself, erotic vampire style, across the universe. A cursory Google perusal--a "perugle," if you will--suggests that the coinage might be original. But if not, that's okay too.
I'm willing to let perugle go, if only my brainchild junkre can live.
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