There's music in my pants
Drums are awesome. When I was a kid, I wanted to be in a drum line. The thrill of the bang, a parade, that rhythmic sound like a giant heart beating. BAM, BAM, BAM of the bass, the rat-tat-tat of the snare made me wave my arms and play in my imaginary band. It brought the streets to life. It gave the lines of clowns and shriners a pulsing hop in their step. I wanted to be a drummer.
I don't really remember when that dream went quiet. I think it just slowly leaked away from me. It might have been the inferior quality of my Fisher Price drums or it might have been the value of peace and quiet that my parents subtly instilled. The high cost of a drum set surely played a part, but I was too young to understand that. It could have been that I just went to fewer parades. Do parades in another countries have drum lines? The marching band seems like it could be more American with its size and volume. Maybe I missed some that way.
My memory is fuzzy, but the drums got replaced by another instrument. What it lacked in verve it more than made up in portability. Particularly, my first harmonica, which fit easily in the pocket of a first grader. My first harmonica was a miniature. I could blow through it and then hide it under my tongue. It was a great recess trick. I did worry about choking on it in the event that I was hit by a four-square ball (or more likely in a game of sap), so I was careful to use my trick away from the ball games. It was fine for when I was climbing on the lincoln-log-esque tee-pees or for trying to get the attention of the girls like Candice and Autumn.
I suppose I lost that miniature harmonica. I had a tendency to lose things at that age, especially hats, so to lose an instrument smaller than my finger seems quite likely. I soon replaced the miniature with a beautiful full-sized Hohner Echo in a yellow carrying case. It fit in my pocket, but not under my tongue. The Echo was made in Germany and probably purchased there too. I can't remember picking it out specifically, but I do remember looking through many glass counters at the rows of harmonicas. The rows were full of musical possibility. Possibility that has mostly gone unrealized for me. These days the twenty-something Echo has lost a bit of its shine. The red edges still contrast with the silvery metal, but a bit of rust and twenty some-odd years of boy mouth dust have collected on the front side.
Somewhere along the line, I picked up another harmonica. I think it was a Hohner too. Single hole, in a blue carrying case, possibly a G rather than a C. It shows a little less wear. Sometimes I play these harmonicas, picturing myself in Folsom prison, out on the prairie, or riding the rails. I don't play them well and I don't usually play tunes that are recognizable, but there's something about that metallic sound and its portability that makes me keep them around.
Showing posts with label details. Show all posts
Showing posts with label details. Show all posts
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Monday, December 13, 2010
An observation or four
*I don't prepare my legs for winter like I prepare the rest of my body. When the cold comes and the wind whistles and my pants flap, my legs think, "Hmm. There should be a leg-shaped sweater."
*One of my favorite things about snow is the accompanying silence. I always thought that was somehow related to the acoustics of frozen water. Tonight as I walked to the store in biting cold it occurred to me that the silence might just come from folks staying bundled up indoors.
*I never understood how anybody could want to do things like manage or go in to business for themselves. Time passed. I can now see how either the frustration of being managed and/or the thrill and challenge of taking control could drive a person to such places.
*The Internet must be the most important place in the world; why else would I spend all of my time there?
*I don't prepare my legs for winter like I prepare the rest of my body. When the cold comes and the wind whistles and my pants flap, my legs think, "Hmm. There should be a leg-shaped sweater."
*One of my favorite things about snow is the accompanying silence. I always thought that was somehow related to the acoustics of frozen water. Tonight as I walked to the store in biting cold it occurred to me that the silence might just come from folks staying bundled up indoors.
*I never understood how anybody could want to do things like manage or go in to business for themselves. Time passed. I can now see how either the frustration of being managed and/or the thrill and challenge of taking control could drive a person to such places.
*The Internet must be the most important place in the world; why else would I spend all of my time there?
Thursday, November 04, 2010
The ghost of an omelet
The manufactured screams from across the street had mostly died down. Only the fog machine and the flashing lights continued. The bewitching hour for small children had passed. The little super heroes had left the streets and taken plastic pumpkins full of candy with them. The night was not quiet yet, but activity was on the decline. I settled in to watch television.
The THWACK of my second floor apartment living room window reminded me that Halloween was not yet over. I didn't even have time to turn before egg was streaming down the window like the unfertilized chicken goo it had become. Glancing out the window I saw the teens who weren't even amused by their violent act. Letting out a yelp, I dashed to the fridge. I swung open the door like it belonged to a saloon and prepared to retaliate. The carton was my holster, and I drew my guns. I ran to the window with the logic of the King of Babylon swirling in my subconscious. An egg for an egg. It seemed just, but I fumbled too long and the teens soon were well out of range.
Still, I stood with egg in hand, waiting. I considered leaving the egg out at the ready in case I faced another attack, but thought better of it. Instead, I opened the window and cleaned the mess. As I hung out on the ledge wiping away the goo, my only defense was a shake of my fist at "those darn kids."
The manufactured screams from across the street had mostly died down. Only the fog machine and the flashing lights continued. The bewitching hour for small children had passed. The little super heroes had left the streets and taken plastic pumpkins full of candy with them. The night was not quiet yet, but activity was on the decline. I settled in to watch television.
The THWACK of my second floor apartment living room window reminded me that Halloween was not yet over. I didn't even have time to turn before egg was streaming down the window like the unfertilized chicken goo it had become. Glancing out the window I saw the teens who weren't even amused by their violent act. Letting out a yelp, I dashed to the fridge. I swung open the door like it belonged to a saloon and prepared to retaliate. The carton was my holster, and I drew my guns. I ran to the window with the logic of the King of Babylon swirling in my subconscious. An egg for an egg. It seemed just, but I fumbled too long and the teens soon were well out of range.
Still, I stood with egg in hand, waiting. I considered leaving the egg out at the ready in case I faced another attack, but thought better of it. Instead, I opened the window and cleaned the mess. As I hung out on the ledge wiping away the goo, my only defense was a shake of my fist at "those darn kids."
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
and I feel fine
There's a low constant hum that covers multiple city blocks. It's like a heater struggling to start, or a snow-blower running low on fuel. The euphoria of Saturday when snowball fights reigned and passing neighbors smiled in amusement has been replaced by a white-grey dread. People no longer bound out of doors and down the middle of the street bending to form a snowball or a ready-made sno-cone. Now they trudge. They've bundled a little tighter. The bright colors of winter wear seem a little muted. Playing in 20 inches of snow with the hope of missing work dancing on the falling flakes is replaced by shoveling 10 more inches with the flakes flying horizontally. The weather and the city's accompanying emotion have gone from Lady Ga-Ga inspired party dress to the long walk of shame home. That walk seems to grow longer with each hour. The questions of where will we put the snow? and what do you mean the snow plows have stopped due to dangerous conditions? don't seem to be real. How can they be?
We still have power. Others have lost theirs. At the risk of being too dramatic, I can't help but wonder how fragile we are. I can't help but think about global warming either. Could this be a harbinger of things to come?
I read the newspaper stories about young neighbors taking care of their older neighbors and I talk to my friends who have shoveled driveways and pushed cars out of snow drifts. The spirit of community rises in these situations. Could this too be a harbinger of things to come? It seems just as likely.
There's a low constant hum that covers multiple city blocks. It's like a heater struggling to start, or a snow-blower running low on fuel. The euphoria of Saturday when snowball fights reigned and passing neighbors smiled in amusement has been replaced by a white-grey dread. People no longer bound out of doors and down the middle of the street bending to form a snowball or a ready-made sno-cone. Now they trudge. They've bundled a little tighter. The bright colors of winter wear seem a little muted. Playing in 20 inches of snow with the hope of missing work dancing on the falling flakes is replaced by shoveling 10 more inches with the flakes flying horizontally. The weather and the city's accompanying emotion have gone from Lady Ga-Ga inspired party dress to the long walk of shame home. That walk seems to grow longer with each hour. The questions of where will we put the snow? and what do you mean the snow plows have stopped due to dangerous conditions? don't seem to be real. How can they be?
We still have power. Others have lost theirs. At the risk of being too dramatic, I can't help but wonder how fragile we are. I can't help but think about global warming either. Could this be a harbinger of things to come?
I read the newspaper stories about young neighbors taking care of their older neighbors and I talk to my friends who have shoveled driveways and pushed cars out of snow drifts. The spirit of community rises in these situations. Could this too be a harbinger of things to come? It seems just as likely.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Trying on a different life
I'm listening to somebody else's records in somebody else's home. Somebody else isn't here, but I'm settling in. I went to the books first and scanned the shelves. I looked for the books I'd read and the books I want to read. I looked for a connection to my interests, then I looked for a pattern. My efforts were not so concentrated as they sound, but as I scanned the shelves I tried to put together this person that I didn't know. How was she like me? She had "Men are from Mars.." How was she different? Dorothy Parker, financial success for women, feminism, I soon lost track. This was not my literary double. With my head tilted, I then scanned the titles for books that I wanted to skim. I found "Why Men Love Bitches."
I switched from Zeppelin to Supertramp.
At first the records seem more accessible than the books. Perhaps, this is a function of their weight and the commitment they require. Why Men Love Records? Unable to focus, I moved to the DVD collection, but found nothing that I needed now, certainly not "Bridget Jones' Diary". v. much no, thank you.
Supertramp turns to Bruce Springsteen.
I made another lap around the house, arms tucked behind me like a speed skater, though my walk and my eye were more like those of the art student. I studied the pictures and paintings, the candles and saucers on the mantle, the clutter of existence. Every object told a piece of story I didn't know. One wall hanging held my eye. The top was a vibrant red hand print on a black background. On an Indian tablet below the precise lettering of an elementary school student proudly proclaimed the recess skills that every child wanted. The confidence of the young student echoed in the confidence of the thick wooden frame.
Springsteen became Aretha Franklin.
I returned to the records and pored over them. I feel like a man lost in another time. I have nostalgia for a life I haven't led. My studies again follow a similar trajectory as I look for the intersection of familiar and interesting. The familiar are less widespread when I realize that my reference point for record collections is my parents'. A few records overlap, but much of this collection veers closer to the days of CD, or at least cassette tape. I begin to pull records from the shelf. The other records close the gap and I lose track of the exact location. I'll slide the sleeves back in as best I can and hope my host is not like Rob of "High Fidelity" organizing and re-organizing the collection by major life events.
I open the sleeve and pour the black grooved disc out. It feels so delicate. The delicacy is compounded by the fear of damaging someone else's property. Has age made records more brittle? I suspect they've always been brittle and delicate, that's why my dad severely limited my handling privileges. Holding my breath, I move the needle without shaking or scratching. The record spins on and then crackles to a start. There's something violent and satisfying about starting a record and finding a groove.
Then it stops.
More Aretha.
I'm listening to somebody else's records in somebody else's home. Somebody else isn't here, but I'm settling in. I went to the books first and scanned the shelves. I looked for the books I'd read and the books I want to read. I looked for a connection to my interests, then I looked for a pattern. My efforts were not so concentrated as they sound, but as I scanned the shelves I tried to put together this person that I didn't know. How was she like me? She had "Men are from Mars.." How was she different? Dorothy Parker, financial success for women, feminism, I soon lost track. This was not my literary double. With my head tilted, I then scanned the titles for books that I wanted to skim. I found "Why Men Love Bitches."
I switched from Zeppelin to Supertramp.
At first the records seem more accessible than the books. Perhaps, this is a function of their weight and the commitment they require. Why Men Love Records? Unable to focus, I moved to the DVD collection, but found nothing that I needed now, certainly not "Bridget Jones' Diary". v. much no, thank you.
Supertramp turns to Bruce Springsteen.
I made another lap around the house, arms tucked behind me like a speed skater, though my walk and my eye were more like those of the art student. I studied the pictures and paintings, the candles and saucers on the mantle, the clutter of existence. Every object told a piece of story I didn't know. One wall hanging held my eye. The top was a vibrant red hand print on a black background. On an Indian tablet below the precise lettering of an elementary school student proudly proclaimed the recess skills that every child wanted. The confidence of the young student echoed in the confidence of the thick wooden frame.
Springsteen became Aretha Franklin.
I returned to the records and pored over them. I feel like a man lost in another time. I have nostalgia for a life I haven't led. My studies again follow a similar trajectory as I look for the intersection of familiar and interesting. The familiar are less widespread when I realize that my reference point for record collections is my parents'. A few records overlap, but much of this collection veers closer to the days of CD, or at least cassette tape. I begin to pull records from the shelf. The other records close the gap and I lose track of the exact location. I'll slide the sleeves back in as best I can and hope my host is not like Rob of "High Fidelity" organizing and re-organizing the collection by major life events.
I open the sleeve and pour the black grooved disc out. It feels so delicate. The delicacy is compounded by the fear of damaging someone else's property. Has age made records more brittle? I suspect they've always been brittle and delicate, that's why my dad severely limited my handling privileges. Holding my breath, I move the needle without shaking or scratching. The record spins on and then crackles to a start. There's something violent and satisfying about starting a record and finding a groove.
Then it stops.
More Aretha.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Top 10 top 10 lists from the last 10 years as we head into 2010
I'm working on 10 lists to highlight some of my experiences over the last decade. I'm afraid that some of my lists are going to be more heavily weighted to the last few years because I don't remember stuff that well. I don't have all 10 lists yet, but I'll keep at it. Some of this may spill into next year.
Top 10 books I read in the last 10 years
10. Pistol: The Story of Pete Maravich
9. Count of Monte Cristo
8. Jitterbug Perfume
7. Harry Potter (I'm just lumping them all together, but I preferred the ones with Quidditch)
6. Ender's Game
5. Interpreter of Maladies
4. Prodigal Summer
3. The Perfect Mile
2. Bel Canto
1. Time Traveler's Wife
Top 10 years of the last 10
1. 2004
2. 2009
3. 2001
4. 2005
5. 2006
6. 2008
7. 2000
8. 2003
9. 2002
10. 2007
Top 10 songs played on iTunes (This is obviously skewed to the mid to late aughts)
10. Drunken Lullabies by Flogging Molly
9. Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz
8. Pale Moon by Shannon McNally
7. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional
6. These Boots Are Made for Walkin' by Jessica Simpson
5. Gracie by Ben Folds
4. Age Six Racer by Dashboard Confessional
3. Half Acre by Hem
2. The Comeback by Shout Out Louds
1. 1B by Yo-yo Ma, Mark O'Connor and Edgar Meyer
Top 10 Athletic Achievements (I really feel like I'm forgetting something)
10.6k victory
9. making HOV and contributing in the early season
8. consistent weight training (165 front squat!)
7. Return to Ultimate after the year (?) of the psoas
6. The Golden Cup from Wildwood
5. Sectionals '02 game-winning Callahan
4. Pacing MB to a 5-minute mile on the first try
3.breaking 30 minutes in a 5-miler PRs including 15:46 5k, 29:36 5-miler...
2. 4:41 mile, the fastest in quite some time by bunches
1. The training and completion of the Marine Corps Marathon in '04
1a. MUtants and the Peter L. Offense Sectionals '01
Top 10 TV shows (some on DVD)
1. Gilmore Girls
2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer
3. The Office
4. Friends
5. Project Runway
6. Coupling
7. Flight of the Conchords
8. Sports Night
9. Ed
10. Alias
I'm working on 10 lists to highlight some of my experiences over the last decade. I'm afraid that some of my lists are going to be more heavily weighted to the last few years because I don't remember stuff that well. I don't have all 10 lists yet, but I'll keep at it. Some of this may spill into next year.
Top 10 books I read in the last 10 years
10. Pistol: The Story of Pete Maravich
9. Count of Monte Cristo
8. Jitterbug Perfume
7. Harry Potter (I'm just lumping them all together, but I preferred the ones with Quidditch)
6. Ender's Game
5. Interpreter of Maladies
4. Prodigal Summer
3. The Perfect Mile
2. Bel Canto
1. Time Traveler's Wife
Top 10 years of the last 10
1. 2004
2. 2009
3. 2001
4. 2005
5. 2006
6. 2008
7. 2000
8. 2003
9. 2002
10. 2007
Top 10 songs played on iTunes (This is obviously skewed to the mid to late aughts)
10. Drunken Lullabies by Flogging Molly
9. Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz
8. Pale Moon by Shannon McNally
7. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional
6. These Boots Are Made for Walkin' by Jessica Simpson
5. Gracie by Ben Folds
4. Age Six Racer by Dashboard Confessional
3. Half Acre by Hem
2. The Comeback by Shout Out Louds
1. 1B by Yo-yo Ma, Mark O'Connor and Edgar Meyer
Top 10 Athletic Achievements (I really feel like I'm forgetting something)
10.
9. making HOV and contributing in the early season
8. consistent weight training (165 front squat!)
7. Return to Ultimate after the year (?) of the psoas
6. The Golden Cup from Wildwood
5. Sectionals '02 game-winning Callahan
4. Pacing MB to a 5-minute mile on the first try
3.
2. 4:41 mile, the fastest in quite some time by bunches
1. The training and completion of the Marine Corps Marathon in '04
1a. MUtants and the Peter L. Offense Sectionals '01
Top 10 TV shows (some on DVD)
1. Gilmore Girls
2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer
3. The Office
4. Friends
5. Project Runway
6. Coupling
7. Flight of the Conchords
8. Sports Night
9. Ed
10. Alias
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
New home: A poem of sorts
The dishwasher is training for a marathon,
Boston if the electric kettle has anything to do with it.
The TV stops and goes at my command.
Couches and desks fill up empty spaces.
There's a cat who adores me when I open a can
I climb out of the ground to greet the day
and shower beneath foot falls.
It takes six keys to enter, but only one to leave.
The dishwasher is training for a marathon,
Boston if the electric kettle has anything to do with it.
The TV stops and goes at my command.
Couches and desks fill up empty spaces.
There's a cat who adores me when I open a can
I climb out of the ground to greet the day
and shower beneath foot falls.
It takes six keys to enter, but only one to leave.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Beat it
I’ve been meaning to write something about Michael Jackson since his passing on June 25. I didn’t cry when I found out that he’d died. I was surprised, but I didn’t watch enough news to be sick of the coverage. I wasn’t part of the Twitterstorm that took them offline. I’ve been sort of put off by the guy over the last few years, but I have a few fuzzy memories associated with him and it seems like time to share them.
When Thriller came out, my neighbors bought the record and invited us to listen. My dad and I joined Jesse and Ben and their father at their house in the front room. Someone, probably Ben’s dad, pulled the record out from the cover. I can’t quite make out the artwork in my memory without assistance, but I remember the black edges and white in the center. I don’t remember hearing the album then or anything else about that moment except that I don’t think I have ever been somewhere for the specific purpose of hearing a new record at any other point in my life.
I had a copy of Thriller on tape, probably made from my neighbor’s record. I nearly wore that tape out. It lived in my Walkman for a while. I think the title track scared me a little bit, but “Beat It” made me want to be tough, “Billie Jean” made me want to sing and perhaps act a little cavalier toward the opposite sex, and “The Girl is Mine” made me want to argue about girls with my friends.
I kept listening to Thriller in my Walkman even after we moved away. When I returned, Michael soon followed with his hit “Bad”. I liked it, but in some jaded 10-year old way I was more taken by Weird Al Yankovic’s parody “Fat” by then. Michael Jackson and I began to part ways, but never entirely. It’s quite possible that old tape might still be in the drawer in my cracked walkman today. I'll have to check.
I’ve been meaning to write something about Michael Jackson since his passing on June 25. I didn’t cry when I found out that he’d died. I was surprised, but I didn’t watch enough news to be sick of the coverage. I wasn’t part of the Twitterstorm that took them offline. I’ve been sort of put off by the guy over the last few years, but I have a few fuzzy memories associated with him and it seems like time to share them.
When Thriller came out, my neighbors bought the record and invited us to listen. My dad and I joined Jesse and Ben and their father at their house in the front room. Someone, probably Ben’s dad, pulled the record out from the cover. I can’t quite make out the artwork in my memory without assistance, but I remember the black edges and white in the center. I don’t remember hearing the album then or anything else about that moment except that I don’t think I have ever been somewhere for the specific purpose of hearing a new record at any other point in my life.
I had a copy of Thriller on tape, probably made from my neighbor’s record. I nearly wore that tape out. It lived in my Walkman for a while. I think the title track scared me a little bit, but “Beat It” made me want to be tough, “Billie Jean” made me want to sing and perhaps act a little cavalier toward the opposite sex, and “The Girl is Mine” made me want to argue about girls with my friends.
I kept listening to Thriller in my Walkman even after we moved away. When I returned, Michael soon followed with his hit “Bad”. I liked it, but in some jaded 10-year old way I was more taken by Weird Al Yankovic’s parody “Fat” by then. Michael Jackson and I began to part ways, but never entirely. It’s quite possible that old tape might still be in the drawer in my cracked walkman today. I'll have to check.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Therapy
Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.
Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.
I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.
Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.
Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.
I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Pirate kisses and Glenrothes
The thing I like about this blog is the commingling of the high and low brow. This blog is medium brow when taken as an average, and furrowed brow when taken in aggregate, but at any point a reader might find the high: Drinking single malt at the Round Robin, I couldn't help but notice the man in the grey suit, a throwback to another era with his matching grey fedora. He was a regular. It was my first time.
Or the low: There in the back alley, a pirate pawed his wench as they traded puffs on a cigarette. Their brand of lust was the empty sort found between shifts at the local pirate-themed tavern. I shouted "Pirate love!" in their direction since "Shiver me timbers" sounded profane. They responded with a smile, though a little parrot mouthing off would have gone a long way.
The thing I like about this blog is the commingling of the high and low brow. This blog is medium brow when taken as an average, and furrowed brow when taken in aggregate, but at any point a reader might find the high: Drinking single malt at the Round Robin, I couldn't help but notice the man in the grey suit, a throwback to another era with his matching grey fedora. He was a regular. It was my first time.
Or the low: There in the back alley, a pirate pawed his wench as they traded puffs on a cigarette. Their brand of lust was the empty sort found between shifts at the local pirate-themed tavern. I shouted "Pirate love!" in their direction since "Shiver me timbers" sounded profane. They responded with a smile, though a little parrot mouthing off would have gone a long way.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Raindrops on whiskers and warm woolen kittens
Hovering a few degrees above freezing, it rains. I do not like this weather. It's too cold to wear my raincoat and it's not cold enough to turn to fluffy white goodness. The umbrella, my umbrella, unfolds with such enthusiasm like it misses me and needs a hug, but I can't. Umbrellas are space invaders and not the arcade kind. Sidewalks, escalators, personal bubbles do not take into account two umbrellas passing in the dreary night. One must bend. "Good evening, kind sir," it bows failing at its one job for a moment to pay respect to the higher class. The bulbs pass and return to attention, an umbrella in service. All fine and good, except that I'm wet.
Fortuitously, or with great inner fortitude, I don't feel the raindrops that collect in the mass of hair on my chin. I'll have to dry them later, but for now I'll celebrate my natural balaclava. It has more powers than water resistance it seems. In a weaving, billowing sort of way, it also has the power to bring out true feeling. I know this because today a coworker dropped in and as we were discussing our holidays happened to mention that she didn't like my beard. The subtlety of her comment could have been missed by some, but "I don't like it," hit a chord with me. "It makes you look older," she continued. There may have been some light backtracking after that, but I missed most of it. As I reflect on this statement and sometimes stare at my own reflection, I have to wonder a few things. First of all, why isn't facial hair afforded the same consideration as weight, fashion or hair style? I don't know of very many coworkers who would just come out and say such a thing about a new haircut. I've always thought that I admired the blunt reaction, but I've come to realize that some things can probably go unsaid. "That shirt makes you look like a killer whale," might be one of them. I'll keep thinking on it to be sure. And also listen to The Beards. They like it.
Hovering a few degrees above freezing, it rains. I do not like this weather. It's too cold to wear my raincoat and it's not cold enough to turn to fluffy white goodness. The umbrella, my umbrella, unfolds with such enthusiasm like it misses me and needs a hug, but I can't. Umbrellas are space invaders and not the arcade kind. Sidewalks, escalators, personal bubbles do not take into account two umbrellas passing in the dreary night. One must bend. "Good evening, kind sir," it bows failing at its one job for a moment to pay respect to the higher class. The bulbs pass and return to attention, an umbrella in service. All fine and good, except that I'm wet.
Fortuitously, or with great inner fortitude, I don't feel the raindrops that collect in the mass of hair on my chin. I'll have to dry them later, but for now I'll celebrate my natural balaclava. It has more powers than water resistance it seems. In a weaving, billowing sort of way, it also has the power to bring out true feeling. I know this because today a coworker dropped in and as we were discussing our holidays happened to mention that she didn't like my beard. The subtlety of her comment could have been missed by some, but "I don't like it," hit a chord with me. "It makes you look older," she continued. There may have been some light backtracking after that, but I missed most of it. As I reflect on this statement and sometimes stare at my own reflection, I have to wonder a few things. First of all, why isn't facial hair afforded the same consideration as weight, fashion or hair style? I don't know of very many coworkers who would just come out and say such a thing about a new haircut. I've always thought that I admired the blunt reaction, but I've come to realize that some things can probably go unsaid. "That shirt makes you look like a killer whale," might be one of them. I'll keep thinking on it to be sure. And also listen to The Beards. They like it.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Once, twice, five times with needles
Some time ago, I stumbled upon some free acupuncture in my neighborhood. The place doing the poking is a fascinating sort of place that offers all kinds of classes that I'm fearful to use. Yet, somehow the acupuncture, even when the "free" was gone, stuck (pun intended). I like my acupuncturist. He seems so genuine and eager that it's almost uncomfortable. Yet, even when d my face sometimes hurts with the awkward pauses in our conversation, it seems like he listens to me 1.6 million times better than my doctor. Maybe that's why I find myself going back. Last week I made my fifth trip to see him. Each one has felt slightly different. There's always the initial prick that comes from being stuck by a needle; it's less painful than a shot, but not unnoticeable. Then after a few quiet moments, something almost otherworldly seems to happen. Let me recount those experiences.
1. The psoas darkens. Then it gets lighter, as in less weight. Totally trippy.
2. A stress ball of a psoas flattens out. Odd.
3. A flattened ball dissapates. Then I feel the magic of acupuncture pressing the connecting parts, searching for something to relax. When the pushing doesn't work, the magic starts pulling. Also trippy.
4. 17 needles later and I feel a little better. This time was different. Before I even got poked by the needle, I thought I felt it. Maybe it was the number of needles or maybe I was externally more sensitive.
5. This time the needles are applied directly to a new area of pain in addition to other places in line. Like a magic scrubber, something seems to clean all the muscles around the pain, but the pain does not go away. So, needles are added again to further pinpoint the pain area. The pain leaves, but returns some hours later. Trippy and unfortunate.
Next time, I don't know what to expect.
Some time ago, I stumbled upon some free acupuncture in my neighborhood. The place doing the poking is a fascinating sort of place that offers all kinds of classes that I'm fearful to use. Yet, somehow the acupuncture, even when the "free" was gone, stuck (pun intended). I like my acupuncturist. He seems so genuine and eager that it's almost uncomfortable. Yet, even when d my face sometimes hurts with the awkward pauses in our conversation, it seems like he listens to me 1.6 million times better than my doctor. Maybe that's why I find myself going back. Last week I made my fifth trip to see him. Each one has felt slightly different. There's always the initial prick that comes from being stuck by a needle; it's less painful than a shot, but not unnoticeable. Then after a few quiet moments, something almost otherworldly seems to happen. Let me recount those experiences.
1. The psoas darkens. Then it gets lighter, as in less weight. Totally trippy.
2. A stress ball of a psoas flattens out. Odd.
3. A flattened ball dissapates. Then I feel the magic of acupuncture pressing the connecting parts, searching for something to relax. When the pushing doesn't work, the magic starts pulling. Also trippy.
4. 17 needles later and I feel a little better. This time was different. Before I even got poked by the needle, I thought I felt it. Maybe it was the number of needles or maybe I was externally more sensitive.
5. This time the needles are applied directly to a new area of pain in addition to other places in line. Like a magic scrubber, something seems to clean all the muscles around the pain, but the pain does not go away. So, needles are added again to further pinpoint the pain area. The pain leaves, but returns some hours later. Trippy and unfortunate.
Next time, I don't know what to expect.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Go back in time and get the Lemonade!
I stopped my feet from bouncing so I could reach up into the sky and wave my fingers around vigorously, a bit like I was conducting an orchestra of hummingbirds. This and the seizure-like bobs of a 1:15 AM madman are the apparent results of an iced coffee some hours ago. It started innocently enough with an order of lemonade. Feet pound on a non-existent bass drum. Hand seizures now violently direct traffic to the right The waitress, a sensible looking woman of low to mid twenty decried her establishment's lemonade with some remark about its unappealing fountain nature.
"Too sweet?" I asked. As my arms and my brain spin in opposite directions I am unable to recall her answer. Her look spoke volumes. She I point angrily channeling Lewis Black had a disdain for the lemonade which I took seriously. Not wanting the carbonated beverages of the Coca-Cola empire, I instead decided that an iced coffee with my 9 PM dinner would be wise. AN ICED COFFEE. I get some caffeine, but in no way have a tolerance wrists like pinwheels; bouncing has made its way up my spine.
Now I pay the price. I could've had gesticulating wildlya piss-poor glass of lemonade and been out by 11:30, instead masticating the air and punctuating my point with a powerful jab downward I chose poorly. Very poorly. Sleep does not just elude my grasp. I can barely recall the nature of sleep. Instead I want to grab my banjo, which hasn't been played in some months, and pick a tune. Wait. Wait. I've got one. How about "Lemon, Lemon, pick the Lemonade, you ridiculous little man from 5 hours ago."
It's not that well known.
I stopped my feet from bouncing so I could reach up into the sky and wave my fingers around vigorously, a bit like I was conducting an orchestra of hummingbirds. This and the seizure-like bobs of a 1:15 AM madman are the apparent results of an iced coffee some hours ago. It started innocently enough with an order of lemonade. Feet pound on a non-existent bass drum. Hand seizures now violently direct traffic to the right The waitress, a sensible looking woman of low to mid twenty decried her establishment's lemonade with some remark about its unappealing fountain nature.
"Too sweet?" I asked. As my arms and my brain spin in opposite directions I am unable to recall her answer. Her look spoke volumes. She I point angrily channeling Lewis Black had a disdain for the lemonade which I took seriously. Not wanting the carbonated beverages of the Coca-Cola empire, I instead decided that an iced coffee with my 9 PM dinner would be wise. AN ICED COFFEE. I get some caffeine, but in no way have a tolerance wrists like pinwheels; bouncing has made its way up my spine.
Now I pay the price. I could've had gesticulating wildlya piss-poor glass of lemonade and been out by 11:30, instead masticating the air and punctuating my point with a powerful jab downward I chose poorly. Very poorly. Sleep does not just elude my grasp. I can barely recall the nature of sleep. Instead I want to grab my banjo, which hasn't been played in some months, and pick a tune. Wait. Wait. I've got one. How about "Lemon, Lemon, pick the Lemonade, you ridiculous little man from 5 hours ago."
It's not that well known.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Taste memory
Before I get started I would just like to thank those in charge for having winter smell like winter, at least for a few days.
I purchased some chocolate chip Pop-tarts today and was reminded of my time as a liftie. To me, chocolate chip Pop-Tarts taste like ski lift shacks. This is not the best flavor, even for a toaster pastry. It's not that I dislike them, it's more like they remind me of overdose. Chocolate chip Pop-tarts were my drug of choice that spring, mostly because the price was right. I'm fairly certain that the year this particular model of tart came out someone with connections (though marginally impressive connections at best) secured a shipment of the tarts for general consumption. Consume, I did. Pop-tarts for elevensies, Pop-tarts for an afternoon snack, a pocketful of Pop-tarts for later. I was menace to my innards. My body has not completely erased that memory, so I will tread carefully with the remaining six in the box.
I suppose that I was trafficking in tastebud reflections today because besides the Pop-tarts that made it into my cart, I also considered a cylinder of the orange-flavored "do-it-yourself" cinnamon rolls. Orange cinnamon rolls taste like heartbreak to me. The pictures in my mind have grown blurry; I can only see snippets of a well-couched (at least in number) living room, a blocked-off fireplace, a tear-obscured face, and a plate of the cinnamon rolls sloppily coated in icing of heart wrenching orange. The cinnamon rolls would go fairly quickly. The heartbreak would linger for years. I put back the rolls and left with orange juice. I like to think it fights disease.
Before I get started I would just like to thank those in charge for having winter smell like winter, at least for a few days.
I purchased some chocolate chip Pop-tarts today and was reminded of my time as a liftie. To me, chocolate chip Pop-Tarts taste like ski lift shacks. This is not the best flavor, even for a toaster pastry. It's not that I dislike them, it's more like they remind me of overdose. Chocolate chip Pop-tarts were my drug of choice that spring, mostly because the price was right. I'm fairly certain that the year this particular model of tart came out someone with connections (though marginally impressive connections at best) secured a shipment of the tarts for general consumption. Consume, I did. Pop-tarts for elevensies, Pop-tarts for an afternoon snack, a pocketful of Pop-tarts for later. I was menace to my innards. My body has not completely erased that memory, so I will tread carefully with the remaining six in the box.
I suppose that I was trafficking in tastebud reflections today because besides the Pop-tarts that made it into my cart, I also considered a cylinder of the orange-flavored "do-it-yourself" cinnamon rolls. Orange cinnamon rolls taste like heartbreak to me. The pictures in my mind have grown blurry; I can only see snippets of a well-couched (at least in number) living room, a blocked-off fireplace, a tear-obscured face, and a plate of the cinnamon rolls sloppily coated in icing of heart wrenching orange. The cinnamon rolls would go fairly quickly. The heartbreak would linger for years. I put back the rolls and left with orange juice. I like to think it fights disease.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
An incomplete caboodle
- I have work guilt. Today, I had to ask for help to order some cardboard boxes because that process has changed significantly in the last few years. When offered the opportunity to learn how to order the boxes, I rather aggressively declined. My response was something like, "I don't want to learn anything new because then you'll just make me do it." This is either standing up for myself or being a jerk. I haven't decided which, but I think I'm leaning toward the latter.
-The thing I like about my Raspberry Zing tea is that it leaves a little red mark at the bottom of the cup. I like to pretend these are lip prints left by my lover. I'm fairly certain this makes my lover a shriveled bag of tea.
-I went to a real gym today and discovered some things:
1. There's a certain charm to music videos that I had forgotten.
2. Gym owners can add windows, bright lights, and put the gym on the second floor up above the street, but there's a point in the workout when I still feel trapped in a dungeon.
3. I run faster when the little screen attached to my treadmill has women wrestling. I slowed down when they tagged their male partners. I had no idea WWE had coed wrestling or that wrestling was good treadmill viewing material.
- I have work guilt. Today, I had to ask for help to order some cardboard boxes because that process has changed significantly in the last few years. When offered the opportunity to learn how to order the boxes, I rather aggressively declined. My response was something like, "I don't want to learn anything new because then you'll just make me do it." This is either standing up for myself or being a jerk. I haven't decided which, but I think I'm leaning toward the latter.
-The thing I like about my Raspberry Zing tea is that it leaves a little red mark at the bottom of the cup. I like to pretend these are lip prints left by my lover. I'm fairly certain this makes my lover a shriveled bag of tea.
-I went to a real gym today and discovered some things:
1. There's a certain charm to music videos that I had forgotten.
2. Gym owners can add windows, bright lights, and put the gym on the second floor up above the street, but there's a point in the workout when I still feel trapped in a dungeon.
3. I run faster when the little screen attached to my treadmill has women wrestling. I slowed down when they tagged their male partners. I had no idea WWE had coed wrestling or that wrestling was good treadmill viewing material.
Monday, December 31, 2007
The Final Countdown (actually, probably the first of several)
3. Earlier this week, I ran out of useable food except for oatmeal and grits, which are pretty much fraternal twins. I could have gone to a grocery store, there are two within spitting distance, or at least walking distance, but the thought of having to pick out food was exhausting to me. Instead of visiting the store, I went on eating oatmeal and grits for three consecutive meals and at least one snack. In retrospect, this was kind of gross and probably why I didn't feel all that great. If Wilford Brimley had really been here I think he would have told me to snap out of it and pull myself together, but instead that Quaker guy and his fraternal twin smaller Quaker guy sat silently and watched me suffer.
2. It feels like finals week, but I don't think I've studied for the test. I am rather fearful that I'm about to fail the class. The thing I always liked about finals week was the quiet. It was like brain snow. Everyone became muted, beautiful (or at least natural, because what is more natural than unkempt bleary-eyed students?), and focused. The other great thing about finals week was the relief. I'm worried that without the test, I'm going to miss out on the relief.
1. The last few nights at about this time I've been watching reruns of The Office and I get this hunger. Last night it was for meatless ribs and tonight its for chocolate. The bad thing is that I don't think I'm actually hungry. Maybe I just miss the grits.
3. Earlier this week, I ran out of useable food except for oatmeal and grits, which are pretty much fraternal twins. I could have gone to a grocery store, there are two within spitting distance, or at least walking distance, but the thought of having to pick out food was exhausting to me. Instead of visiting the store, I went on eating oatmeal and grits for three consecutive meals and at least one snack. In retrospect, this was kind of gross and probably why I didn't feel all that great. If Wilford Brimley had really been here I think he would have told me to snap out of it and pull myself together, but instead that Quaker guy and his fraternal twin smaller Quaker guy sat silently and watched me suffer.
2. It feels like finals week, but I don't think I've studied for the test. I am rather fearful that I'm about to fail the class. The thing I always liked about finals week was the quiet. It was like brain snow. Everyone became muted, beautiful (or at least natural, because what is more natural than unkempt bleary-eyed students?), and focused. The other great thing about finals week was the relief. I'm worried that without the test, I'm going to miss out on the relief.
1. The last few nights at about this time I've been watching reruns of The Office and I get this hunger. Last night it was for meatless ribs and tonight its for chocolate. The bad thing is that I don't think I'm actually hungry. Maybe I just miss the grits.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Neither Bond nor Belushi: more details
In the glow of 75-watt exposed bulbs, nursing a Shiner Bock, surrounded by a lot of small-ish men and a few younger women, I partied. College parties, like unfinished basements, have a certain ethos, or so I've been led to believe. This one seemed nearly perfect in its way. I stood and watched beer pong, flip cup, and the slightly awkward chatter of a crowd that could not have seen ET in theaters. A younger me would have been extremely uncomfortable here, even among friends, but this version manages slight discomfort with bouts of actual conversation and enjoyment. I still cling to the familiar, but at least acknowledge the unknown and even push through some of it, partying until the morning, by the strictest definition of the word.
If my Friday was a glimpse into a past I usually avoided or never really had, my Saturday was a glimpse into a future of the same. In the mood-lit dimness of a salon-like home, I sipped Glenfiddich and bumped elbows with elegant women and tuxedo-clad men. Between bites of hummus, I made small talk, or at least made small attempts at small talk with lawyers, a travel writer, and those more experienced on the small-talk circuit. There was less room for clinging to the familiar, and the sweeping wooden steps left me nowhere to hide. After two hours of the finer things, I had to take leave.
In the glow of 75-watt exposed bulbs, nursing a Shiner Bock, surrounded by a lot of small-ish men and a few younger women, I partied. College parties, like unfinished basements, have a certain ethos, or so I've been led to believe. This one seemed nearly perfect in its way. I stood and watched beer pong, flip cup, and the slightly awkward chatter of a crowd that could not have seen ET in theaters. A younger me would have been extremely uncomfortable here, even among friends, but this version manages slight discomfort with bouts of actual conversation and enjoyment. I still cling to the familiar, but at least acknowledge the unknown and even push through some of it, partying until the morning, by the strictest definition of the word.
If my Friday was a glimpse into a past I usually avoided or never really had, my Saturday was a glimpse into a future of the same. In the mood-lit dimness of a salon-like home, I sipped Glenfiddich and bumped elbows with elegant women and tuxedo-clad men. Between bites of hummus, I made small talk, or at least made small attempts at small talk with lawyers, a travel writer, and those more experienced on the small-talk circuit. There was less room for clinging to the familiar, and the sweeping wooden steps left me nowhere to hide. After two hours of the finer things, I had to take leave.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Fallin' hard
The rain was neither cat nor dog, but it was wet. I don't like umbrellas and prefer rain gear, usually in blue. The hitch in my plan almost always comes in a pair. I have rain pants, but never remember to wear them. My royal blue raincoat, excellent as it may be, can barely contain me and my backpack. I wander the streets, sans umbrella, hump-backed as my pants grow increasingly moist. I like the rain pounding down on me. It makes me feel dramatic and alive; I fight nature head on with only a raincoat to protect me. Faces in the city turn down or are blocked by the window waterfalls. This is my fight alone and I think I'm winning.
The foilage was matted to the trail. Soggy reds, oranges, and browns covered the path as my wheels spun quickly past. The creek was roaring from the previous night's storm. My legs churned and I pressed on down to the district. Somewhere between tan knee-high suede and short gray tweed summer turned to autumn. I followed.
Sipping pumpkin spice on the sunny part of art gallery steps, thousands of runners streamed through my view. A sea of singlets were nearing the halfway point for hours. I didn't move, but found myself lost in past, present, and future. I was buoyed by smiles, children cheering for dad, strangers cheering for strangers, and a quiet comfortable morning that could only lead to afternoon.
The rain was neither cat nor dog, but it was wet. I don't like umbrellas and prefer rain gear, usually in blue. The hitch in my plan almost always comes in a pair. I have rain pants, but never remember to wear them. My royal blue raincoat, excellent as it may be, can barely contain me and my backpack. I wander the streets, sans umbrella, hump-backed as my pants grow increasingly moist. I like the rain pounding down on me. It makes me feel dramatic and alive; I fight nature head on with only a raincoat to protect me. Faces in the city turn down or are blocked by the window waterfalls. This is my fight alone and I think I'm winning.
The foilage was matted to the trail. Soggy reds, oranges, and browns covered the path as my wheels spun quickly past. The creek was roaring from the previous night's storm. My legs churned and I pressed on down to the district. Somewhere between tan knee-high suede and short gray tweed summer turned to autumn. I followed.
Sipping pumpkin spice on the sunny part of art gallery steps, thousands of runners streamed through my view. A sea of singlets were nearing the halfway point for hours. I didn't move, but found myself lost in past, present, and future. I was buoyed by smiles, children cheering for dad, strangers cheering for strangers, and a quiet comfortable morning that could only lead to afternoon.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
But, I just got out of college
I received a picture from a friend I haven't seen in a while. She looks fantastic, but she doesn't look like she did in college. I suppose she shouldn't by now, it's been a year and some change, a drawer full of change. She's been married, bought and sold a house, changed jobs, quit a band, joined a band, and certainly been through lots more that I'm not even remotely aware of. I don't know exactly how age shows up in people; it probably doesn't show up the same way in everybody, but she looks her age. She looks our age in this gorgeous, intelligent, grown-up sort of way. She looks the way I never thought we'd look.
I see myself in the mirror every day. Is this the way I look? I mean, obviously, you've got to take out her long hair and substitute my beard and she doesn't wear glasses, ok, ok, I mean do I look my age? Well, I've been told that when I trim my beard I look 10 years younger, which means when the beard is bountiful (and oh so rugged) I look well past my age. Wave to my age in the rearview mirror, kids. I'm trim now. I'm looking. The mirror says one thing, but my heart says another. Even with the (melodrama alert!) world-weary heart of late, I'm still a bit surprised when I don't get carded for the drinking. It's not an issue of being a regular customer either. I mean, if I were a campus I'd be a dry one. Which means that the vodka is hidden on the top shelf behind hair dryer?!? I'm not a campus, of course, but why does college feel so close?
I received a picture from a friend I haven't seen in a while. She looks fantastic, but she doesn't look like she did in college. I suppose she shouldn't by now, it's been a year and some change, a drawer full of change. She's been married, bought and sold a house, changed jobs, quit a band, joined a band, and certainly been through lots more that I'm not even remotely aware of. I don't know exactly how age shows up in people; it probably doesn't show up the same way in everybody, but she looks her age. She looks our age in this gorgeous, intelligent, grown-up sort of way. She looks the way I never thought we'd look.
I see myself in the mirror every day. Is this the way I look? I mean, obviously, you've got to take out her long hair and substitute my beard and she doesn't wear glasses, ok, ok, I mean do I look my age? Well, I've been told that when I trim my beard I look 10 years younger, which means when the beard is bountiful (and oh so rugged) I look well past my age. Wave to my age in the rearview mirror, kids. I'm trim now. I'm looking. The mirror says one thing, but my heart says another. Even with the (melodrama alert!) world-weary heart of late, I'm still a bit surprised when I don't get carded for the drinking. It's not an issue of being a regular customer either. I mean, if I were a campus I'd be a dry one. Which means that the vodka is hidden on the top shelf behind hair dryer?!? I'm not a campus, of course, but why does college feel so close?
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Must look awesome
This story starts and ends in 'stache. When a weekend on the Jersey shore playing Ultimate began to take shape, my friend Alan made a call far and wide for the team to wear our finest in mustachery. For my friends this generally meant some form of facial sacrifice. It meant turning to 1970s cop shows, pre-industrial Japan, and Joe Dirt for inspiration. For me, it merely meant maintaining the prickly hair that I had cultivated over the past four years. As the weekend approached, pressure began to mount to turn my bearded look into one that emphasized the mustache. Knowing that my playing time would be limited I debated the merits of re-releasing my chin to the outside world. After some deliberation, I decided to free my face from a large portion of the hair that had taken up residence there. It proved not to be so simple. These follicles were like tiny roommates, tiny friends, tiny armed guards for my face. And there are many styles of mustache to choose from. With clippers in hand, I froze.
There's an art to facial hair and so to help make my decision I called on an artist. Matt had been there in the earliest days as I had struggled to connect the chin hairs with the upper lip hairs into pseudo-beatnick glory- the goatee. He'd been there when I'd come down from the mountains sporting six months of solid growth. I'd seen him transition from goatee to chin strap and back again. Our beards had grown together, although not in a weird blond hair twisting with brown kind of way, more like we'd both had facial hair at the same time. Now, I turned to him in my time of need. Where should I take this art, this mustache? I asked of him like a man who had gone to visit the Dalai Lama. Like a buddhist monk, his answer took the form of guidance and lead my heart and mind where it needed to be.
We reached the conclusion, and the journey took us to the fu manchu. It sounds like somewhere a monk might send me. Fu Manchu, just off the coast of the razor by way of clipper. The transformation was quick and save the buzzing of the clippers, silent. I did not wake up the next morning a changed man. I was still me, although my reflection looked quite a bit like a truck driver.
I took the essence of me with my truck driver face and headed to work where I promptly forgot the state of my face. My coworkers are very nice people and their remarks tended toward shock without rudeness. I appreciated it and was only reminded of my transformation when my fingers struck chin. My chin may be many things, but twirlable it is not.
Having survived a shortened workday, I prepared to unveil my new look to Alan and those that I would share my weekend with. Alan reacted with amusement and thrill. I felt my mission was accomplished. For the most part, although my look had changed, I felt the same. As the weekend wore on, some combination of boardwalk, deep-fried Oreos, and fu manchu worked like the sand in my shoe to free a little of the skeeviness inside of me. I could blame the mustache or New Jersey, but I have come to believe there's a little skeeve inside of each of us. With meditation and an outdoor shower, I was able to tame the skeevy beast within and return to mastery of myself and my fu manchu. The culmination of this mastery may have been in a diner just across the street from the oldest living oak. Uncle Rico, a samurai called Sunday Night Special, and me, your Thurman Munson look-alike, were halfway through dinner; The Platters were crooning on our tableside jukebox when we realized that each of us looked ridiculeautiful (that rare combination of ridiculous and beautiful) and our waitress had not reacted in the slightest. We had made our peace with the 'stache.
This story starts and ends in 'stache. When a weekend on the Jersey shore playing Ultimate began to take shape, my friend Alan made a call far and wide for the team to wear our finest in mustachery. For my friends this generally meant some form of facial sacrifice. It meant turning to 1970s cop shows, pre-industrial Japan, and Joe Dirt for inspiration. For me, it merely meant maintaining the prickly hair that I had cultivated over the past four years. As the weekend approached, pressure began to mount to turn my bearded look into one that emphasized the mustache. Knowing that my playing time would be limited I debated the merits of re-releasing my chin to the outside world. After some deliberation, I decided to free my face from a large portion of the hair that had taken up residence there. It proved not to be so simple. These follicles were like tiny roommates, tiny friends, tiny armed guards for my face. And there are many styles of mustache to choose from. With clippers in hand, I froze.
There's an art to facial hair and so to help make my decision I called on an artist. Matt had been there in the earliest days as I had struggled to connect the chin hairs with the upper lip hairs into pseudo-beatnick glory- the goatee. He'd been there when I'd come down from the mountains sporting six months of solid growth. I'd seen him transition from goatee to chin strap and back again. Our beards had grown together, although not in a weird blond hair twisting with brown kind of way, more like we'd both had facial hair at the same time. Now, I turned to him in my time of need. Where should I take this art, this mustache? I asked of him like a man who had gone to visit the Dalai Lama. Like a buddhist monk, his answer took the form of guidance and lead my heart and mind where it needed to be.
We reached the conclusion, and the journey took us to the fu manchu. It sounds like somewhere a monk might send me. Fu Manchu, just off the coast of the razor by way of clipper. The transformation was quick and save the buzzing of the clippers, silent. I did not wake up the next morning a changed man. I was still me, although my reflection looked quite a bit like a truck driver.
I took the essence of me with my truck driver face and headed to work where I promptly forgot the state of my face. My coworkers are very nice people and their remarks tended toward shock without rudeness. I appreciated it and was only reminded of my transformation when my fingers struck chin. My chin may be many things, but twirlable it is not.
Having survived a shortened workday, I prepared to unveil my new look to Alan and those that I would share my weekend with. Alan reacted with amusement and thrill. I felt my mission was accomplished. For the most part, although my look had changed, I felt the same. As the weekend wore on, some combination of boardwalk, deep-fried Oreos, and fu manchu worked like the sand in my shoe to free a little of the skeeviness inside of me. I could blame the mustache or New Jersey, but I have come to believe there's a little skeeve inside of each of us. With meditation and an outdoor shower, I was able to tame the skeevy beast within and return to mastery of myself and my fu manchu. The culmination of this mastery may have been in a diner just across the street from the oldest living oak. Uncle Rico, a samurai called Sunday Night Special, and me, your Thurman Munson look-alike, were halfway through dinner; The Platters were crooning on our tableside jukebox when we realized that each of us looked ridiculeautiful (that rare combination of ridiculous and beautiful) and our waitress had not reacted in the slightest. We had made our peace with the 'stache.
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