The Hairlocost

So I went to get a haircut today.  I despise the necessity of having the keratin violently removed from my scalp.  I feel a vague sense of pity for hair, because it does its job very well for weeks and sometimes months, only to get shanked and thrown in a dumpster.

But today, I hated getting a haircut for an entirely different reason.

It hurt.  A lot.  Like, a WHOLE lot.  A subjective "buttload".

As soon as I walked into Fantastic Sam’s I knew it was a bad idea.  I was greeted by Debbie, one of the “stylists,” with the words, “Hey, sweetie.  I’ll be right back, I gotta’ put twenty down on the phone bill.”  I love Mississippi.

Had I been aware of the travesty that was to be committed upon her return, I would have run screaming into the hills.

When she finally got back and I had the giant bib on, she began to, for lack of a better phrase, ravaging my head with her clippers.  Apparently they have a new beauty accessory: adamantine clipper guards.  I know this, because I have some imbedded in my skull.

For the next 10 minutes I was cranium-raped by this apparatus of doom.  Not only was she excessively violent, the clippers seemed to be powered by a pair of titmice hopping on a pair of tiny pistons, because it got caught in my hair 3 times.  This was bad enough, but my “stylist” must have read the instruction manual wrong, because I doubt the recommended procedure to remove a jammed clipping apparatus from someone's mane is through a swift, hard yank.

Approximately seven years later, the cranial molestation ended.  While I was greatly relieved it was over, I quickly became apprehensive about the next step, in which this psychopath would be wielding a set of hinged blades in extremely close proximity to my face.  I’ll spare you the details and just mention that I was poked in the eye with a comb twice and it still took her four tries to make it look halfway decent.

To add insult to injury this particular "salon" had a tip added to every ticket if you used a debit card "because we can't edit the amount after it's sent."  However, because I was finally free of Herr Debbie and her house of horrors (and therefore free from reprisals), I could finally explain that, when I entered the establishment, I did not want to be shivved, have my hair ripped from my skull, or nearly blinded.

She never even apologized.  She simply said, "Well, I've already run it."

To which I replied, "Well, un-run it, Deb.  Or, if you prefer, I can send you the bills for my tetanus shot, opthalmological exam, and post-rape counselling."  Which I thought was pretty funny.  Apparently Deb does not share my sense of humor.

She called her manager to void the transaction and proceeded to tell her that I was "being rude".  Granted, I wasn't the nicest person in the world, but I had been recently traumatized, so I wasn't exactly chipper.

I told the manager that I would pay the bill (because my hair was indeed shorter than when I had entered the establishment, thus, in a technical sense, I had received a haircut), but I only handed her $13 instead of the requested $14.83 and explained that I wanted to give Debbie a negative tip of $1.83.  She said that I did not have to give her a tip, but I was required to pay the bill in full.  I dug out another bill and some change, threw it on the counter and left.

But the trick's on them.  I only left $1.70!  VICTORY IS MINE!!!1111!

Apparently, Stereotypes Are There For a Reason

                Some guy came into work today and stood talking to the pharmacist about hunting and fishing for about 7.3 years.  I was concentrating on filling prescriptions, but I overheard snippets of their conversation, and I was compelled to write them down so I could share them with you.

              

  I will preface these comments thusly:

I live in Mississippi.  Now, when I said that, what was the first thought that came to your mind?  Some backwoods town with a population of 200 people, 400 pickups, 79 meth labs, and 7 teeth?  Or maybe a tiny, run-down shack with a toilet-planter and 7 rusted vehicle chasses?

This is not the case (most of the time…).  Most Mississippians are just as intelligent as anyone else.  But there are many who give credence to these stereotypes, such as the interesting individual who uttered the following phrases:

1. (talking about deer hunting) “…done put a hole in him ‘bout yea big [holds up a Red Bull], could look down in ‘im ‘bout that fer, too.  Looked like ya’ put a three-n-a-quarter drill bit an’ yanked it out.”

2. “Ah reckon huntin’ is ‘bout 57% luck.  The rest is sweat ‘n’ spit.”  It's Bubba the freaking statistician...

3.  “We got’s us an ‘in-R-essin’ sit-che-a-shun’” (interesting situation, in case you aren’t fluent in hillbilly).

I was barely able to keep from laughing in his face.

On an unrelated note, my coworker shared a story today about an experience she had in her college drama class.  This is almost verbatim.

“I was taking a theater class and our teacher was one of those drama nuts.  You know what I mean?  Everything had a deep, deep significance.  Anyway, it was a night class so lots of the students were older.  As part of the class we had to pick a partner and act out some scenes.

“One of the students was a middle-aged black lady who was never far from a bottle.  She would always roll in with stories about how wasted she was the night before.  When I heard that we had to act with partners, I immediately picked her.  One of the scenes we were supposed to act out was one from The Women.  I was supposed to sneak around a house, trying to get information.  She was a cleaning lady who catches me.

“Because we were acting it out in the hallway, we decided to pretend that the doors in the hallway were the windows I was snooping through.  As I’m making my way down the hallway, staying low, because that’s what the lady in the movie did, I reach the door to the men’s restroom.  I am oblivious to this fact, because I’m so nervous about everyone watching me.  I lost my balance trying to stay low and fell to my knees.  Of course, the door bursts open and there stands another one of my other professors, and I’m suddenly all up in his junk.  He yelped and jumped back into the bathroom, and I fell over backwards.  The entire class is laughing so hard they are about to have seizures, and my partner is rolling on the floor holding her sides.”

I lol'd.

My Drug of Choice

Am I the only one who feels that Wikipedia is like a combination of Cadbury Creme Eggs, sex, and heroine?  I am obsessed with knowing things.  I'm not all that concerned with the subject...I just want to know more about...well...stuff.  When I get on Wikipedia, I can literally spend hours just reading about the most random junk in the universe, and if I inexplicably run out of ideas, they actually have a "Random Article" button!

After spending only a few minutes on the site, here's my Google Chrome (no, I didn't join the Firefox bandwagon, suckas!) history.

1. Edward James Olmos - How could someone who looks like a cross between a pizza and a crocodile's rectum be in show business?

2. Battlestar Galactica - I like this show.  Maybe one day I'll have more money so I can buy more than 1.5 (not 2, but 1.5, the cheap punks) seasons.

3. Latino Public Broadcasting

4. Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood - He still scares me a little.  No one should be that calm and emotionless.

5. Reading Rainbow - Yes, please.

6. LeVar Burton - I thought he was blind for years.  Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

7. Star Trek: The Next Generation - The only good one, imho.  Shatner was terribad, and after Picard it turned into a soap opera.

8. Patrick Stewart - Best.  Voice.  EVARRR!!!

9. X-Men - Used to be so cool, until they had to change everything for the idiotic children of today.  Of course, I'm sure the same was said about...

10. Howdy Doody - Did you know they made a knock off?  Me neither:

11. La Hora de Jaudi Dudi - Presumably "The Howdy Doody Hour"  or possibly "The Whore of Jaundice and Fecal Matter".   Probably the former.

It is now 2:30 in the morning, and my typing woke up my wife.  She asked me what I'm doing.  I said "blogging."  She responded, "Well, how about sleeping, so I don't have to make myself a widow?"

I'll post this quickly, because I am in danger of being garroted with a pony-tail holder.

The Great Shift (or The Bathroom, the Penis, and the Napalm)

Well, I am in my final semester of my undergrad, and I am going to try my darndest to update more often, even if I'm only talking to myself.  Because I need to be able to express my somewhat strange (read: insane) ramblings, or I will end up including them in my term papers, which has not ended well in the past.  In addition, I have read over some of my past posts and they bored me.  And I'm the one who wrote them.  And I Like Me.  And if I don't enjoy reading them, it poses the question, "Why on this earth would anyone else want to read them?"

Having said that, I am going to spend more time talking about more interesting subjects (such as my own personal neuroses, things that make me laugh, things that I want to hit with something hard and blunt, etc.)

Now, on to the first post in my new world in which I embrace the purple elephants of my undiagnosed ADD and mold them into a new form that entertains you.



Do you remember the first time you had to use a public restroom as a kid, and your parent had to explain the rules?  In my case, my dad had to explain to me that public restrooms were not as clean as ours at home, so I shouldn't touch anything.  Then I had to figure out the urinal.  Holy crap, was that an ordeal.  When I finally realized what I was supposed to do, I couldn't stop laughing, because, to my infantile mind, whoever set this up actually wanted me to pee on the wall.  After I overcame my laughing fit and finished, I was mildly disappointed, which was business as usual.

I was reminiscing about this experience, and I had a thought.  When we use a public restroom, we all make sure to wash our hands especially well, because they're nasty, and we don't want to end up with gono-herpa-syphil-AIDS.  But what I just realized is that the most disgusting part of the bathroom (outside of the actual "pee on this" surfaces) is the handle of the urinal.  Why?  Because, right after the third shake, we zip up our pants and flush the toilet, with only a mere second or two separating hand/wang from hand/flushing-rod-thingie.  What the heck?  If I designed a bathroom, I'd have a concentrated beam of UV rays and possibly some sort of napalm delivery system installed directly in front of the urinal handle.

OR, more realistically, maybe some sort of flushie-handle condoms to put on it, so I don't end up grabbing 400 penises every time I flush.  I don't care that I'm about to wash my hands, I have a strong aversion to phalli.

Never Forgotten

Crushing heat, the stench goes on for days

Food is scarce, but the oppressive solitude

Wears far worse.

Hundreds of marks on the wall

Count the clock’s tireless journey.

You are not forgotten.

A mother’s glance happens upon a gold ribbon.

Tears spring to her eyes, unbidden,

Yet not unwelcome.

The father refuses to work on the car;

Restoration is not a solo project.

Sisters long for their protector, their friend.

You are not forgotten.

The young beauty, pledged for eternity

Yet only just begun

Has matched four years of bliss

With four of despair.

A babe’s first words are not “Dada,”

Because Dada is not known.

You are not forgotten

I am still alive...

I've just been busy with school and work.  I'm an English major (as you probably guessed), and I have to read several hundred pages per week for my classes that I get very little time to read what I desire.  This is why my posts have been..."erratic" (read: nonexistant) for the past month.

However, I will leave you with a Shakespearian quote and my take on it.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'


Henry V is an incredibly deep character, with both positive and negative traits.  This speech displays his ability to use emotional pleas to motivate his men (much like the politicians of today try to get votes, though in less flowery language).


First, let us set the stage.  Henry's army is laying siege to the city of Harfleur, and they are losing.  They have punched a hole in the wall surrounding the city, but every time they try to enter it they are repelled.  This city is vital for the continuance of the campaign against France, so Henry needs to rally his men and take the city.  He uses his exceptional speaking skills to play on their emotions and get them to attack once more.


The first thing Henry does is begin with "Once more unto the breach, dear friends", which puts them on his level.  He is saying that he is one of them, a soldier, not some ruler issuing commands.  He is calling his "buddies" to come with him, not commanding subjects to fight while he sits idly by, safe and sound (although that is exactly how it happens).  The entire speech is a Machiavellian manipulation of the soldier's emotions.


The second appeal is to their macho, manly side.  He compels his men to be as strong and ferocious as tigers.  He also tells them to "Stiffen up the sinews, summon up the blood" (an obvious reference to prove their masculinity).

Next he plays on their national and familial pride, saying "On, of you noblest English.  Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof."  He is basically telling his men to be patriotic and fight for their country as well as fighting to retain their family honor, saying that their fathers fought in wars past and are considered heroes, and if they do not continue the fight they will dishonor their family name.

Finally he makes a case that their cause is righteous and God is on their side, finishing with "...upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!"  This is actually a summation of all his emotional pleas, because he refers to himself as "Harry" rather than "King Henry V", which reinforces his insinuation that they are all soldiers together.  Next, he brings the patriotism back through his reference to England.  Finally, he invokes the name of Saint George, the patron saint of England.  He is basically saying "God is with us, so how can we lose?"

"Harry" was one heck of a motivational speaker.

And, if you're interested in seeing the darker side, continue reading a little more into the play and you will come upon Henry's speech to the governor of Harfleur, in which he is trying to get them to surrender.  He says that if they don't, his men will take the city and then kill all the old people, rape all the women, skewer all the babies on pikes, and burn the city to the ground.  Not quite Dr. Phil anymore...

S.M. Stirling - Dies the Fire

Stirling's first work in the Emberverse series is, in a word, captivating.  The premise is that a worldwide event knocked out electricity and most forms of high-energy technology (such as gunpowder, steam pressure, etc.).  This throws the world into utter chaos, with over 90% of humanity dying off in the next few months.

The book follows two different groups: Mike Havel, an ex-marine, leads a group called The Bearkillers, initially a family of five, but quickly expanding.  Juniper Mackenzie is a wiccan musician who leads another group of survivors who become known as Clan Mackenzie.  The two groups form an alliance against the evil (insert ominous super-villan laughter) Norman Arminger who rules the Portland Protective Association, a feudalistic organization formed of the dregs of society, particularly gang members and criminals.  The book chronicles the lives of these groups from immediately before The Change (as the physics-rending event is known) and their quest for survival.

This is, as I said, the first book in the series, and I absolutely loved it.  Personally, I like more action than song, and a few of the Clan Mackenzie portions were a little slow for my taste, but it only served to provide contrast to the more interesting parts.  Stirling has managed to create a post-apocalyptic world that seems lifelike and vivid without the stereotypes found in many other authors' attempts.  The main characters are excellently crafted, the story is enthralling (I lost several hours of sleep because I completely lost track of time), and the writing is superb.  There are a few points that seem repetitive, but they are few and easily forgiven in such an extraordinary work.

I look forward to reviewing the rest of this series.

9.5/10