The Good Barber

I didn't really start caring about my hair until the fourth grade.  You know, Right about the time when you start noticing girls, and they start noticing you.  The Bad Kid who sat next to me in Ms. Warnick's class suggested that perhaps I should use some of his gel to replace my Asian Kid Bowl Cut (you know, the really androgynous one) with a more fashionable coiffure.  At first I was a bit skeptical about putting all this gunk in my hair, but it's hard not to trust someone whose hair resembles something out of a Dragon Ball comic.  And so in went the gel, and out went the old me.  After admiring my new 'do in the mirror, I took it for a test run on the black top.  I was immediately sold--girls dig nice hair.

And so from fourth grade through high school I'd take an extra 30 seconds or so in the morning to quickly run a comb and some goo through my hair.  Those who know me know that I'm not the most stylish person in the world, so that 30 seconds was a huge investment of time.  I eventually grew less diligent about goo application and hair care in general.  Moving on to the hippie hotbed of Berkeley only served to accelerate that process. What was the point of conforming to the desires of the Man and looking like a carbon copy of all the other men out there?  I was gonna go my own way.  I was gonna grow my hair out into a robust mane.  Ever since I was a kid I'd always wanted to look like the Chairman from Iron Chef, and this was my chance!  And so the I shelved the gel and forsook haircuts.

The whole "no gel; no haircut" experiment lasted many months.  However, I soon realized that although my hair was growing out, it wasn't growing out into a robust mane like that of the Chairman (I'd learn much later that this was because the Chairman's mane required a perm, something I'd never fathomed).  Instead, my bangs grew really long and just kind of hugged the sides of my face, which served to accentuate its roundness and made me look fat.  My sides and back grew straight out in unwieldy tufts.  It was a big hot mess.  Eventually the combination of "polite" hints from friends and nervous looks from strangers (I guess nothing screams "crazy person" like unkempt hair) reached critical mass.  And so I went to the barber and off with his hair!

At around that time in my life, I was volunteering at this on-campus legal clinic.  The clinic ran in two-person shifts, and mine was with this fairly attractive girl, Diane.  When we first began our shifts a few weeks prior, I'd try to make small talk with her, but it would never go anywhere.

Me: How're your classes this semester?
Her: Good
Me: Oh, mine are good, too.  Which are you enjoying so far?
Her: Yes.

All of this with a frown on her face.  Eventually I gave up trying, and we'd just sit there in silence during our hour-long shifts.  I mention this because the last day of the "Robust Mane Experience" was on a day I had a shift at the legal clinic.  I was feeling mopey after having my hair cut, and moped all the way to the clinic.  But oddly enough, when I got there, Diane was a completely different person.  All smiles and chit-chat.  We talked the whole hour and then some, going to get some coffee afterwards.  To be honest, I was very confused.  I was the same exact person as I'd always been.  Actually, probably less charming and interesting that day because of my surprise that this girl had suddenly decided to talk to me.  And then I recalled the lesson learned many years ago from The Bad Kid,  a lesson recently forgotten but now seared into my memory banks forever more--girls dig nice hair.

And so from then on I've been mustering as much vigilance as is possible for me to muster to keep my hair in a somewhat presentable state (with some lapses--hey, no one's perfect!).  Honestly, the hardest part is finding a decent person to cut your hair--I think most guys can commiserate with this.  And so the times in my life when my hair flirts dangerously with the Robust Mane days are when I'm in between barbers.  You know, like right after you move from one City to another.  Trying out a new barber is an extreme leap of faith.  You sit down in a chair, get covered in a smock so that your arms are immobilized, and then put your faith in some stranger with sharp objects to engage in an extremely delicate and precise task whose success is completely subjective.  Needless to say, it usually doesn't end well.

But when you finally do find The Barber, it's bliss.  I recently found mine after moving back to The Valley.  Chance had brought me into his establishment and his skill level keeps me coming back.  It's gotten to the point where I walk in, sit down, and he cuts.  There's no chitchat or other any attempt from him to engage me--something the introvert in me hates from a barber.  He knows what I want and just quietly goes about his business.

All this talk of hair and haircuts may seem trivial, but I think hair is a crucial part of shaping a man's identity and is a font from which confidence flows.  If you don't believe me, just observe the impotent effect a terrible haircut has on a man.  And so on this Hump Day I hope that everyone out there is having a good hair day.  That includes you, too, ladies. 

-KM

"A la cuisine!"

Crustacean Communique

I'm a fairly superstitious fellow.  I don't walk under ladders.  I don't open umbrellas indoors.  And I certainly don't abide by the number Thirteen.  I'm the kind of guy who's always tempted to buy those Turkish "evil eye" talismans--"Oh, it absorbs evil energy and stores it in a little glass receptacle emblazoned with a hauntingly all-seeing eye?  AND it breaks when it gets too 'full' of evil energy?!  Sign me up!"  So I'm also somewhat big on omens.

I mean, I get that there's ample evidence out there (you know, science and all that) showing we are the mere byproduct of zillions of tiny particles randomly colliding into each other.  That this shit called the Big Bang happened and now here we are.  But . . . what if there's more?  What if there is a Universe, and for some odd reason it tries to tell us things from time to time.  Like, "Psst!  Hey, buddy!  Yeah, you!  Hey!  Look at me!  I need to tell you something.  It's urgent!  You're about to walk by the love of your life!  No, stop! Argh!  Fine, I'll just throw this elderly coupled holding hands your way. That should do the trick."  Clearly the Universe doesn't speak Human (or with much clarity, quite frankly).  And until it figures out texting, it'll have to stick with omens to communicate (although, wouldn't little text messages from the Universe be great?  I hope the Universe uses proper punctuation and spelling.  Not like, "r u ready 4 some tru luv?")

All that to say, when I got home today I was presented with what I believe may be an omen.  Upon doing my usual "fish tank check," I noticed that one of the ghost shrimp had kicked the bucket.  I guess it's not all that unusual for something to die within the confines of an aquarium.  To my dismay, none of the residents of my fish tank have mastered immortality, and so from time to time I must use the Great Green Fish Net (as the fish call it) to remove deceased denizens and pass them through the Great Flush and onto their journey into the Night Lands.  It's a massive bummer to have to do that right after getting home from work, but it's certainly gotten easier.

Today, though, it was a bit different.  Without getting too much into the gory details, let's just say that I am now fairly confident that Humans aren't the only living creatures out there that like the taste of shrimp.  This savage scene of fish-on-shrimp violence gave me a chill right down my spine, especially given how I've been feeling lately.  Nothing particularly unusual has happened to me, but recently it does seem that many of the things that were stable in my life have now gone slightly askew.  Nothing is noticeably different, but everything feels off.  Like when a picture frame is slightly off-center.  But here, the frame is centered and it's instead the whole room that's off center (and, yes, I realize that makes me sound like a crazy person).

As I was transporting the deceased shrimp to the Porcelain Portal for the Great Flush, I couldn't help but think whether this strange shrimp sacrifice some type of omen from the Universe?  A sign of things to come?  I tried Googling "shrimp omens" but that didn't get me very far.  Other permutations on the theme left me similarly vexed.  Perhaps it is just another random occurrence.  The carbon molecules in one of my shrimp deteriorating such that it could no longer sustain life and then becoming nourishment for another massing of carbon molecules.  Dust to dust; ashes to ashes.  I guess we'll see what happens.  Hopefully it's nothing.

Hopefully the Universe doesn't speak Shrimp.

--KM

"By the telephone.  Lift up the receiver.  I'll make you a believer."

Hideo Nomo, Almost-Heat Stroke, and the City of Angels

It's Hideo Nomo bobblehead day at Dodger Stadium.  For those who don't know, bobbleheads are miniature figurines made in the likeness of certain ballplayers.  Also for those who don't know, I have an alarmingly large and ever-increasing collection of these figurines (or "dolls," as some have derisively referred them).  Anyway, the chance to add a bobblehead of my favorite Dodger was too much to resist, and so I'm on my way to go collect my very own mini-Tornado.

Originally I was going to go with The Girlfriend and Double D, but, what is it they say about the best laid plans of mice and men?  As it turns out, neither of them could make it, so I'm driving to the stadium by myself.  The A/C is blasting in the Prius, as it's shaping up to be another hot day.  Unfortunately, Hideo Nomo bobblehead day starts at 1:10 pm, right at the peak of midday Los Angeles sun.  No worries, though, as I've carefully chosen seats in what will be one of the few shaded areas of the stadium.

The traffic is particularly bad on Interstate 5.  And for no particular reason.  There's no accident or construction of anything of that nature.  It's just another instance of randomly slow Los Angeles traffic. As if everyone decided in unison to fuck with the guy in his Prius who looks to be in a hurry to go collect his bobblehead.  I eventually make it into the parking lot, and as luck would have it, I've entered through the gate what will ensure the longest possible walk to the stadium.  As I exit my car, I can see Dodger Stadium far off and mirage-like in the distance.  A beautiful gem. "Blue Heaven on Earth," as the locals say.  But to get there, I have to traverse the great asphalt desert that is the Dodger stadium parking lot.  There's no shade in the parking lot, and I instantly regret not having worn a hat or sun screen.

After surviving the Parking Lot Death March, I eventually make it inside the stadium.  But when I get to my seats, I realize very quickly that I've messed up--my seats are right smack in the middle of the sunniest part of the stadium.  The temperature dial in my car read 81 degrees, but I'm fairly confident it's closer to one jillion degrees inside the stadium.  I think the bowl-shape traps the heat by reflecting all the Sun's rays off of itself in a never ending loop of heat.  I have my sunglasses on, but even then it seems too bright.  I can feel beads of sweat forming in various places on my body even before I reach my seat.

Given how my seats are situated vis-a-vis the sun, and the fact that my anal retentiveness about time has brought me to my seats 45 minutes before game time, my section is an empty, barren wasteland.  The only other inhabitants are a Japanese family of four directly in front of me; a husband and wife and their two very young daughters.  Presumably they're also there to collect their Hideo Nomo bobbleheads.  Or at least, the father is there for that purpose, as his wife and daughters look absolutely miserable.  The father's put on a brave face so as to show everyone what a great time it is to roast alive in the midday sun!  He's got his SLR in hand and is perched on the edge of his seat.  Hovering, really, ready to snap into photo taking mode at a moment's notice.  You know, in case something exciting should happen 45 minutes before the game.  His obstinacy in the face of defeat is heroic, but eventually the threat of death by sunshine to his family causes them to vacate their seats for shadier ground,  And I am left alone to ponder--what the hell am I doing here?

Oddly enough, having a great time.  Going to baseball games alone isn't my preferred way of consuming Dodger Baseball, but it's fun in its own way.  When I go alone I feel like I absorb much more of the sights and sounds than I usually do (the absence of drinking probably helps).  I think my favorite part is seeing the "melting pot" that is Los Angeles in full effect.

Los Angeles is a weird major city in that it lacks any semblance of a respectable public transportation system, and so you're always driving around.  The byproduct of being in a car all day is that you never really have to interact with anyone, especially those outside your group (social, economic, whatever).  You might drive through a new patch of the City every once in a while, but you're doing so from the safety of your personal auto bubble.  It has the abstract feel of going on a ride at an amusement park.

I've always loved the Dodgers because it cuts through the stratification of everyday life in Los Angeles.  It's something that everyone can get behind, regardless of background or means or motive or whatever.  In a City that can sometimes feel like 9 million particles colliding into and off of each other with no rhyme or reason, baseball seems to bring some level of cohesion.  Sure, it's a trivial endeavor--a bunch of jocks getting paid too much money to play a child's game--but it's cohesive nonetheless.  From Fernando Mania to Nomo Mania to Puig Mania, it's a way for everyone to escape from the trials and tribulations of their lives.  I always get that feeling of togetherness going to the game.  It's a cool sensation walking to the stadium and seeing dudes with crazy neck tattoos chatting it up with downtown guys in suits chatting it up with moms and their kids.  After the game we're all gonna go back to our separate and very distinct lives, but for the next three hours we'll be as one.  As Dodgers fans.  As Angelinos.

Anyway, a small dose of civic pride on a Monday evening.  It's funny writing this because I never really thought of myself as an "Angelino," but that label has felt more and more comfortable in recent months.  Perhaps it has something to do with moving out of the sterile wasteland that is Orange County (sorry OC friends!) and moving up to the Valley.  In any event, not sure how I got from "sweaty, alone, and heatstroke at a baseball game" to here, but oh well.  Anything to help rationalize my obsession with diminutive Dodger dolls, right?

--KM

"In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened."

Death by Taco

I found myself at the taqueria this morning on a mission to obtain delicious tacos and burritos for The Girlfriend and I.  Unfortunately, it appeared as though the rest of the universe had also decided that this would be a fine day for tacos and burritos, so upon my arrival I was confronted with a pretty robust line.  In front of me was this guy who was acting kind of weird; a little jittery.  He'd stare at the menu for a bit and then turn to look to his left.  Stare at the menu for a bit and then turn to look to his left.  Stare.  Turn.  Stare.  Turn.  Eventually curiosity got the best of me, so when he made his left turn look, I did the same.  But, oddly enough, there was nothing to be looked at.  Just an empty space in the parking lot.  I immediately took a step or two back in case this man was insane and did something drastic that would compromise my Mexican food mission.

Eventually the guy stopped turning to his left and just stared at the menu.  What could be making this man ponderfret so much?  I mean, I know this taqueria has exceptionally good food, but it's not like it's his last meal or anything.  I was about to make a suggestion--try the lengua, perhaps?--when I heard a female voice emanating from our left.  It was sharp and shrill, like a bullet whizzing through the air.  You could actually kind of see it moving through space a la "bullet time" from The Matrix.  When it finally hit the guy, it was as a ton of bricks; with a violence such that you could feel all the malice and spite packed into such a tiny little word.

"Hey!"

After flinching a bit, the guy turned to his left (as did I).  Standing in the previously empty space was a pretty nondescript woman pushing a humongous baby stroller--the Hummer H2 of the baby stroller world.   Tucked away safely inside was a child too old to be in a stroller.  I checked both of their ring fingers and confirmed that they were occupied.  Ah, so this must be the wife.  And the pieces suddenly start to fit together.  

After making her presence known, she begins shooting laser beams of displeasure from her eyes.  Having an intimate knowledge of this woman, the guy knows she is displeased that the line hasn't moved fast enough for her liking.  It's really not his fault--he can't make the people order any faster--but I guess that's all irrelevant at this moment.  He calls out to her, "Do you want to come look at the menu?"  She nods and approaches the line with her giant stroller acting as a plow to forcibly move people out of her way.  The too-big-to-be-in-a-stroller child looks amused, an evil grin on his face.  After scanning the menu for a second, she commands her husband--"Ugh.  Just get me whatever, okay?"  For good measure she adds a little "Can you do that?" with an air of condescension.  And with that she vanishes back to whence she came.

The look on the guy's face is hard to describe, a strange cocktail of anger, fear, and confusion that--after a huge sigh--calcifies into defeat.  I guess I can empathize with him.  I mean, I don't like to use this word a lot, but his wife was a bitch.  She really was.  I didn't see any need to berate this poor guy in public.  Not only that, but give him a hard time for not ordering for her.  You could almost see the internal debate in his mind:

Ok, she said get me whatever.  But I know that she won't eat everything on the menu.  So she'll be unhappy if I order something she doesn't like.  I'll get her something that she likes.  She likes carne asada.  Oh, but I also know that sometimes she doesn't like carne asada, depending on her mood.  Today might be one of those days.  Damn.  But if I don't act quickly, she'll be mad that I didn't pick something for her, as she directed me to.  Will I get more shit by picking the wrong thing?  Or by not picking at all?

As the lines inches forward, I see the guy staring at the menu much more intensely, like you did with those "Magic Eye" pictures from back in the day--"If I stare hard enough, this amorphous grouping of letters will turn into a vision of a fish taco or a carnitas torta!"  Beads of sweat start forming on his brow.  A mild panic sets in.  Suddenly, his wife reappears with her stroller to fire another bullet--"Hey!"  She is displeased.  When the guy turns to acknowledge her presence, he asks, "So . . . what do you want to get?"  She explodes.  "WHY IS THIS SO HARD!?  Just get me two tacos!!!"  Again, the too-big-to-be-in-a-stroller child looks amused.  Again she vanishes to whence she came.

The guy eventually (mercifully?) makes it to the front of the line, orders, and takes a position at the pick-up counter.  He occasionally peeks through the tiny little window, but soon realizes that doing so will not compel the workers to make his order first.  As he waits for his order, I see him staring off into space.  A wistful look on his face, "What the hell did I sign up for?"

This guy was probably only a few years older than me, so I soon got to thinking whether this is what I had in store for me as well.  Is this what marriage is?  The wife slowly chipping away at the husband until he is little more than a servant?  You wonder, especially after hearing so many of the speeches to newly-minted grooms along the lines of, "The two magic words to a happy wedding are: 'yes' and 'dear.'"  And of course each time the crowd goes wild.  Are they laughing with the joke teller?  Or at the groom?  It's a moment whose ambiguity gets lost in the haze of celebration and alcohol.  I guess it's really nothing to be concerned about at the moment, seeing as I'm pretty far from all that becoming a reality.  Before a wife can peck peck peck you into oblivion, you need a wife, right?  So I breathed a sigh of relief and headed back to meet The Girlfriend, a mission accomplished.  Thoughts on marriage can wait for another day.  For now, there are delicious tacos and burritos to be enjoyed.

--KM

"There is no spoon."