The Last Haircut

I got my Last Haircut today. I usually imagine I’ll die within the next two to four months (the average between haircuts). Eventually I’ll be right. The last (fill in the blank) is coming up for everyone. Perhaps my fantasizing that this will be my last haircut is a way to trick the universe, realign my genes, fool the impossible powers, the mystic cesspit from which all life arises, the hamster wheel, the magical unicorn that controls the world? Fool myself? I do this with everything. A way to batter my anxiety into chilling out and giving me another cycle. If I keep saying, “This is my last haircut, breakfast, sexual interlude (wink), argument, bowl of ice cream, bath, vacation, pointless phone conversation with my insurance company, dentist appointment,” it feels like I am poking my finger in Death’s eye. When I say, “I will die today,” and if I don’t die, I feel pretty cocky.

So, today was my last haircut. Until October.

R, the artist, the beauty, who cuts my hair, has a new puppy and she brought it to work. Cute, miniature dachshund or schnauzer, black, bubbly, sniffing and tripping. She also has three kids (3).

I asked her, “What the fuck did you get a dog for? Aren’t having three kids who take up all of your non-haircutting time enough?”

I don’t have kids. Thank Christ. I travel and relax and don’t have to take any late night phone calls from some needy thirty or forty year old who wants money or comfort or a place to stay. I don’t buy presents for grandkids or babysit or worry about when the children and grandchildren are going to need rehab or surgery or driver’s licenses. Nope. I’m out of that game, free and clear; it’s all about me, self-determination and serenity.

I also do not have a dog. Can’t imagine. Feeding, walking, cleaning up. Grooming and training and veterinarians. Wow. I get itchy just thinking about it. Sounds like hell. I’ve heard all about the Unconditional Love, but I don’t really need Unconditional Love. I’m fine, thanks. In fact, I wonder about people who need Unconditional Love. Something missing there? Need a little worship or devotion, do you? Something to lick your hand, divert your attention from your scary thoughts, give you a purpose when you get home from work? Good luck. Dogs die and kids move and all that’s left is the refrigerator and the mirror. Eat your veggies.

R was about three minutes late for our appointment, no problem, but she explained how everyone woke up late and she was running around, feeding her children (3), dressing them, trying to get them out the door because she had to drive them across town to her sister’s place so her sister could entertain them all day while R cut hair and made money to pay for school books and clothing and gymnastic lessons and guitar lessons and riding lessons and swimming lessons, every kind of lesson and pastime, to which she also had to drive them.

“How the fuck,” I asked, “can someone who does all that, who does it well, who doesn’t seem insane, has a mild temperament and who cuts good hair, who looks great and is fashionable and clean, how can someone who does all of that STILL want to own a goddamn dog? I mean, holy shit.”

“The kids love the dog and it’s not a problem.”

Oh yes it is. It’s a problem. At least, it looks like a problem to me. Too many living creatures under one roof, demanding, barking, crying, eating, talking, needing, sleeping, waking.

Then I thought: It’s a slippery slope and I suppose once you allow yourself to care for others, to give life and time and comfort, and you actually have that gene where you want to have kids, breed, nurse and love and nurture, why not get a dog? What the hell, you’re already tied up with all those kids. Get a pet. Get a few. One for each kid. Who needs sleep?

As we were winding down our haircut, R asked, in professional barber-like fashion, “So, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

Silence.

“What?”

“What are you going to do today? Do you have plans?”

“I got a haircut. That’s what I’m doing today.”

“Oh, I thought you might have something else going on.”

Getting nervous.

“Uh, no, haircut, that’s enough. I’ll probably do some reading. I like to read.”

I like to read. What a fucking slacking, reclusive, isolating selfish dick. I like to read. I didn’t have the balls to ask R what she was going to do for the rest of the day. I mean, the rest of the day after she works eight hours cutting, coloring, highlighting, trimming, tidying up people and talking to them about their lives and their kids. I couldn’t stand to hear how much more she was planning. What her children (3) needed, where they had to go, what to do, cooking, eating, reading bedtime stories. Plus she has a boyfriend, which is another whole frigging planet.

I couldn’t follow the thought, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I was lost and embarrassed.

I read, I write, I shower and shave and shop and cook. I watch videos and talk to one or two people on the phone a few times a week. I make my bed, do the dishes, read the news, worry, workout, plan trips, shop online. It’s wonderful. I like my life; childless, petless.

What am I planning for the rest of the day? What am I PLANNING?

Holy shit, how much more do they have to squeeze out of me? How much more do you want from me, universe? You know what, universe? Fuck you. I got a haircut.

Besides, this is my last haircut and I need to catch up on some reading.

Dentist Shoots Lion

 

The big news is that a Minneapolis dentist shot a beloved lion in Africa. Pretty fucked up, but still: A dentist shot a lion in Africa. Not the first. Killing is what a lot of people do. Sure, the guy bent the rules, paid enough money to get what he wanted, big goddamn baby, but what the hell? That’s what happens, right? We worship money and celebrity and power and getting our way, goddamnit. Winning.

According to 90 percent of all the comments in the media, people are really pissed off at Walter Palmer, the dentist. If those people really think that Walter Palmer is a rarity, an asshole who shouldn’t do what he did, different, crazy or simply selfish and venal, I feel sorry for them. How can they be tuned into the news, the web, TV, radio, Google, the New York Times, etc., and not understand that anything that can be corrupted will be corrupted? Walter Palmer is everywhere. The Duggars, the Kardashians, Rebecca Francis, Bill Cosby, Donald Trump.

 I don’t know what kind of guy Walter is, but from his posted pictures, his statements and his excuses, the evidence points to “giant wad of phlegm”. Those who engage in bloodsport baffle me. Dickless? Probably not. Cowards? Hard to tell. Fucked up ideas about their place on earth, the food chain, humanity and cruelty, get their little rocks off killing living things, surround themselves with unstable assholes who agree with them? Yeah, probably. Bunch of pricks.

One of the things that bothers me about the whole episode are the self-professed lovers of the earth and all of it’s creatures, god-fearing, god-loving, Christ-like people, fair, kind, intelligent and educated, vegans, compassionate and liberal who are calling for this idiot’s death and dismemberment. They want him castrated, skinned, beaten, stripped, tied to an anthill and every other kind of crazy, fucked up torture that one can impose on another. Nice going. They fall right into the slobbering, drooling, violent revenge-porn that supports what they claim to be against. Eye for an eye, biblical punishment, Idi Amin and Abu Ghraib,

Palmer paid $50,000 to kill that lion. He’s a perfect representative of a growing sub-culture. Buy what you want (capitalism). Do what you want (freedom). Blame someone else (Democracy). Hunting is stupid and unnecessary and I think hunters are dipshits. In the same way crazy, unqualified, violent law enforcement personnel are being exposed by social media, the wanton, erotic killing of animals, along with racism, sexism, and all manner of dangerous stupidity is being publicized and that’s one of the things that will help to change bad behavior. Not hatred, violence, death threats against a dentist’s family, or torture and imprisonment. Make him stand up and publicly testify. Laugh at him. Diminish him and all of the wealthy, elite, entitled, supercilious assholes he represents so we can stop making dipshits popular and rich. Let them know that their actions have consequences and sometimes you can’t buy your way out. Also, it would be cool not get your next root canal from Walter Palmer, DDS.

It's Moab, Guys

     We were in Moab for a couple days. Just wanted to get away and Moab is only 7 hours easy drive. I’ve been through there once before and thought it looked pretty cool, a place for more exploring.

     It’s the most incredible, otherworldly landscape I’ve ever seen. Arches National Park Canyonlands, etc. The places where Edward Abbey wrote his masterpiece, Desert Solitaire. Really hot in June: 101, 102, 103, but dry as a bone and tolerable. If you want to lose a lot of weight, walk around, hike, meander over the next hill, trudge up the long trails to the delicate arches and overlooks and do not, never ever, drink water. It’s exhilarating and if you can stay upright, you can lose some lbs.

     We’d go out every day around 8 a.m., back at one or two.  Moab is really expensive, too expensive for what the town has to offer. Thirty/forty dollar dinners for two without booze are the norm. Edward Abbey, the angry old genius and drunk, would murder most of the people here. The city is full of fratboys and girls who are into mountain biking, zip lining, rock climbing, river rafting, hiking, off-roading, driving fast and digging the handmade artisan beers. It’s a contest between the really active youngsters and doddering old farts in their stupid hats. It’s a tie.

     Waiters/waitresses/waitpersons greet you with a big ole cheery, "Hey how you guys doing? What can I get you guys?" "How's everything, guys?" “Is everything OK, guys?” Shit for brains. I guess if I was big into the outdoor extreme sports, endurance, 40 years younger, it would be cool but nowadays, mostly, I want to be left alone to wander. It is very hard to be left alone here and it appears that everything is controlled, authorized, designated.

     Stay on the trails

     Don't park here

     Pick up

     Stay out

     Slow down

     Buckle up.

     Fucking nannies. We ate in a “Brew Pub”, a huge mistake because unless you are into  noisy TV sports and crowds of children and fried cheesy crunchy foods, you should never go into one of those dumps. I had to tune up one of the bouncy waiter dudes who totally fucked up a two-hamburger order and took 45 minutes to do it. He said he was sorry.

     The overfed Mormon failed waiter said he was Really Sorry, guys, after his lame explanation about the lateness of our order: busy, shorthanded, backed up.

     “So, is that OK, guys?”

     “No.”

     “Well, I said I was sorry.”

     “Un hunh, but I still don’t have my hamburger. Apologies don’t put food on the table. GUY."

     It continued. He reduced our tab by 50%, but that wasn't enough.  
     I can't wait until I start drinking again.

     Even with the lame human behavior, Moab is a terrific place if you spend your time outdoors having your mind blown by planet earth; wild landscape, colors, rocks, cliffs and anomalies are everywhere. I came away with a much better knowledge of geology. I now know the difference between Permian and Jurassic, which was always a puzzle. I lament that I didn’t study enough earth science in school. Also, there is a serious Paleontology culture in the region and they are still finding important fossils and dinosaur tracks and new species and the scientists and rangers are friendly and helpful. So, yeah, have fun, wander around, check it out and leave the water in the car.

                                        Arches, entrance

                                         An Arch

                                        The same Arch with another person

                                         Arches, first turnout, very crowded later on

                                         Escarpment, erosion, erotic

                                        Arches, won't be there long

                                        View through Mesa Arch, Canyonlands

                                         Canyonlands. 520 square miles

                                         The Maze, Canyonlands

                                         Chinese Restaurant

                                         Mancos

                                         Mancos or Cortez

                                         Mancos or Cortez

                                         Some other place

                                         Cortez

                                         Cortez

                                         Cortez

                                         Cortez

                                         Cortez

                                         Probably Cortez

Annoying Vacation Photos

I know it’s a little thing. Hardly registers on my own problem-meter. It’s not a problem at all, really, but it’s Monday morning and I’m already pissed off because the company I hired to clean up my property, to weed, cut and trim, was an hour late and instead of a crew of three to work for several hours, there was one dazed dude who said his partners called in sick and he’d do as much as he could.

I have pushed everything back, no shopping, no hiking, no social interaction. I’m staying home to help with the yard, to be here, to assist and write checks and keep him out of the medicine cabinet. So, I’m a little ticked at people who don’t show up and cost me my time. I should know better, right? I’ve been down this road before: workers who don’t return calls, don’t show up, who leave early, who disappear after an hour or so.

While waiting, to kill some time, to calm myself, relax, I boot up Facebook, waste a few minutes, wade into the stream of other people’s lives; where they are and what they are doing.

Yes, yes, of course, dogs and Rumi quotations and videos and pix of parties and kids and gardens and restaurants and cartoons and scoldy posts from vegetarians and anti-Monsantos, threats from religious nuts and narcissists. All cool; totally expected.

Also, vacation pix. Ah. Yes. Just what I need. A little wandering porn, something to distract; a landscape to aid in chilling out while frustrated and fantasizing about travel.

So I have ask: What the fuck is the deal with people posting photos of pretty places and not identifying the location of said photo? Keeping it a secret?

"Here's a picture of a beautiful mountain, lake, beach, but you will never know where it is because I won't tell you. I took the time to post it, but I'm not saying where I am. I want you to see it, to be sucked in and jealous of my good fortune and you can screw yourself if you want to know where this is. Hah. Loser."

Are they so goddamn out of touch, self-centered and narrowly focused? Post a shot of a mountain meadow and not give the locale? Consciously frustrating their followers?

I’m interested in the world and people and beauty, culture, art, nature. Why would someone withhold this info? All of my friends are not assholes. College educated professionals, sane, sober and healthy individuals who have spent hours online making arrangements for the currently displayed holiday, but they don’t have the common courtesy to ID the region where they took the picture?

Unhunh. I scan the top of the screen. Nope. Whereabouts unknown. If I really care, if the environment portrayed is spectacular, I scroll through the comments.

“Where are you?”

“Lovely, where was this taken?”

“Is this Hawaii or West Virginia?”

How hard is it to write the name of a place? I mean, you took the picture, you spent time in your hotel room uploading it, you may have even misspelled a remark or two; how about a few seconds out of your busy schedule to indicate that you’re in Tulum or Thailand? Mediterranean or Caribbean? Northern or Southern fucking hemisphere?

 “Here’s the most incredible coastline on earth. Amazing resort. Enjoying this fab beach. Look how clear the water is. Wow, no people around, miles of sand, lots of cheap food, perfect weather. LOL.”

LOL? Bite me, LOL. Where the hell are you Mr. and Ms. Big Secret? Jesus Christ, you don’t have to tell me what room you’re in, what airline you used or your plans for next week. I don’t care about your life, but if you’ve decided I need to see what you are experiencing and you put up a photo of somewhere that looks alluring, could you please narrow it down to state or country?

While I wait on the landscaping dimwits, trapped in my own home by the ineptitude of the modern world, squandering another day or possibly the rest of the week, just take five seconds tell me if you’re in Slovenia or snorkeling off the coast of Belize.

Seriously, like I said, it’s not a big deal. Less than “one” on the scale of irritants.

Have a nice trip, enjoy the beach or mountains or wherever the hell you are this summer while I listen to the sound of a weed-whacker.

Profiles in Confusion

My two favorite kinds of Facebook people are, first, the ones who change their profile pictures every two days. No, you haven’t transformed and you don’t look different and you are blocking the normal flow of narcissism with your needy bullshit. I get the feeling they are seeking out someone to say how handsome or gorgeous they are but what they generally get are reactions like:

“Wonderful. Where was that taken?”

“You are so funny. Call me.”

“Beautiful jacket. Is it new?”

“How’s your mom?”

The others are the youngsters who pose sexy duckfaced, with lots of studs and dangerous jewelry and thick makeup, brandishing guns, overly-obvious neck tats, badass expressions, threats and racism and obscenity and hatred on all of their posts and when I scroll down to learn more about them (as if) I see  their favorite movie is The Little Mermaid and their favorite books are Dr. Seuss and The Holy Bible. Don’t you just want to take them aside and explain shit? Me neither.

Nazi Zombie Child Molesters

“Gee, why do they bother to wear anything at all?”

“What’s happening to our society?”

“What do I tell my daughter?”

Those are some of the comments about the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute benefit that took place a few days ago, and all the fucked up fashions that made people question the state of the world. People on my social media “friends” list are pissed off, super confused, bemoaning the seeming deterioration of all that women have achieved. I gave away my TV a few years ago so that I wouldn’t have to watch this shit, but there it is, first thing I see on Google News, the NY Times, Facebook.
            Fashion is big business, corporate and corrupt as hell (sweatshops), and if designers and marketers could figure a way to cash in on torture, dismemberment or disease they would do it faster than an after-dinner purge by a 14-year-old methed-out model. I’m glad I don’t have kids who ask questions about this stuff. Do we stifle their freedom, judge them, control them, or let them do what they want and hope for the best? Fuck if I know. Cult of Personality, Pop culture, Capitalism, Narcissism. Don’t ask me.

Fashion designers are deified and artified, and dresses and shoes and $100,000 handbags are considered acceptable museum exhibits; my relationship to Art is muddled and confused. (I love Joan Didion, I dig her writing, but she has signed with Celine to become a “style icon” instead of one of the great essayists of our time. The fuck is a “style icon”?)

The good thing is that this display has helped me to put the Zombie thing in perspective. Zombies everywhere, right? Because Zombies are the new Nazis. Nazis and Zombies are both condemned and hated and feared by everyone. Zombies are fictional victims of fallout or plague, but too bad, they have degenerated and are disgusting brain-eaters and can be killed, murdered, decapitated, crushed, shot and slaughtered with impunity. Same with Nazis. Hated by all, a recent real-world history of horror and cruelty; vile, wicked cowards who ran in packs attacking the weak.

Child molesters, too. Yeah, yeah, I know, sick people with a perverse craving and a disease that probably can’t be cured. Zombies. Men (and a few women) who abuse the innocent and are selfish, sneaky and horrible. Like Nazis.

 Nazi Zombie Child Molesters.

Why can’t we add really rich people with little or no talent who have never worked and are famous and wealthy for nothing but their needy, borderline personalities and bad taste? Shouldn’t they be classified with Nazi Zombie Child Molesters? Instead, we make them celebrities and massively reward them for their shitty behavior, their bad attitudes, misogyny, racism, egotism and ignorance.

I’ll have to remember that as I applaud someone on The Walking Dead for crushing a Zombie’s skull or whenever Tarantino wipes out a batch of Nazis or the next time a child molester is arrested in a sting. Subversive filmmakers are perhaps softening us up, justifying the violent elimination of threats by using Nazi Zombie Child Molesters as stand-ins for useless mega-rich underachievers.

I wait impatiently for the angry mob to crash the next red carpet display of venality.

Probably not, though.

There will be more heated discussions about fashion and the best/worst dressed, highest paid, who is aging badly and botched celebrity plastic surgery.

I am seriously glad I don’t have children.

A Brand New Phone

There’s a lot of loose money floating around these days. 

A kid laughed at my phone last week.

We were hanging out, I got a call, checked the ID and ignored it. He laughed at my (2 year old) phone.

Google glass ($1,500), Apple watch (starting at $550), IPad, Netflix, and Amazon for everything else? More? Yes. Phones. Always phones.

As of a month ago, I (valued customer) have an opportunity (!) via Verizon (fuck them) to upgrade (new term for selling your Soul) my oldschool clamshell folding, calls and voicemail-only telephone. Yep, for NO MONEY I can sign on for another 24 months, 2 years, end-of-the-world, and get my choice of great looking, impossible, app-rich, Droid, Nexus, Apple, Galaxy, cool-kid, bigger, badder, newer, personalizeable telephones with a shitload of connectivity, a million ringtones, eternal data packages, acres of storage and porn-in-my-pocket. The security sucks but I can call anyone, watch anything, listen to all the music ever recorded and I can make stupid self-centered videos while I keep track of my over-the-top workouts, arrange meetings, make pie-charts, convert metrics, find a Starbucks. I’m not a Luddite. I like my MacBook and I enjoy streaming TV and movies. And I already do all that other stuff; videos and music and pie charts.

And how much will all this latest bullshit cost me even with a free phone? Merely an additional (yes!) $1,200 a year for two (2) upgrades (not counting tax and indecipherable billing hoaxes), because I am married and we both should (fairness) have the same accessibility. Right? $1,200 is enough for round trip airfare to almost anywhere. And I have a 20-Euro Italian phone and a 40-Euro French phone (it’s got a radio) that I top off when I find myself in either of those technologically civilized countries and twenty euros-worth of time will last me almost a month because I don’t need a lot of the options. If I can’t find a special must-try popular restaurant I eat somewhere else. I ask people for directions and read train schedules and take pictures with a cheap-assed Canon camera that is (believe it) really easy to use, small as hell and no one has ever, ever eyed it with criminal intent. No one wants the outdated stuff I have so I get to keep it. $1,200 a year for maps, unlimited calling and texts, hotel reservations, movie times, museum floor plans, news, shopping and porn (rarely) (honest).

Family, friends, children, husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends can be in constant contact, easy to reach, never away, never alone, available and responsive and isn’t that a clear definition of codependence?

I’m always here for you. Always. I love you so much I never want you to be out of my sight, out of my reach, out of my control. If you call and I don’t pick up or call you back or text within an allotted number of minutes, that means I don’t respect you. I’m probably having an affair and that’s a justification for your anger, sadness, jealousy, rage, stalking, vandalism.

As it is, I only get about one call a day and, if I must, I can text a simple “Yes” or “No” or “I don’t know” answer to most questions, no charge, with my crummy 2-year-old device. I don’t feel left out for not caring about the greatest innovation since sex and literacy.

 Seriously, though, I hope people are digging all the cool shit that’s available. Buy it, upgrade, download and activate. Text me and wait for a response.

And wait.

I might be in Paris.