Let Me Be Frank With You

This isn’t new news but the hairless bear shown in the accompanying picture (hairless, except for that Pete Rose-haircut-looking patch on its head) is something that came up as a topic of conversation yesterday and I still can’t get it out of my head. In fact, as I was driving my son (who was also involved in that conversation yesterday) to school this morning, I told him that I couldn’t quit thinking about it and he told me that he had a dream about it last night.

As a friend of all animals (except for bats, birds, insects, rodents, opossums and snakes), please know that I take no pleasure in the pain or suffering of any kind of animal. Having said that, although I try with all of my might, I find it almost impossible to look away from this hairless bear that is held captive in a German zoo.

I’m not sure if it’s a genetic, viral or stress-induced malady that caused the bear to lose all of its hair but the end result (a living, breathing, moving hairless bear) really throws me for a loop.

I have never before even wondered what a bear without hair would look like. “Bears have hair” is just a general rule in life that you learn at an early age and I guess that I’ve kind of accepted that fact and rolled through life with it – never wondering, “yeah, but, what if they didn’t?” Folks, this is not at all what I expected a hairless bear to look like in the short time that I’ve had to process all of this information.

I feel really bad for it because I’m sure that it just wants to have a thick coat of bear hair to get through the rest of life in the closest state of normalcy that a bear held captive in a German zoo can achieve. It’s also kind of cute in the most incredulous way that I could ever consider something cute. These are strong feelings that I have on one side of my internal conflict.

The other side of me screams a horrified, guttural scream. I mean, I have never seen a large, walking scrotum with eyes and teeth but that’s exactly what it looks like to me. Its skin is probably really warm too (I’m going to faint from just typing that). I’m sure that a conventional bear attack is a horrifying thing to go through but being mauled by this nutsack-looking bear would be one of the worst things that I could ever imagine happening. In addition to all of the normal things one might scream during a routine bear attack, I’m certain that “OMG, it’s warm!” and “Please! Help me! The skin is so gross and it rubbed against my face!” would involuntarily come out of me if this specific bear attacked me.

Anyway, it’s my hope that writing this blog post will get all of the horrific thoughts about it out of my system so that I can move on with my life. I wish the best for the bear and hope that German zoologists can figure out a cure for this poor creature in the very near future.

I’m going to write to the CEO of Macy’s to demand that they terminate the employment of their current parade director who obviously has a Broadway fetish.

I hate for things to come to a head like this but if they don’t drop the corny musical snippets and replace them with more marching bands, clowns and displays of America’s military might – all anchored by Santa and his reindeer, I’m going to quit buying my corduroys there. I mean it.

In a related note, as we gather together in fellowship for our respective Thanksgiving feasts today, let us not forget to thank growth hormone scientists who have injected these scraggly, flesh-headed birds with serum that made them so darned big, buttery, moist and tasty.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Not too long ago, a colleague of mine asked what my theme song would be if I had one. Until that point, I had never really thought about it but it’s definitely an interesting question that is worthy of consideration. After careful thought, I think there’d have to be a handful to match the mood and message I’m trying to convey at the moment. They are as follows:

1) Manah Manah by Cake would be my theme song for a majority of the time. A light-hearted and pleasing-to-the-ear song that is fitting for many of the occasions in which I find myself.

2) Sabotage by The Beastie Boys if I’m ever called to demolish a shed, knock out a wall in our home or kick the door of a terrorist hideout off the hinges on a bloodthirsty seek and destroy mission, that’s the song that will be playing in the background.

3) Sail by AWOL Nation is the song choice for those times when I’m in a hotel at the end of a long week on the road. It will play at a deafening volume as I calmly walk down a long hallway in my suit with a blank expression on my face and a wooden baseball bat in my hand as I violently swing at hotel room doors and light fixtures each time they say “Sail!”

Well, that about covers it for now. Think about your own theme song (situational or overall) and let me know what they are.

One time several years ago, I recall sitting in the dugout during a softball game next to some guy who played for us for a game as a fill-in. He was one of those guys who has a pot belly, sleeveless shirt, softball pants, batting gloves, eye black underneath his eyes and his own $800 bat that he takes with him to the park from Thursday evening through the weekend. You know, the type who plays on 3 teams and the hangs around at the park hoping someone might use his recreational mercenary skills?

Anyway, I looked over at him while he was watching the game and saw his profile, silhouetted by the sun. The outside of his nose had stiff quarter inch long hairs standing straight up all over it. It almost looked like one of those furry dandelions you see on an untreated lawn. I couldn’t look away. “Was he aware of this?”, “How could he not be?”, “Didn’t he have any loved ones who might suggest he pluck them?”, “Do his friends tease him about it?”, “Do they itch?”, “Are they firmly or loosely attached to his nose?”, “How could that possibly not bother him?” All were questions I wanted to ask as I gazed at his unusually fuzzy nose.

I tell you all of this as a backdrop and probable reason that I spent 45 minutes on the couch in my hotel room last night feverishly trying to pluck 2 similar hairs from the outside of my nose with my fingernails. It’s the small details that count with personal grooming standards.

Craft Fairs: I have been to two of them in the past two weeks and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

As a large man wearing a flannel shirt and a baseball cap who hasn’t shaved or showered in 24 hours and is simply on the hunt for free food samples and certain hand-crafted items made from wood, metal or leather while spending quality time with the family, my kind is scarce at those events and represents probably 1 in 1500 of the attendees at any holiday craft fair. Nevertheless, I enjoy them, as it helps to usher in the holiday season with all of the Santa knick-knacks and such.

Beyond the reasons I’ve listed above, there is an uncomfortable interpersonal dynamic that goes on there that adds to my enjoyment.

That dynamic begins when you walk up and browse the hand-made wares on display at the crafter’s booth. You can see a little flash of excitement in their eyes as the artist raises up out of their lawn chair to proudly tell you about what they’ve created. As the individual who has captured their attention with my browsing interest, I feel that it’s only right that I act interested in their hand-made, yarn fanny packs with a big picture of St. Nick hot-glued to the front – even though I would never in a million years buy one for myself or anyone I know.

I guess I feel like when someone is that excited about telling me about their craft, it’s cruel to act indifferent or, even worse, ask them why they thought the world would be a better place with that in it and what makes them think that I’d ever spend money on something like that? Instead, I try to show an appreciation and admiration of their effort and enthusiasm (which is genuine) and look for opportunities to slip away undetected so I don’t have to see their look of disappointment when they can’t close the deal with me (which is also genuine). Instead of that disappointment, when I sneak away they’re left with more of a “hey, where’d that guy go who seemed to really like my art?” kind of feeling.

I should clarify that it’s not that I think their art and/or craft is crap, it’s just that we all have individual tastes and styles. Just like anyone else, mine are pretty specific and I can’t see myself purchasing a wind chime made from some old pots and pans and fishing line. I appreciate the creativity that goes into that but I live in a neighborhood with a home owners association who leaves me nastygrams when I line my two garbage cans up in an orderly fashion on the side of my house because they shouldn’t be visible from the street – they’ll never approve the sight or sound of suspended cookware designed to sound the alarm when the wind is blowing…but I appreciate and understand how some might be into that sort of art – just not me or my HOA.

The moments leading up to my escape are really uncomfortable but when I successfully manage to slink away undetected, the old craft-show-slip feeling it provides is exhilarating and like no other. I get more proficient at it each time. It makes me think this is what they mean when they say ‘there is no growth in comfort and there is no comfort in growth.’

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On a recent domestic flight, I sat directly behind two grown men who shave the hair on their arms, wear skinny jeans, toddler-sized shirts and bathe in Halston Z-14 cologne. Out of all of the colognes on the market, these two Nancy-boys have created a fragrance force field using the only cologne that makes my face break out in hives when I’m around even a molecule of it.

To this point in life, I have not been affected much by my allergic reaction to Halston Z-14. I have no other known allergic reactions and I only became aware of my affliction when I received a bottle of it as a gift a long time ago and began itching and scratching my face like one of those people you hear about who is high on the dope and trying to dig hallucinogenic cockroaches out from underneath his skin. This went on for a week until I was able to figure out it was the cologne. It’s not often that I’m adversely impacted by my rare disorder. As such, I have to believe the popularity of the fragrance has dwindled. It’s such a weird niche allergy. I’d bet that I’m not allergic to Halston Z-13 or Halston Z-15, just Halston Z-14.

No matter how rare my reaction and no matter how few men still wear this scent, there are those who walk among us who continue to use it. With that being the case, I’m thinking of having some business cards printed out so that I can hand them out to men who take a whore’s bath in Halston Z-14 before climbing aboard a bus, train, plane, elevator or other confined space. The card might read:

“The normally affable man with the worrisome rash on his face who has handed you this card has only one known allergic reaction: an allergic reaction to Halston Z-14.

You have evidently sprayed yourself with an excessive amount of this cologne and, as a result, you’re putting out dangerously high levels of allergen into our shared space. Kindly remove yourself from the area and find a suitable location to wash away the cologne on your person.

Similar to drinking alcoholic beverages, it is your civic responsibility to know your limit when applying cologne prior to presenting yourself in confined public spaces. Remember that sometimes, less is more, and in the application of colognes, that rule-of-thumb is always the case. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.”

I recently saw a news story about a new business where a group of women have deemed themselves “Professional Cuddlers” for hire. These cuddlers are paid by the hour to visit the homes of men who pay for cuddling – and nothing more (according to the cuddlers).

As the news report showed video of the cuddlers laying in bed with men, all engaged in varying degrees of fully-clothed cuddlery (I suppose that’s the professional word for it), it occurred to me that the world’s most dangerous job is no longer a deck hand on a crab fishing boat in the Bering Sea. Evidently these service industry pioneers are unfamiliar with the meaning of the old saying ‘spooning always leads to forking.’

This guy makes a very brief appearance in the Sprint commercial that they play a lot on Sundays. I noticed his dark soul the first time that I saw his jet black irises appear on my screen. The way he bebops into that barbershop trying to mask the fact that he’s really a dark angel sent here to do the work of the Prince of Darkness with his smile and cheerful attitude is ridiculous.

You know what would make for a great gift you could use to pull a prank on unsuspecting drivers? A Starbucks cup with a suction cup on the bottom.

You could wet down the suction and place it on the roof of your car, like where you might sit it temporarily when you have your hands full and are getting into the car. Then you could drive around.

People in other cars would see your cup and pull up alongside of you to point and try to tell you that you’ve left your coffee on the roof and that it has miraculously stayed there despite the fact that you’ve been driving on the freeway. You’ll know what they’re pointing at and carrying on about but you could pretend that they’re just being really friendly so you just wave, point back at them in a friendly manner and keep driving. They’ll say, “Look at him! He thinks we’re just being friendly! How is that cup of coffee staying on top of the car? Can you believe what we’re seeing?” When you get to your destination, you can matter-of-factly just pick the cup up and take a swig and carry it in to the Home Depot with you.

You’ll just laugh to yourself in satisfaction. The whole time, knowing that you just played a good prank on the other drivers.

*Update: while searching the interwebs for a picture to accompany my blog post, I see that my idea is already taken. Do you people understand how disappointing that is for me?