Head shrink

I had my head substantially shrunk this morning. It was essential really. You see I really dislike haircuts, always have. Not quite sure why but getting a haircut reaches the same level of procrastination as seeing the dentist and getting my face fried off with a giant magnifying glass. It’s a good year if I make it in more than three times, every four months or so. This means that my hair just keeps getting bigger and fluffier and more unruly until something makes me cut it. In the case of this haircut, there are two main catalysts.
Last week I was on the train. Sitting across from me was a small boy with jam or toxic waste on his face. He looked very happy and kept staring and smiling at me. This happens all the time. Kids just seem to be amazed by the sight of me. Especially redhead kids, they are hypnotized with my presence. I think it is because they are struck with the idea that their hair will remain red and crazy into adulthood. Some of them are happy to learn that redheads reach maturity. But a few times I see a look of desperation as the carrot top kid realizes he will always have flames on his head. Back to Jam face. The kid looked like fun, so I decided to play around with him. I stuck my tongue out, I went cross eyed, I even filled my cheeks with air and did a monkey impression. He was quite pleased and mimicked me with delight. Just when I was ready to offer to pay for his college education things turned ugly. He had now reached a level of comfort with me that he felt the need to say what was really on his mind.
“You need to cut your hair” he exclaimed
I laughed nervously, his mother tried to hush him fumbling with embarrassment.
“But mommy, his hair is all weird and red””

“That’s not a nice thing to say Bernard, tell the man you are sorry”
“Mommy he looks like the bad man from Incredibles" Luckily we had reached my stop so I laughed again like an imbecile and said something like “good looking out kid” as I exited the train.
The second occurrence that led me to believe I had a problem is when my hat started popping off my head from the pressure of the trapped afro beneath. Since my hair had become nearly unmanageable I have been stuffing it under hats. It takes some work to stuff all the hair under the brim on the sides and front. For the last week or so the sheer mass of hair became too much volume for some of my hats to contain. They slowly have been creeping skyward off my head like a weed pushing through soil. A couple times I caught a glimpse of my reflection with a hearty mass of hair exploding off my already large cranium with a cap resting on top.
The lady that cuts my hair is very nice. I always feel bad by supplying her with such a formidable task. She has earned my confidence by providing many positive haircuts. I keep returning to her as a result rather than play the hair style lottery you get with the box cuts places. She likes to talk, a lot. Of course she is a soft talker so I spent the entire time saying “Huh”, and “what’s that”. She probably thinks I am deaf or near deaf. This is further validated by the care she takes around my ears. After this mornings visit my head feels very small. I also feel a little sad. Sampson may keep his strength in his hair, but I keep serotonin in mine.

Catch up

For the last month or so I have been crazy busy, especially on the weekends. My little sister Amy was staying in Boston with me for a few months so each weekend was packed with activity in an attempt to entertain her. I am not sure if she had any fun, but I did.
We went camping in New Hampshire which is were I met Jonesy, and capsized a canoe in the middle of the night. The midnight canoe trip was supposed to be some nice quiet time to enjoy the silhouetted wilderness. It was, but it all went wrong when I tried to adjust my seat and sunk Amy, George and I into the drink. This led to an hour swim back to shore towing the waterlogged borrowed vessel. We all lost our shoes as well. My mom would like me share the lesson I learned from all this, but there is none. I guess next time I will wear shoes more securely attached to me feets. What good is life without adventure and surprises!
The next weekend Amy and I took the Fung Wah to New York City. We spent two days exploring as much of Manhattan as possible. We were able to see all the normal things you think of in New York. We also saw a hilarious Frenchman on a bicycle, a man playing the piano in a fountain, a street ball competition, and the inside of the health department. The trip was capped with a trip to Broadway to watch Hairspray.
Next I went to upstate New York to my friend Greg's place. He has an awesome house on a lake. Each year his family hosts a weekend of hanging out playing on the lake, having cocktails, playing games and participating in general shenanigans. I caught seven fish, giving each one a kiss before tossing 'em back. I made my famous mojitos for the crowd and helped organize a campfire Disney sing-a-long. The sing-a-long was shut down by the authorities for "fowl language". It makes no more sense to me than to you.
This last weekend I made a long list of things I needed to complete, some of them had been neglected. After a Friday night dinner party with friends I spent the rest of the weekend ambling about with no real purpose. Nothing on the list got finished. I did make a successful trip to Target, try and talk a tow truck company into returning a friends car, and buy some authentic 1970's clothing. It was really nice to be able to burn a weekend still.
On a closing note, I hate garbage day. Here in Boston they still collect the garbage using a truck and two sweaty mustachioed fellas. They drive up and down the street collecting the pile of trash people leave in bag on the sidewalk. This alone is not so bad. But because I walk everywhere I must first hurtle, dodge and evade the encroaching trash. But then later in the day after the collection the smell lingers. Empty trash containers emit the unpleasant odor to a radius touching the stench radius of the next container. There is no relief! Every inch of sidewalk is fully saturated with the ghost of spilled milk, discarded produce and what seem to be rancid lollipops. With all academia striving to solve all life’s mysteries in the Boston area, you would think they could have solved this debacle. Until they do, I will continue to practice walking without breathing. If anyone finds me passed out one garbage day, please roll me someplace safe.

Petrichor

Petrichor



Filtered light creates an ominous mood.

It must be considered when planning for the day.

Wool pants and dry clean only are poor choices. Don’t wear that silk blouse for sure.

Out the door, heavily laden with props for the day.

An umbrella, a raincoat, sensible shoes?

Half way to the shelter of your transport optimism teases.

Perhaps serendipitous timing will keep that umbrella from seeing action after all.

No sooner does the thought end it happens. One large wet drop stains the sleeve of the cotton shirt. Then a few moments after, another.

Rain is afraid of heights.

Each drop sits trembling high above the earth.

The drop’s instincts urge the leap into the air.

The drop has experienced this moment countless times before, but it never gets easier.

They cling to each other hatch lings not quite ready to begin life.

There are always a few brave ones and they leap first. Slowly others follow.

More afraid of being left behind than the dizzying precipice they all clamor forward pushing and shoving.

The first few dark spots on the cotton are not convincing.

Chameleon like the fabric transforms from light to dark, the umbrella snaps open.

The spontaneous stimulus to the senses is enjoyable before the unrelenting rain becomes a nuisance.

Scent is the strongest trigger of emotion

Earth and water clash together releasing trapped organic matter into the atmosphere.

Momentarily water and earth move in opposing direction and convene in the nose.

The world is crisp, pure, invigorating and alive.

Stone is cleansed of grimy buildup.

Life is dusted and refreshed by nature’s housekeeper.

Beer thief

A few weeks ago I was camping in New Hampshire at Russell pond. This place is great! The pond is surrounded an all sides by lush green hills. The water is a refreshingly comfortable temperature. It is so nice that I was not even bothered by the leaches and other pond life that was abundant. There was one moment when mother nature and I butted heads though. After a morning spent wading around in the water catching critters we sat relaxing at camp sipping some beers. I was half way through my first Sam Adams when I noticed a small black and yellow fly nosing around the rim. In an attempt to get the free loader away from my tasty beverage I blew on him. Instead of sending him on a new course, he went straight into my bottle! I held the bottle up to my one open eye peering down at the scamp. He was suspended on the top of the beer looking quite pleased. I swear I could hear him gulping down his weight in brew. I was not about to let this weasel drink up my afternoon refreshment. I tilted the bottle to my lips and began gulping down beer as fast as possible. The thought occurred that i might drink the fly as well, but so be it, serves him right! I am not much for chugging so I had to take a break. On my second round I finished the beer and again winked into the bottle. It was empty except for the unmoving fly at the bottle, somehow he had evaded my lips. I instantly felt bad for the little guy. After all he was after the same tasty treat as I, and I have respect for any beer enthusiast. I placed the bottle upside down on my hand and tapped the end until the fly fell into my palm. He was lifeless and drenched. I began blowing lightly on him hoping to wake him up, or dry him off. A little man to fly CPR if you will. after a few moments his legs began to twitch. I continued drying him with slow breaths. He eventually stood up but did not fly away. He looked dry now and it seemed the malty goodness from the brew had stuck his wings together. I considered washing him with some water but in the end figured he might not survive two swims in one day. His little legs continually ran over his body like he was frisking himself. And then suddenly his wings began buzzing and off he flew. As he flew away I think I saw him fly right into a tree, but flies can't really get drunk, can they?

Jonesy

The slightest warming of the cool night air told Jonesy that morning had arrived. With reluctance he forced his thousand eyeballs open the smallest slit and sure enough, there was the sun peeking its nosey face into the calm peaceful morning world. A moment later when all his sensory departments were operational he became aware that all his so called "friends" were long gone. He was not annoyed by the aggressive embrace everyone else seemed to always have for life. He was not even threatened by the motivated and meticulous methods they employed to find the best food. No, he was frustrated with himself. He just could never seem to replicate their success no matter how hard he tried, or how much coaching he received. Most of the others figured he was lazy or lame and simply ignored him. It was the ones that continually hazed him that really made him sad. Maybe today will be different he thought as he stretched his three sets of legs and ran his sensitive hands over his wings to make sure they were as he had left them. Confident that everything was ready to go Jonesy leapt off his leaf and into the crisp air wings instantly snapping into action lifting him higher. Today, he thought, I will find the smelliest and most delicious food!
After flying for hours Jonesy settled on a twig gasping with fatigue. Despite his optimistic and frantic search, he had found nothing to eat all morning. Meanwhile he had encountered many of his tribe who were already heavily loaded and satisfied after a huge meal. Some of the nicer ones tried to help him out giving him hints and ideas about where to find a tasty banana peel or some raunchy spilled milk. Whenever Jonesy arrived the food would be finished off or completely crowded with the feeding frenzy of his peers. As he sat on his leaf of solitude he began to feel bad about himself. Maybe the others were right; maybe he would never be skilled in his profession.
Just then electrical impulses began firing in his control panel. He was confused at first and then realized something sweetly intoxicating was near. Very near. He scanned the horizon but could not pin point where the tremendous aroma was coming from. He buzzed around in a circle pattern just as he had been taught slowly increasing the circle size trying to catch the gradient of the smell. Then, without warning, the smell hit him from below like a rain drop going the wrong direction. The intensity of the smell nearly knocked Jonesy out of his flight pattern. He gathered himself and descended directly down landing on the rim of a crater. He gazed into the deep crater the strong aroma completely enveloping him. Deep down at the bottom he could hear the pop and sizzle of whatever delicious substance that was releasing the smell. He wanted to dive down into the crater and explore whatever had attracted him. His instincts told him to be cautious however. Slowly he took a few steps down the vertical wall. After only a few steps the wall rapidly tilted horizontally, everything went dark and then Jonesy felt water surround him completely and begin sucking him below. His head dropped below the surface level and as he tried to yell him mouth was filled with sweet liquid. Jonesy's senses became conflicted as his gut told him to drink as much of this delicious substance as possible while the rest of him wanted out, and fast! Wildly he flung all six legs at full speed trying to rise himself above the ocean to fly up and away. His struggle seemed only to sink him further into the cold sticky liquid. The turbulence of the waves overpowering him slowed and a dim light allowed Jonesy to see that the liquid was not water but some type of brown foamy substance. There is no time for reflection on this, the world was tipping again and this time poor Jonesy sliped all the way to the bottom. As he opened his mouth the brown liquid floods in and fills him up. He looks up towards wavy brown light and thinks "what a tasty way to die". Jonesy closes his eyeballs and stops his spastic movements. He hears the voice of his grandfather "Fly towards the smell Jonesy, follow the stench"! In his void of darkness Jonesy smells a fantastically powerful and organic odor. As he moves in the direction of the aroma a calm euphoria flows into him.
Suddenly the stench vanishes like a minnow from a shadow and the world is bright and noisy. Jonesy feels a strong wind and opens his eyes to see what has happened. The wind rips down on him from a dark opening surrounded by red bristles. Jonesy notices that the wind carries the same stench as the brown liquid that swallowed him only moments ago. He is bothered by the wind and wants to find a safe place to hide. When he attempts to stand and fly away he struggles with the weight of his soaked body. But the wind is drying him at a quick rate and soon he is able to get his feet to work again. Once on his feet he starts checking himself for damage. Everything seems to be in working order but he is unable to move his wings. "I am crippled"! He exclaims. Horrified he runs his six hands over each wing in alternating order, left then right. Then with the slip of an alcoholic surgeon, one hand slips under a wing and with a pop they both begin buzzing with life! One final check and Jonesy is up in the air again. For a while his flight is erratic and he bumps into leaves and other members of his tribe, but eventually he returns to normal. Later that night Jonesy tells the story of his adventure that day, and how he looked death right in the nose. His story is verified by a few others that had been in the area and heard his cries. They described how they watched him fall into the pit and then his lifeless drenched body. They fill in the details of the strong wind telling that it was some monster covered in red fur that made multiple attempts to eat Jonesy. From that day on, Jonesy never had another day struggling for food. He was elected assistant to the vice secretary of stench and recovery and each day his meals were brought to him.