Okay, I'm going to try this one more time.
About once a year or so I get inspired to begin blogging again. I also at various times get inspired to clean out the garage, start working out, and to renovate the living room. Those never last either. So let's see how long this one lasts, shall we?
Shall we start a betting pool? Who wants one week? Two weeks?
Friday, May 4, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
On Benchley, Breathing Strips, and Aftershave
Tonight I am channeling my inner Benchley (Robert, not Peter). I know I promised I wouldn't write any more long, rambling essays about nothing in particular, but I can't help it. I am hopelessly addicted to meandering rambles (or perhaps meandering rambles) over the hills and dells of my memory and psyche. I'm not sure which is the hill and which is the dell, but I suppose I should be content with the fact that my mental makeup has actual topographic features and isn't just a giant sheet of flat grid paper like the landscape in the movie, “Tron” (the original, not the remake).
As an aside, I was shocked to find out that a synonym for dell is “dingle”. I found that quite amusing for some reason. I suppose it conjured up the alternate lyrics to “The Farmer in the Dingle”.
Speaking of awkward segues, I can't decide which I hate worse: not being able to breathe at night or having to rip a “breathing strip” off of my nose first thing in the morning while still half asleep. There's nothing like starting your day by having to do the equivalent of ripping a BandAid off of a sensitive patch of skin. It would only be worse if a hand came out of nowhere and slapped me squarely on both cheeks to apply a liberal dose of Aqua Velva.
Speaking of which, I remember in my early years (before I became jaded) believing every bit of advertising that Madison Avenue shoveled out of their executive stalls into great, steaming piles on a credulous public. For instance, I believed that using Old Spice cologne would not only get rid of my razor burn, but would also give me a nautical air that women would find irresistible. Well, true enough, it gave me an “air”, but not a nautical one … and certainly not one that women found irresistible. It was more the the type of air that yellow signs warn one not to smoke in or create sparks in.
I eventually became disillusioned with Old Spice because I came to the slow realization that it was not the olfactory equivalent of epaulets and braids. Therefore, I turned my hopes to Aqua Velva because I thought, as shown in the TV ads, that slapping myself vigorously with a hand steeped in the arctic blue liquid would leave me feeling braced and looking like a male model with smooth, manly skin that was free of both five o'clock shadow and razor burn. However, I never managed to perfect the fine art of slapping myself vigorously without getting Aqua Velva in both eyes or all over my clothes. This was about the time that I realized that all aftershave lotions were merely bottles of alcohol with FD&C blue or green or some other soothing color and a dash of something that smelled strong enough to take our minds off of the fact that we were pouring alcohol on razor-irritated skin. It was like, “Holy jehimanies my face is on fire!… oh neat … eucalyptus.” And then we'd leave the house feeling as if we were now irresistible to the ladies. What the rest of the world saw, however, was a man who seemed to have a severe case of rug burn all over his face and neck and who reeked of something used to clear sinuses or awaken antebellum ladies who had fainted from wearing their corsets too tight.
I also succumbed to the hype surrounding gel type shaving creams, believing that they would allow me to shave my face so closely that I could rub cotton balls all over my face and not leave a single cotton fiber clinging to even a microscopic specimen of beard stubble. To add to their air of authority and trustworthiness, these gels came in a variety of different colored cans, each color indicating a different formulation for different facial types. I tried the orange can for awhile, because it purported to be for sensitive skin, but later on I switched to the white can because it promised that it was “medicinal”. What a great idea! Putting medication on the razor wounds while inflicting them. How efficient. So I slathered on the gel, fascinated at how it turned to foam as I smeared it around the ol' epidermis. And at least part of the advertising claims were correct: it did allow me to shave very closely. But the advertisements were strangely silent on what happened after the gel/foam was shaved and washed off and you were happily on your way to your first class of the day (this was back in my college days). What happened was that, as the eucalyptus and other emollients wore off or evaporated, the beard began to grow back. Unfortunately, now that the stubble tips were below the skin surface, they were often confused about where exactly they should grow. As they groped their way blindly up towards the surface of the skin, they poked and prodded and stabbed their way towards the light, the effects of which were to make me look as if I'd unsuccessfully fended off an attack by a maniac wielding two red-hot ice picks coated in allergens. So I learned that close shaves were not all they were cracked up to be.
So, being a poor college student, there was an avenue open to me that is not open to most responsible, employed, and conscientious people: I grew a beard and forsook shaving altogether.
Later, however, when I graduated and was forced to become responsible, employed, and conscientious (not to mention conscious), I bought myself an electric razor. But here, too, I succumbed to the unrealistic claims of Madison Avenue. I believed that running this electric gizmo back and forth across my face would make strange women want to rub their hands across my cheeks, chin, and neck. That never happened. I'm not sure they even noticed the difference between a razor shave and an electric razor shave. In fact, I'm pretty sure they didn't notice whether I shaved or not. Or even if I was actually there. I probably could have shaved with a scythe or a scimitar and gotten just as much notice from the fairer sex.
Luckily, now I am immune to the deceits of Madison Avenue.
On an unrelated note, I think I will buy a new computer. I saw an ad the other day for the latest octal-core, double-clocked processor that will make all my computing needs seem like child's play.
As an aside, I was shocked to find out that a synonym for dell is “dingle”. I found that quite amusing for some reason. I suppose it conjured up the alternate lyrics to “The Farmer in the Dingle”.
Speaking of awkward segues, I can't decide which I hate worse: not being able to breathe at night or having to rip a “breathing strip” off of my nose first thing in the morning while still half asleep. There's nothing like starting your day by having to do the equivalent of ripping a BandAid off of a sensitive patch of skin. It would only be worse if a hand came out of nowhere and slapped me squarely on both cheeks to apply a liberal dose of Aqua Velva.
Speaking of which, I remember in my early years (before I became jaded) believing every bit of advertising that Madison Avenue shoveled out of their executive stalls into great, steaming piles on a credulous public. For instance, I believed that using Old Spice cologne would not only get rid of my razor burn, but would also give me a nautical air that women would find irresistible. Well, true enough, it gave me an “air”, but not a nautical one … and certainly not one that women found irresistible. It was more the the type of air that yellow signs warn one not to smoke in or create sparks in.
I eventually became disillusioned with Old Spice because I came to the slow realization that it was not the olfactory equivalent of epaulets and braids. Therefore, I turned my hopes to Aqua Velva because I thought, as shown in the TV ads, that slapping myself vigorously with a hand steeped in the arctic blue liquid would leave me feeling braced and looking like a male model with smooth, manly skin that was free of both five o'clock shadow and razor burn. However, I never managed to perfect the fine art of slapping myself vigorously without getting Aqua Velva in both eyes or all over my clothes. This was about the time that I realized that all aftershave lotions were merely bottles of alcohol with FD&C blue or green or some other soothing color and a dash of something that smelled strong enough to take our minds off of the fact that we were pouring alcohol on razor-irritated skin. It was like, “Holy jehimanies my face is on fire!… oh neat … eucalyptus.” And then we'd leave the house feeling as if we were now irresistible to the ladies. What the rest of the world saw, however, was a man who seemed to have a severe case of rug burn all over his face and neck and who reeked of something used to clear sinuses or awaken antebellum ladies who had fainted from wearing their corsets too tight.
I also succumbed to the hype surrounding gel type shaving creams, believing that they would allow me to shave my face so closely that I could rub cotton balls all over my face and not leave a single cotton fiber clinging to even a microscopic specimen of beard stubble. To add to their air of authority and trustworthiness, these gels came in a variety of different colored cans, each color indicating a different formulation for different facial types. I tried the orange can for awhile, because it purported to be for sensitive skin, but later on I switched to the white can because it promised that it was “medicinal”. What a great idea! Putting medication on the razor wounds while inflicting them. How efficient. So I slathered on the gel, fascinated at how it turned to foam as I smeared it around the ol' epidermis. And at least part of the advertising claims were correct: it did allow me to shave very closely. But the advertisements were strangely silent on what happened after the gel/foam was shaved and washed off and you were happily on your way to your first class of the day (this was back in my college days). What happened was that, as the eucalyptus and other emollients wore off or evaporated, the beard began to grow back. Unfortunately, now that the stubble tips were below the skin surface, they were often confused about where exactly they should grow. As they groped their way blindly up towards the surface of the skin, they poked and prodded and stabbed their way towards the light, the effects of which were to make me look as if I'd unsuccessfully fended off an attack by a maniac wielding two red-hot ice picks coated in allergens. So I learned that close shaves were not all they were cracked up to be.
So, being a poor college student, there was an avenue open to me that is not open to most responsible, employed, and conscientious people: I grew a beard and forsook shaving altogether.
Later, however, when I graduated and was forced to become responsible, employed, and conscientious (not to mention conscious), I bought myself an electric razor. But here, too, I succumbed to the unrealistic claims of Madison Avenue. I believed that running this electric gizmo back and forth across my face would make strange women want to rub their hands across my cheeks, chin, and neck. That never happened. I'm not sure they even noticed the difference between a razor shave and an electric razor shave. In fact, I'm pretty sure they didn't notice whether I shaved or not. Or even if I was actually there. I probably could have shaved with a scythe or a scimitar and gotten just as much notice from the fairer sex.
Luckily, now I am immune to the deceits of Madison Avenue.
On an unrelated note, I think I will buy a new computer. I saw an ad the other day for the latest octal-core, double-clocked processor that will make all my computing needs seem like child's play.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Inexplicable Funk
Did you ever have one of those days where you just woke up in a blue funk, even though there was no real reason for it?
That was me today. It wasn't that noticeable when I first woke up, but as the day wore on, the cloud above my head became more and more defined until it wasn't long before it was a pretty well-defined black cloud.
The frustrating things about these sorts of days is that, even though we recognize them, we seem to be powerless to do anything to turn them around. We can sense the cloud forming and, rationally, we know there is no reason for it ... but we just can't seem to turn the ship around and head for sunnier waters. It's like one of those dreams where something unidentified, but menacing, is coming to get you, but you just can't seem to move.
Odder still about today was the fact that it was a warm, sunny day. We don't typically get those in January, even in Texas. I could have understood being in a funk if this had been our 23rd day without seeing the sun or if it was bone-chillingly cold and I ached all over from cold. But it was warm. The sun was shining. I was pretty much caught up on the things I needed to do around the house. In short, there was no reason on earth to be in a funk.
And yet, there I was . . . in a funk.
And still am at 10:15 at night.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
That was me today. It wasn't that noticeable when I first woke up, but as the day wore on, the cloud above my head became more and more defined until it wasn't long before it was a pretty well-defined black cloud.
The frustrating things about these sorts of days is that, even though we recognize them, we seem to be powerless to do anything to turn them around. We can sense the cloud forming and, rationally, we know there is no reason for it ... but we just can't seem to turn the ship around and head for sunnier waters. It's like one of those dreams where something unidentified, but menacing, is coming to get you, but you just can't seem to move.
Odder still about today was the fact that it was a warm, sunny day. We don't typically get those in January, even in Texas. I could have understood being in a funk if this had been our 23rd day without seeing the sun or if it was bone-chillingly cold and I ached all over from cold. But it was warm. The sun was shining. I was pretty much caught up on the things I needed to do around the house. In short, there was no reason on earth to be in a funk.
And yet, there I was . . . in a funk.
And still am at 10:15 at night.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Please Resuscitate
You might have noticed that my entries into this blog are as sparse as pieces of chicken in a can of store-brand chicken-noodle soup. I take full responsibility for that. Between living a life that can only be described as plain vanilla and also spending every waking moment taking care of the staggering responsibilities of being staggeringly responsible, there hasn't been much time to write a blog nor material to fill it with. It all makes for a deafening silence.
But all of that is about to change. I'm resuscitating (or resurrecting, if you prefer) this blog, this tenuous and intermittent connection of mine to the outside world. No, it wasn't a New Year's resolution that condemned me to a year of writing in my blog. It wasn't a sudden uptick in the incidence of interesting incidents in my life that is inspiring me to hunt and peck feverishly at the keyboard. It wasn't a sudden epiphany or a blinding flash of inspiration. I'm not sure what it was. It was just a sudden and intense desire to write again. You know, like I used to do when I was in high school and college and flush with what I mistook for ideas and talent. Bottom line, I enjoy writing, gosh darn it.
This time, however, things will be different.
How, you ask? A very prescient question. I congratulate you.
My style for the past few years has been to write long, rambling monologues about my day or some topic that interested me on that day (a style that this very entry is in danger of falling victim to). But I'm going to try something new. I'm going to write short, single-topic blogs. Perhaps these little nuggets or nodules of blogicity will encourage my dear readers to comment on them since they are no longer put off by the eye-glazing length of the entries. Now my blog entries will be more like reading a filler anecdote in Reader's Digest and less like reading a co-worker's old college thesis on the effects of migratory patterns of the wandering albatross on squid populations.
So, let the blogging begin (anew). Let the terseness flow. Viva la succinction.
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