That Boy Just Ain't Right
Got a Wild Hair yesterday and started obsessing over cowboy boots. I ended up drooling over a pair of Justin Roper Basics, because of price and sizes ($65 and made for Duck Feet). I had time today, so I ran into a Tractor Supply Warehouse just to see if they had a pair. That's a real chain store here and very popular despite your snickering. I felt like a little kid at Christmas when I found a pair that fit. I slid on both boots, stood up, looked down, and said aloud, "Hank Hill".

As I put the box back onto the shelf I wondered if my best Boot Days were behind me. They were aesthetically hideous, chafed my calves, and completely changed my gait. It wasn't that it was a poignant moment (though it was), it was just another Adult Moment, when reality heart punches your expectations.

Way To Go Einstein
In an August 27, 2007 article of TIME, called The Genius Problem an interesting statistic was cited: "U.S. schools spend $8 billion dollars on the mentally retarded and just 10% of that on the gifted."

I always think that our nation could use a few more physicists or another bioengineer, but we need eight billion dollars worth of retards? Do they have special psionic powers and the military has taught them to kill with their minds? Did no one one glance at the annual budget when they were ordering the year's supply of short buses? I have questions and that article only brought up more questions.

So, we see no value in the future of our nation to develop the greatest minds of our time. Instead, we want a kid who will probably never contribute anything to society and spend eight billion dollars on his education for him to look at a picture of a dog and say, "monkey."

"I Love Those Retards"- Matt Dillon, There's Something About Mary

Conflicted
I want my hair to grow my hair back out, but I was rubbing my head and it's like having a puppy on my head. And I don't have to pick crap up in the morning.

Snake Oil
It's called DHT (Dihydrotestosterone). It's a form of male testosterone. A bad kind. Stupid bad testosterone. It goes to the scalp and weakens and eventually kills the hair follicles. It happens at a certain time in most men's life and diet, stress, health, and age are all contributing factors. Dear Lord, I'm batting a thousand on all of those factors and Ta-daaaaa...hair falling out of my head by the handfuls. That's what I need at this point in my life: to be The Old, Fat, Creepy Friggin' Doll Hair Guy. Mmmm...and the confidence just continues to launch itself into the atmosphere.

Then came the hours of research. Okay, "hour" of research. I am such a lazy bastard, even when my hair is at stake. I loathe me. Anywho's, went to GNC. She had nothing, but her son used something he got from Eckerd Drugs. Huh. Eckerd Drugs? Sure what the hell. They actually have a pill called DHT Blocker. Can't get any more obvious than that. And a snake oil called NuHair Growth that I RUB ON MY HEAD. What is this, the 1920's? Yeah, I bought it. And I rubbed. And took the pills religiously.

Four months later, my hair is back. I still keep it short, but up until last week, it was 107 degrees, so it was working for me. Ernie likes it, the clients don't care, and the old bald guy I play tennis with is appalled at how a young man with hair can cut it off. He thinks I have hair. That's sweet of him. And still, I rub. Love that snake oil.

Team Passwaters
His name is O.B. I pronounce it "Obie". He was at the time, a mysterious monkey paw yet to be revealed. " I have a gift for you," he whispered conspiratorially. "Take this," he said as he pressed a small harlequin doll into my hand, "and don't give it away." "Why?" I asked taken aback by this tacky creation. "Because I'm giving it to you," he stated plainly. "Oh. Okey dokey. Thank you?"

He has proved to be nothing mysterious, just an odd little icon from an era of bad Journey albums and those damnable comedy/tragedy drama masks. He's been with me for about two weeks and I can't bring myself to throw him away, instead he is rubber-banded to my car's headrest. Maybe that is the curse: the inability to throw this tacky little juju in the garbage. So I wander through hill and dale looking like a an idiot with a friggin' miniature French clown in the front seat. Well played seemingly crazy old man. Well played indeed.

The second part of Team Passwaters is my new GPS. I heard someone say the other day that there are a number of things in popular culture that has never lived up to it's hype and GPS was at the top of his list. Having now experienced GPS, I can categorically confirm that this person's head is wedged solidly up his own ass. I travel anywhere from 200-500 miles a day, visit three to six potential clients, and carry twenty-five different county maps, and most of them, errant in one form or another. In the five days I've owned it, it's saved my life countless times, because I was one of those morons that would read a city map while driving. You just won't ever get anyplace if you don't in my profession and please save the "endangering people's lives" speech. I don't want to get all stereotypical and racist to defend a now moot point. We're all dumbasses on certain levels. Mine is just glaringly apparent. I say: don't half-ass it if you're going to sin or break the law, it just patronizes everyone around you.

The Week In Review
9.10.07 Went to see the MSI show last night. That's Mindless Self Indulgence for you of the geriatric set. I'd compare them to Devo meets The Marx Brothers on a really bad weekend of crack, cough syrup, and methamphetamine. All in all, they're surprisingly entertaining with really catchy hooks. They look like they'd be sticky if you touched one of them, but I don't plan on doing that anytime soon. I did appreciate when the lead "singer" dressed up in a McDonald's french fry poncho and wrapped up the song with "I'm Lovin' It", then later donned a cute little set of pink fairy wings. It all worked into his act, but shared out of context, does seem odd.

The most laughable moment of the evening was one of the opening acts. The MESH zippered hoodie, heavy eyeliner, and keyboards should have screamed "AMBIGUOUSLY GAY, POORLY CHOREOGRAPHED PERFORMANCE AHEAD." Yet, I stayed. I love a good train wreck as much as the next guy. There was a baring of the shaved chest, profuse sweating, and phrases like, "This next song is about fucking". All I can say is it must have been a horrible fuck, because I couldn't understand a single word he said. Poor little fella. There was also a moment in the show when he threw his My First Casio Keyboard/voice modulator to the floor in an act of great passion and proceeded to dry hump the drum stand. One of my entourage astutely observed, "Hey buddy, you're playing a show at Rockettown, which means you probably aren't making the kind of money it takes to replace a $600 piece of equipment." If I had been drinking milk, it would have so been coming through my nose.

9.11.07 I'm sitting outside of a Starbucks trying to pirate their internet unsuccessfully and one of Life's Truths unfolds silently under glass before me: babies have the innate power to turn aging single women into total morons. She seems intelligent in conversation, even thoughtful by her expressions, but a baby has been introduced by an acquaintance. She leaps from her chair and becomes some sort of caffeinated clown willing to debase herself for the amusement of a creature who can't even control it's own bowel movements. He doesn't appreciate her happy-pouty face with extended arms shtick and doesn't give a crap that she is crushed every time he rebuffs her frighteningly over exaggerated peek-a-boos. He turns to look at her, judges her soul, and dismisses her in a glance. She dies just a little in her eyes, yet she won't acquiesce defeat. She must vindicate her entire existence. I wait for the juggling chainsaw routine and plate twirling portion of her act.

The plates never emerge, but she ramps herself to another emotional level and her gestures become so violent and caricatured that her arms and legs threaten to tear loose from her body. The mother graciously relinquishes the child and I understand immediately why she was willing to sacrifice her first-born. The harpy emerges from her glass cocoon with the child in her arms and begins caterwauling at the world. She is screeching, "car" and "bird" into this small child's face like some sort of Sesame Street drill instructor. The child does its best to mimic her cries and I cringe and roll up my window, yet the shrill cacophony continues to punch my brain until she returns inside. Shaken, I look into the rearview mirror and realize that I also have died a little inside from the experience.

9.12.07 I stand in front of the beverage section at a convenience store. All I want is a Diet Pepsi with Wild Cherry, but this particular BP doesn't carry that drink. I slide over a couple of doors and I'm staring at beer. My mouth begins to water slightly and I can't move. This happens occasionally and I feel as if I've been downloaded with subliminal advertising. I've never had this reaction to beer in my entire life. I suddenly picture myself sitting in my car, listening to talk radio and drinking all day. In my head, it feels completely normal that this could be a pastime. And I wonder if anyone else is getting this signal when they pass by beer nowadays. It's almost like a radio transmission but it only happens when I'm in BP convenience stores. They have such cute little commercials with over-simplified Japanese anime characters and they're always talking about how much time and money they are contributing towards alternative fuel sources and their commercials fill me with little nuggets of hope. Are they also filling me with a mouth-watering insatiability for cold beer?

"Oh Magoo, you've done it again!"
I deliver a policy to Mrs. Snooty McBiggoten. I came out originally to sell the policy. She didn't buy from me that day but did buy from my boss on a later date. She had a friend at the house with her at that time and I got the distinct impression they were not only doubtful of my legitimacy, but frightened and somewhat disdainful of my presence in her home. I was about as professional and caucasion as Ted Koppel. I have since shaved my hair off to an eighth of an inch and no one I've delivered policies even recognizes me from earlier visits.

Me: Hi Mrs.Snooty. I dropped by to deliver your policy.
Snooty: Oh hello. I thought Johnny was going to be delivering the policy.
Me: No, I'm sorry, but he was detained today, so he sent me out.
Snooty: Oh I really liked Johnny and Bob. They were just so friendly [white] and polite [safe].
Me: They are. They're great guys.
Snooty: [clutching at her neck] Yes the first gentlemen that came out from your company was very tall [scary], had head full of dark hair [foreigner] and a funny accent [TERRORIST]!

My first thought: "I have a funny accent?!?" My second thought: "I've become Mr. Magoo just by cutting my hair? Now I'm short and bald?" Well I am sort of bald. I'll give her that. Bitch.

Showdown At The Okey-Dokey Corral
There's a impatient gentleman waiting behind me at the gas station. A second cashier just waiting for her medicare benefits to kick in walks up to the other cash register. The exchange is like a showdown in a saloon between two old cowboys. If the saloon is a BP gas station and the cowboys are aging clowns packing seltzer bottles and squirting flowers on their lapels.

Cashier: Sir, I can help you over here.
Customer: Nah, no one can help me, but you can check me out.
Cashier: Sorry sir, but management has asked me to stop checking men out while I'm working.

They slap leather, iron is exchanged, and when the smoke clears, the only victims are those that had to witness that horrible exchange of shaving cream pies. May I rest in peace.