Clip Job

Every few weeks I get my hair trimmed.  This simple sounding task should be, er, simple.  But, it is not.

As a small child, I recall my Dad taking me to the barber shop where the barber lugged out a pedal car, in the shape of a fire truck, mounted on an apparatus to serve as a child’ chair.  There, I got my first snip not without tears.  This experience wasn’t painful; rather, it was scary with all the noises and activity.

And, it wasn’t long until the haircut trek was made solo on my trusty bicycle.  I learned early in life that a good haircut was one that could not be identified as a new haircut.  That secret was with the barber, which meant forging a bond with the one who knew what to do without much instruction.  That is called ‘talent.’

Indeed, I would literally stride into the shop, wait for my barber, and be magically transformed from a shaggy imp into a presentable human being.

One day, following the trim, I was introduced to something of an epiphany – a hot shave.  My talented barber lathered me hot shaving cream and, while my stubbles were warming and softening, he was honing his straight razor on a leather strop.  Once again in life, I was frightened.  Once safe after the shave and pleased I didn’t succumb to exsanguination, I realized I was missing something special in my life – hot shaves.

All that changed when I made my career relocation and moved four-hundred miles away.  Now the process had to begin again.  Evidently, barbers working below the Mason-Dixon Line have never heard of hot lather shaves.  Alas.

Close proximity doesn’t necessarily translate into a quality hair cutter.  Just as with that old question: What do you call a doctor who graduated last in his class?  “Doctor.”

Barbers, too, have a learning curve to become better than simply being able to differentiate between a comb and scissors.  It’s too bad they use me to try to change that curve.

Eventually I found a neighbor who worked at a women’s hair salon who passed the novice stage and needed side money.

This was the first experience I had with a woman getting that close to me with a sharp object.  Sure, it was frightening, but no more so than when I last rode in that fire truck back in paragraph two.

She did a fine job and remained my barber for years.  No waiting, no inane talk about sports, and drinking a cold beer seemed very civilized.  The end result was not a good haircut.  It was a great haircut.

 
Moving to The Eastern Shore forced me to find yet another person who was able to meet my grooming expectations.  After going through several, I found one.

Although the hot shaves were gone, I still looked good.  Evidently, hot shaves were phased out sometime while I was getting the neighbor salon treatment.  But, I finally found a shop that gives me all the service including the warm lather - except the cold beer.

Today, I received another haircut and shave without arguing with the barber who was a woman working in a barber shop.  This may be my new barber shop.  She even offered me a massage.  Yep, I was frightened once again.

 

 

 

It's Not My Fault

Seventeen years ago, an Illinois McDonald’s restaurant became the target of a lawsuit in which a woman was burned by a cup of hot coffee.  She placed a cup of scalding coffee between her legs, and the coffee spilled, burning her thighs.  She successfully sued McDonald’s for a bundle of dough - $160,000, to be exact – because she didn’t know the scalding coffee was hot.

 

This could very well be a lawsuit in the making against the schools she attended as a youngster.  After all not everyone would equate ‘scalding’ with ‘hot.’  In any case, this accident was deemed to be McDonald’s fault because the ‘victim’ was too stupid to realize she could be summarily burned by hot coffee.  It wasn’t her fault.

 

The baseball Hall of Fame recently held its meeting to announce its list of inductees.  There were none.  That proposed list from the Baseball Writers Associated should have contained names such as Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, and Roger Clemens, but didn’t.  Charges of racism have been leveled as a trump card for Mr. Bonds, a pretty pathetic move from a guy who said “I refuse to sign for white people,” when speaking of autographs.  But, I digress.

 

These are only three or the well-paid players who failed to compete on a level field by using performance-enhancing steroids to better hit and throw the ball in order to play game most amateurs and semi-pros would be glad to play for nothing but the enjoyment of the game itself.

 

It must be borne in mind that the ‘juicing’ athletes were victims – some of whom actually testified before Congress – only to deny to the press, the government, and their fans that they did not use anything except their God-given gifts of athleticism.  They, too, failed to tell the truth but, it’s not their fault, either.

 

And, speaking of playing a game, some guy named Manti Te’o, who is a football player for the University of Notre Dame, became a household name when it was discovered that a woman to whom he was engaged didn’t exist.  This sordid hoax came unraveled when his stories to various press agencies about her untimely death didn’t hold water.  Any sympathy for this “most decorated collegiate player of all time” quickly vanished when it was learned he never even met this mystery woman.

 

Yes, he was engaged to her, dated her exclusively on-line, and didn’t attend her funeral.  He admitted lying to his father about meeting her in person, and to the rest of the compassionate public.  But, it wasn’t his fault.

 

Enter Lance Armstrong.  Mr. Armstrong was a professional bicyclist who seemed to possess super-human abilities in his field.  He rode to seven Tour de France victories and participated in the summer Olympics, representing the United States.  It appeared amazing that this world-class cyclist was virtually unstoppable.  Various organizing committees accused him of ‘doping’ in order to gain a competitive edge over his fellow riders.  He vociferously denied any and all charges, even leading a slander lawsuit to prove his point.

 

America’s sweetheart, Oprah Winfrey, in an earnest attempt to boost her Oprah Winfrey Network (OWN,) of late had Mr. Armstrong appear as guest.  He admitted to lying about his misdeeds without a smidgen of remorse.  He ruined bike races for other real athletes for years and said he didn’t feel bad about it.  He turned the red, white, and blue into the black and blue.  Yet, it was not his fault.

 

Such a sad state of affairs cannot and should not be tolerated.  Responsibility comes with rights of any kind.  If you cannot control a cup of coffee or your uber-ego perhaps you need to stay home where life is safe and not scrutinized by the judging public such as me.

 

If you want to make a fool of yourself, don’t do it at my expense or insult my intelligence.

“Lions, Tigers, and Bears! Oh my!”

We are quickly approaching the vacuum of no real sports in America.  This is a temporary void when football ends and baseball has yet to begin.  Hockey doesn’t count but, they are on strike, in case you didn’t notice.

 

College football is over, college basketball is in full swing, and someone actually mentioned that women play basketball, too.

 

So, during this respite, let’s take this time to examine some of the names of the teams that grace our arenas and ballparks.

 

In the NFL, we can find the Browns, Giants, Eagles, Packers, Bengals, Ravens, Saints, Texans, Titans, Cowboys, Chargers, Redskins, and Bills, among others.

 

The Green Bay Packers got their name from the meat packing facilities in the Green Bay, Wisconsin area, and the Ravens copped their name from Edgar Alan Poe’s story, “The Raven.  Dallas Cowboys seems an apt moniker as Texas is known for cowboys and oil – hence, the Houston Oilers who, perhaps because of irreplaceable fossil fuels, became the Houston Texans.

 

But, we venture into other realms and question the Cleveland Browns’ name.  Are there many Giants in New York?  Could the Chargers be so-named because they are squanderers with their credit cards?  Maybe those Buffalo Bills are laden with overspending IOUs.

 

I’ve been to Tennessee and didn’t see one titan.  Perhaps Cincinnati is lousy with large cats in the form of Bengal tigers.  Likewise, my one visit to Philadelphia failed to evidence a single eagle, which was not surprising because of the lack of tall nesting trees.  And, the New Orleans Saints have no connection with canonization or the Vatican.

 

Having lived in the Washington, D.C. area for over three decades I heard countless sports stories about The Redskins.  That is an area in which normally overly-sensitive people who cower at the use of many, many frowned-upon descriptors feel it is okay to use a vulgar slang term for American Indians.  Quite odd, indeed.

 

Baseball team names are equally goofy.  The Chicago Cubs may or may not be named for bears - which happens to be the name of Chicago’s NFL team, The Bears.  Not as unique or catchy as you previously thought.

 

The Houston Astros are clearly named for something; I’m not quite sure what, though.  A Los Angeles Dodger could have been the subject of a Selective Service notice, but I doubt that.  And, although consisting largely of foreign players, we must not forget that northern-implied team The New York Yankees.

 

College teams – both football and basketball – maintain similarly stupid names.  I’ll wager there isn’t an epidemic of Blue Devils cavorting about the Duke campus, anymore than the Georgetown campus is overwhelmed with hoyas, a waxy creeping vine.

It seems to me that teams should be named for something tangible to their geographic area just as Miami Dolphins, Boston Red Sox, and St. Louis Cardinals are.  Unlike the Pittsburgh Pirates.

 

In order to help some teams contrive better names, www.easternshorefishandgame.com offers these:  the Losers, Three-Runs-and-a-Punt, Should’ve Stayed Homes, We Got No Pitchers, and We Pay Our Star Player How Much?

 

Those are merely suggestions for teams fielding players with $10,000,000/year salaries and spending copious monies on retro uniforms.

 

So, we await NASCAR’s return in February just about the time we overcome our withdrawal symptoms.

 

Revelations

This is one of those crazy times of the year.  Kwanzaa has just ended and no one actually knows or cares.  We also face that special task of taking down our Christmas decorations.  For you heathens, that would be your holiday or winter festival decorations.

In any case, since we dodged that Mayan calendar bullet, we must get serious about life continuing.

There is really no special time table by which to be guided when they should be removed and stored for the balance of the year until we re-erect them after Thanksgiving; shopping malls will have to store them until mid-September, their official Christmas season inception.

Since I have no place to stash the outdoor illumination merriment and gadgets, I just leave them up year-round.  When neighbors ask about my intention of disassembly of my private Disney World I simply tell them I just started decorating early for next year.  ‘Tomorrow’ is one of the greatest labor saving devices of today.

But this is also the time of year we begin returning those misfit gifts we received with such enthusiasm just a few weeks ago.

Unfortunately, too many stores require a receipt when either returning or exchanging gifts which often results in that re-gifting thing.  Re-gifting is an activity that takes those special presents that arrived without the benefit of a store tag or receipt and turns them into next year’s gifts that will eventually wind-up making their way back to you in about a decade.

Some of those special presents include winter sock with individual pockets for your toes.  They were popular in the 1970’s but still arrive via the North Pole to someone you likely know.

Then there is the ever-popular Sham Wow!  The Sham Wow! is a super absorbent rag that can allegedly sop up Lake Michigan.  Let us not forget that much-desirable Snuggie which is a giant sleeping bag with arm holes that is designed to keep its wearer toasty warm.  Why not simply make a Snuggie from a Sham Wow! – the Snug-Wow!  It would allow you to loaf on the sofa like a giant caterpillar, without those annoying bathroom breaks.

Many places of employment and social organizations traditionally conduct what is called Secret Santa.  This event involves people picking a name out of a hat and, without disclosing the recipient’s identity, buys a gift for and secretly enjoys the glee that the specially selected gift brings.

Enter the fruit cake.  It seems the fruit cake is another of those gifts that makes its way into the attic until next year, only to be re-gifted to the boss.  This is likely the reason offices and such hold Secret Santa drawings.  Here’s a www. easternshorefishandgame.com freebie: If the fruit cake you just got has an expiration date of 1947 or prior, do not eat it.

It’s sad the yule season has to end, but I suppose that a respite from the lights, gifts, banquets of foods and desserts, and general revelry is not a bad thing.  It also makes us anxious for next year keeping things special.

Now I must excuse myself as my sainted wife is ready with her sewing machine and restless to get going on that Snug-Wow! brainstorm.  After all, we don’t have the receipt for either.


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