Monday, October 24, 2005
Down A Windy Road, Stepping On The Gas
I want to post quickly as it's late here. So just this short one and no new post Monday. You have been warned. Initiate evacuation protocols where applicable.
This is (or now was) Festival Week at my kid's school, which means all kinds of volunteer hours and pretending to be nice to people I either don't know or can't stand. It's all just as exhausting as it sounds.
Mostly it means a lot of Routine-Disruption, which upsets me to no end. There isn't enough Xanax in the world to make up for lost blog time. Thankfully, however, there is exactly enough airplane model glue in my house so I don't always have to feel bad about it. Or remember it completely even.
I would simply like to relate very quickly the fact that I went to get my haircut today. It doesn't sound like much, but it has always provided me with great blogpost material in the past.
The midget no longer works there, apparently. The stylist with the glass-eye, however, does. She was there working when I walked in. Believe it or not, the glass eye was not the first thing I noticed. I would like to say that I'm somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of a stylist with a glass eye, not because I'm prejudiced or anything, it's just that I wonder if she wouldn't maybe have a slight competitive disadvantage. Proper depth perception is not something to be taken lightly in that field, I would imagine.
Actually, the first thing I noticed is that there were 7 full grown men, obviously unrelated to each other, all sitting way too cozily close to each other in the waiting area. I walked in and all eyes were immediately on me (OK, all but one...). My first thought was: "Oh my God, it's happening. The gays have finally come for me! And in a hair salon! Damn, I should have known!"
But instead of being forcibly indoctrinated into the homosexual lifestyle, they all kind of sat there and stared. One guy sort of rocked back and forth and REALLY stared. He may have lacked the ability to blink. When the glass-eye lady came over to take my name, she told the grown man who's hair she was cutting "You wait there now, OK?"
This is completely true: the haircut salon was occupied by men from some kind of care program for the mentally handicapped.
It's fine, I know, the Differently-Abled need their hair cut just like the rest of us--maybe even more so because of the tricky-ness of scissors and all. But I just couldn't help but think: man, this place exists in some kind of cross-dimensional Twilight Zone reality warp designed by God Himself to give me blogpost topics.
I would write more about it, but the wait was like an hour, so I left.
And then my stupid chick-magnet minivan wouldn't start.
The rest of the day was un-blog-worthily downhill from there. I sure as fuck don't want to talk about the goddamn Chargers game. You are all welcome.
No new Bucket tomorrow. If you're smart you haven't read this far and are saving half of this post for later, to stretch out the Buckety goodness over two days. Chances are, if you're reading this, it's too late. Good luck. If you're stuck for a way to kill yourself, I suggest sleeping pills. Less messy for those of us left behind.
One last question: why do I lack the capacity to be brief? It's maddening, really.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.019657338217