On the way down to Destin this year, I found myself inspired by a road. By some of the things I saw and thought and didn't see. This post has kinda been in the back of my mind ever since.
US Route 331.
I don't know if it is possible to develop an emotional attachment to a span of pavement, but if it is, then I have. I love that road, and have driven every inch of it several times.
Coming out of Montgomery, as I-65 turns southwestward for Mobile, 331 heads almost due South towards the Emerald Coast of the Florida panhandle and her white sand beaches.
For 150 miles--nearly all of it two lanes--331 leads you through quiet countryside and quaint towns. None of which have populations of more than six or seven thousand. Towns such as Luverne, Opp, Florala, and Brantley. The latter has a sign proudly proclaiming it as the hometown of former NBA star Chuck Person.
They are hushed little towns where time may not have stopped, but it surely has slowed down. There's a simpleness there that I long for. There are town squares with time-worn buildings and empty storefronts, where I imagine that not too awful long ago you could go into the local drug store and find a real soda fountain. And just maybe, in one of them, you still can.
In between towns, there is more countryside. Houses, farms, and fields, interrupted only by the occasional gas station or roadside cafe. There are homemade signs for antique shops and a flea market, and a billboard inviting you to stop in at the It Don't Matter Family Restaurant. I always think about stopping, but haven't yet.
You will inevitably come upon a train of four or five or seven cars with out-of-state tags on their way to or from the beach. Having its southern terminus at Highway 98, a few miles east of Destin, 331 has been a popular route for beach-goers. But traffic has declined in recent years. For every open store there seems to be at least one other that's closed down. And at times, I'm overtaken by the sense of what I don't see and the feeling of what no longer is.
Several years back, there was talk of four-laning 331. But as other beach routes--supposedly quicker and passing through fewer towns--gained in popularity, that never came to fruition. And I for one, am kinda glad. I already get my fill of four-lanes and interstates. So I'll keep taking the road less traveled, literally.
Besides, little towns where people live and work and go to church, mow their grass and grow their gardens, raise their kids and put tacky lawn decorations in the yard--as the song says, ain't that America? Maybe not an America we hear much about anymore, but one that definitely still exists. You just have to slow down sometimes to see it.
"There's a place where mornings are an endless blue, and you feel Mother Nature walk along with you. Where simple people livin' side by side still wave to their neighbor when they're drivin' by..."
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
That time my nipple was on fire
Welcome to the Spring of Bone. The season of my shaven head, if you will. The past few days have been a whirlwind. Thursday was the Kenny Chesney concert. Saturday morning I ran a 10K. And Saturday evening, I had another engagement. Three events in three days! That's a lot, compared to my usual number of zero. Not to mention the season finales of The Office and 24. Plus, Michael coming out of a year-long coma on General Hospital. Whew! I think I need a weekend off to decompress.
Let us begin with the concert: the Kenny Chesney Sun City Carnival Tour. It was held at the Oak Mountain Amphitheatre in Birmingham, a perfect venue for an outdoor concert on a gorgeous Alabama night. It wound up just being the Darryls and me. Jamie was supposed to go, but she got two tickets from a radio station and ditched us. Can't really blame her, considering our tickets were on row V in the very last section. Not bad for 95 bucks. I'm pretty sure it was the worst seat I've ever had at a concert, except for that one year at June Jam when the actual curvature of the Earth itself prevented us from seeing most of the stage.
The opening acts were Lady Antebellum--who we missed because we were stuck in traffic--and Miranda Lambert--who we unfortunately did not miss. She was not very good. There was one highlight, however, when she brought Blake Shelton on stage and he sang a song. I texted my sister, "Blake Shelton just came out!" Well, I noticed she didn't reply for awhile. She told me later she forgot I was at the concert and so when she got my text all she could think was, "Nuh uh! I thought he was dating Miranda Lambert!"
Kenny's part of the show was excellent. He sang about twenty songs. (I have the set list if you'd like. I texted it to myself.) I don't think I realized how many hits he's had until we were on our way home and started naming off at least as many songs that he hadn't sang.
At one point during the show, LJ pulled out a disposable camera, aimed it in the general direction of the figure we thought was most likely Kenny Chesney, and started clicking. He asked me if I thought he'd be able to see anything in the pictures. Um no, not unless the word Hubble appears somewhere on the camera.
Saturday morning was my 10K race. That's 6.2 miles, which coincidentally, is just slightly farther than we were from Kenny Chesney. I got off to a terrible start, due largely to starting at the back and having to navigate the mass of bodies the first half mile. My one mile split was like eight and a half minutes. I picked it up from there and finished in 48:29, good for fifth in my age group. My time was fourteen seconds slower than last year, but that was kind of expected since I haven't been training as much. To have run a faster time would have been to cheat the very ideals of hard work, training and dedication. And also likely would have caused me to pass out and/or begin wretching.
Saturday night, I went to a dance recital, 'cause that's how I roll. I went to see Kywana Jr. in... umm... I keep forgetting the name of the program. Twelve Angry Men? No, there weren't that many men in it. The Princess Bride? Nope, no Andre The Giant. Dances With Wolves? No, but it was four hours long. Wait, I got it. Twelve Dancing Princesses! Yes, that's it. And it's even less exciting than the title would indicate, if that's possible.
Oh, I almost forgot! A bizarre thing did happen on the way to my race Saturday morning. My right nipple started burning. I mean, it was on fire! Have any of you ever had this problem? I examined it, but really couldn't tell much. I mean, what does it usually look like? I don't know. Anyway, that led to an odd, if not disturbing scene Saturday around lunchtime, as I stood shirtless in front of my bathroom mirror rubbing Neosporin on my nipples. I mean, if there is one microcosm I could give you to sum up my life, that's it right there.
You are currently experiencing the Spring of Bone...
"And I go back to watchin' summer fade into fall. Growin' up too fast and I do recall wishin' time would stop right in its tracks..."
Let us begin with the concert: the Kenny Chesney Sun City Carnival Tour. It was held at the Oak Mountain Amphitheatre in Birmingham, a perfect venue for an outdoor concert on a gorgeous Alabama night. It wound up just being the Darryls and me. Jamie was supposed to go, but she got two tickets from a radio station and ditched us. Can't really blame her, considering our tickets were on row V in the very last section. Not bad for 95 bucks. I'm pretty sure it was the worst seat I've ever had at a concert, except for that one year at June Jam when the actual curvature of the Earth itself prevented us from seeing most of the stage.
The opening acts were Lady Antebellum--who we missed because we were stuck in traffic--and Miranda Lambert--who we unfortunately did not miss. She was not very good. There was one highlight, however, when she brought Blake Shelton on stage and he sang a song. I texted my sister, "Blake Shelton just came out!" Well, I noticed she didn't reply for awhile. She told me later she forgot I was at the concert and so when she got my text all she could think was, "Nuh uh! I thought he was dating Miranda Lambert!"
Kenny's part of the show was excellent. He sang about twenty songs. (I have the set list if you'd like. I texted it to myself.) I don't think I realized how many hits he's had until we were on our way home and started naming off at least as many songs that he hadn't sang.
At one point during the show, LJ pulled out a disposable camera, aimed it in the general direction of the figure we thought was most likely Kenny Chesney, and started clicking. He asked me if I thought he'd be able to see anything in the pictures. Um no, not unless the word Hubble appears somewhere on the camera.
Saturday morning was my 10K race. That's 6.2 miles, which coincidentally, is just slightly farther than we were from Kenny Chesney. I got off to a terrible start, due largely to starting at the back and having to navigate the mass of bodies the first half mile. My one mile split was like eight and a half minutes. I picked it up from there and finished in 48:29, good for fifth in my age group. My time was fourteen seconds slower than last year, but that was kind of expected since I haven't been training as much. To have run a faster time would have been to cheat the very ideals of hard work, training and dedication. And also likely would have caused me to pass out and/or begin wretching.
Saturday night, I went to a dance recital, 'cause that's how I roll. I went to see Kywana Jr. in... umm... I keep forgetting the name of the program. Twelve Angry Men? No, there weren't that many men in it. The Princess Bride? Nope, no Andre The Giant. Dances With Wolves? No, but it was four hours long. Wait, I got it. Twelve Dancing Princesses! Yes, that's it. And it's even less exciting than the title would indicate, if that's possible.
Oh, I almost forgot! A bizarre thing did happen on the way to my race Saturday morning. My right nipple started burning. I mean, it was on fire! Have any of you ever had this problem? I examined it, but really couldn't tell much. I mean, what does it usually look like? I don't know. Anyway, that led to an odd, if not disturbing scene Saturday around lunchtime, as I stood shirtless in front of my bathroom mirror rubbing Neosporin on my nipples. I mean, if there is one microcosm I could give you to sum up my life, that's it right there.
You are currently experiencing the Spring of Bone...
"And I go back to watchin' summer fade into fall. Growin' up too fast and I do recall wishin' time would stop right in its tracks..."
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Destin '09
(I apologize for not being around more the past few weeks. Tonight is the Kenny Chesney concert, then Saturday is my 10K run. After that, I think things should start settling down a bit. I'm just now getting around to recapping my recent beach trip, which took place between the 30th of April and the 3rd of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.)
From the start, there was something different about this beach trip. And not just because Wolfgang and I both had freshly shaven heads. (Yes, when he saw mine he immediately decided to get his shaved. Let's not even analyze that.) No, it was something else.
Perhaps it was because LJ is dating someone for the first time this decade. He recently acquired a girlfriend after going to a speed dating event. They spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone. And although we--Wolfgang and I--still haven't met her, we agree that LJ will be married within a year. The whole trip, Wolfgang kept saying this was the last fling for the three amigos. I didn't even know he knew any Spanish.
Unfortunately, I was unable to use my camera this trip because, apparently, rechargeable batteries are only rechargeable up to a certain point. The cut off seems to be around four or five years. So I have no pictures for you today. Instead, close your eyes and allow my words to paint the images of Destin '09 upon the canvas of your mind. On second thought, you should probably keep your eyes open.
The highlights--or lowlights, I'll let you decide--began our first night there. I saw a girl who appeared to be pulling up her pants in the Wal-Mart parking lot. A bit odd, I thought, but figured she was probably just changing clothes or turning tricks. After she had zipped up, she saw me looking and said, "Yes, I just peed." As if you needed another reason to never go to Wal-Mart barefooted.
Things took a turn for the better on Friday, as I was lying on the beach tanning. (That is, exposing my body to ultraviolet radiation resulting in increased production of melanin; not making leather.) A girl, who I would presume to be between the age of 16 and 35--because who the heck can tell--approached me and said, "Excuse me. Would you mind helping us? We've got a pregnant girl down here and we can't get our umbrella to stay up." (See how much more attractive that is than "I just peed.")
Well, that sounds like a job for me. I sprang from my prone position and what did my wondering eyes behold but an oasis of girls about thirty yards down the beach. There must have been fifteen of them, and yes you guessed it, all between the ages of 16 and 35. Turns out it was a bachelorette party from New Orleans. I successfully planted their umbrella deep within the sand, received many words of undying gratitude, bowed graciously, then returned to my camp and said to Wolfgang, "Now let's get out of here before it falls."
Saturday brought another disturbing example of incorrect, inexplicable and inconsiderate human behavior. I was sitting on the second floor balcony overlooking the pool when a guy came walking down the sidewalk with a dog on a leash. He opened the gate, walked to the edge of the pool, picked the dog up, and PUT THE DOG IN THE POOL! The pool that people swim in! Thus answering that age-old question, what's worse than someone peeing in the Wal-Mart parking lot?
I couldn't believe what was happening. It was clearly posted, "No pets allowed in the pool." Do we really have to have a sign to tell people that? Well, apparently so. Needless to say, none of us got in the pool the rest of the weekend. And if I were a more confrontational person, there could have been a rumble.
As usual, enjoying some seafood was one of the highlights of the trip for me. We hit up The Back Porch, Fudpucker's, some place called AJ's, and of course, my beloved Donut Hole. I would be remiss if I didn't mention Wolfgang and LJ's ultra-conservative eating habits. Wolfgang ordered a burger at every single place we ate, except for the Donut Hole which doesn't even count because that was breakfast. LJ did the same, except he did branch out and order a barbecue sandwich at Fudpucker's.
In other culinary news, the All American Diner had closed down, tragically. That was a highlight for me. However, the Donut Hole was out of key lime donuts, which was a definite lowlight.
And so we close the book on Destin '09. A book with no pictures. Actually, there were a couple of pictures. Before we left Sunday morning, Wolfgang wanted me to take a picture of him, which I did because I needed him to take a picture of me and my hair, or lack thereof. Then he suggested we ask someone to take a group picture of the three of us together. Um, no. Maybe in Whoville. But not here in Heteroville.
Overall, it was a fun trip. The weather was beautiful and my head did not get burned. I returned home feeling refreshed and recharged. Once again left with that old familiar feeling of why have I still not moved close to the beach.
Will this be the last ride for the three amigos? Only time will tell. For my sake--and my blog's sake--I certainly hope not. That means I'd have to fast track going from friends-in-law to friends with Wolfgang.
"I took off for a weekend last month just to try and recall the whole year. All of the faces and all of the places. Wonderin' where they all disappeared..."
From the start, there was something different about this beach trip. And not just because Wolfgang and I both had freshly shaven heads. (Yes, when he saw mine he immediately decided to get his shaved. Let's not even analyze that.) No, it was something else.
Perhaps it was because LJ is dating someone for the first time this decade. He recently acquired a girlfriend after going to a speed dating event. They spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone. And although we--Wolfgang and I--still haven't met her, we agree that LJ will be married within a year. The whole trip, Wolfgang kept saying this was the last fling for the three amigos. I didn't even know he knew any Spanish.
Unfortunately, I was unable to use my camera this trip because, apparently, rechargeable batteries are only rechargeable up to a certain point. The cut off seems to be around four or five years. So I have no pictures for you today. Instead, close your eyes and allow my words to paint the images of Destin '09 upon the canvas of your mind. On second thought, you should probably keep your eyes open.
The highlights--or lowlights, I'll let you decide--began our first night there. I saw a girl who appeared to be pulling up her pants in the Wal-Mart parking lot. A bit odd, I thought, but figured she was probably just changing clothes or turning tricks. After she had zipped up, she saw me looking and said, "Yes, I just peed." As if you needed another reason to never go to Wal-Mart barefooted.
Things took a turn for the better on Friday, as I was lying on the beach tanning. (That is, exposing my body to ultraviolet radiation resulting in increased production of melanin; not making leather.) A girl, who I would presume to be between the age of 16 and 35--because who the heck can tell--approached me and said, "Excuse me. Would you mind helping us? We've got a pregnant girl down here and we can't get our umbrella to stay up." (See how much more attractive that is than "I just peed.")
Well, that sounds like a job for me. I sprang from my prone position and what did my wondering eyes behold but an oasis of girls about thirty yards down the beach. There must have been fifteen of them, and yes you guessed it, all between the ages of 16 and 35. Turns out it was a bachelorette party from New Orleans. I successfully planted their umbrella deep within the sand, received many words of undying gratitude, bowed graciously, then returned to my camp and said to Wolfgang, "Now let's get out of here before it falls."
Saturday brought another disturbing example of incorrect, inexplicable and inconsiderate human behavior. I was sitting on the second floor balcony overlooking the pool when a guy came walking down the sidewalk with a dog on a leash. He opened the gate, walked to the edge of the pool, picked the dog up, and PUT THE DOG IN THE POOL! The pool that people swim in! Thus answering that age-old question, what's worse than someone peeing in the Wal-Mart parking lot?
I couldn't believe what was happening. It was clearly posted, "No pets allowed in the pool." Do we really have to have a sign to tell people that? Well, apparently so. Needless to say, none of us got in the pool the rest of the weekend. And if I were a more confrontational person, there could have been a rumble.
As usual, enjoying some seafood was one of the highlights of the trip for me. We hit up The Back Porch, Fudpucker's, some place called AJ's, and of course, my beloved Donut Hole. I would be remiss if I didn't mention Wolfgang and LJ's ultra-conservative eating habits. Wolfgang ordered a burger at every single place we ate, except for the Donut Hole which doesn't even count because that was breakfast. LJ did the same, except he did branch out and order a barbecue sandwich at Fudpucker's.
In other culinary news, the All American Diner had closed down, tragically. That was a highlight for me. However, the Donut Hole was out of key lime donuts, which was a definite lowlight.
And so we close the book on Destin '09. A book with no pictures. Actually, there were a couple of pictures. Before we left Sunday morning, Wolfgang wanted me to take a picture of him, which I did because I needed him to take a picture of me and my hair, or lack thereof. Then he suggested we ask someone to take a group picture of the three of us together. Um, no. Maybe in Whoville. But not here in Heteroville.
Overall, it was a fun trip. The weather was beautiful and my head did not get burned. I returned home feeling refreshed and recharged. Once again left with that old familiar feeling of why have I still not moved close to the beach.
Will this be the last ride for the three amigos? Only time will tell. For my sake--and my blog's sake--I certainly hope not. That means I'd have to fast track going from friends-in-law to friends with Wolfgang.
"I took off for a weekend last month just to try and recall the whole year. All of the faces and all of the places. Wonderin' where they all disappeared..."
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
That time I almost went all the way
Yesterday was my six-year blogging anniversary, frequently referred to as a bloggiversary. I've never understood why my bloggiversary is so popular in certain regions of Mexico, but it is. No doubt they were partying last night in Puebla like it was 1862.
I got home from the beach Sunday evening, but it feels like my brain is still on vacation. Until it returns, I figured I would regale you with the tale of what went down (that means what happened) with the great head-shaving experiment of 2009.
I was chatting online with the female portion of Kywana on "the day." By the way, do you realize that instant messaging, text messaging, and email now compose approximately 70% of all my communication? The rest of the breakdown is: phone (25%), face-to-face (4%), all other communications, including telepathy (1%).
Anyway, after discussing the topic for awhile, she posed this question: "So are you going to shave it yourself?"
That prompted the following response from me: "Well, that's the other thing. Would you wanna shave me?"
It's safe to say that is the first time in my life I have ever uttered those words to a girl. (Or anyone, for that matter.) But as luck would have it, she agreed. Turns out that while 'Wana is not a professional cosmetologist, she does have previous head-shaving experience. Also, her sister attended cosmetology school, so that has to count for something, right?
Wheels were in motion. I was about to put my head in her hands. The only thing that could stop it at that point was me totally freaking out, which let's be honest, was still a decent possibility.
I showed up armed with every set of clippers I owned--which amounted to three--my trusty Mach 3 razor, and shaving cream. On the drive over, I had a lot of time to think about things. Things like hair, life, Andre Agassi, and what the heck was I doing. I had decided I'd get her to shave it with the #1 guard, which is the shortest, see how I liked that, and then decide if I wanted to go all the way.
After giving me one last chance to back out, she began. There was a brief moment of panic at one point as the clippers died when she was only about halfway done. Apparently, when the instructions say to charge them for at least ten hours before the initial use, you can't just arbitrarily substitute 45 minutes for ten hours.
The shaving process itself wasn't too bad. There was no mirror nearby so the only clue I had about how things were progressing was the looks on the faces of Kywana Jr. and the male portion of Kywana. I would describe them as looks of sympathetic bewilderment. I remember the words "don't look down" being uttered at some point, no doubt as to keep me from freaking out at the sight of my manly locks showering the floor.
As suddenly as it began, it was over.
Then came the hardest part for me--going into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I covered my eyes, separating my fingers slowly to reveal what the clippers hath wrought. And you know what?
It was HORRIBLE!!!!! Noooooooooooooo!! Why?!?!?! Why did I do this?!?!?!
I'm kidding. It wasn't that bad at all. The only question now was whether to stop there or go all the way. I took a pic and sent it to my inner circle. Reaction was swift and decisive. My sister replied, "Oh, you really do look like Steve-O. Yeah, I think you should stop there." My Mom proclaimed, "Well, you'll never get married now. I still had a little hope before." Clearly, everyone was in agreement: it was a complete success.
So now, for the first time in the history of the internet, I am able to present for your enjoyment a freshly shorn (and somewhat tanned) Bone:
OK, so it's not the full Dalhausser. I didn't go all the way. In the head-shaving arena, this is known as third base. And I'm thinking I might stay here awhile.
"Way down south of the border. Way down Mexico way. They're having a big celebration. It's on the fifth of May..."
I got home from the beach Sunday evening, but it feels like my brain is still on vacation. Until it returns, I figured I would regale you with the tale of what went down (that means what happened) with the great head-shaving experiment of 2009.
I was chatting online with the female portion of Kywana on "the day." By the way, do you realize that instant messaging, text messaging, and email now compose approximately 70% of all my communication? The rest of the breakdown is: phone (25%), face-to-face (4%), all other communications, including telepathy (1%).
Anyway, after discussing the topic for awhile, she posed this question: "So are you going to shave it yourself?"
That prompted the following response from me: "Well, that's the other thing. Would you wanna shave me?"
It's safe to say that is the first time in my life I have ever uttered those words to a girl. (Or anyone, for that matter.) But as luck would have it, she agreed. Turns out that while 'Wana is not a professional cosmetologist, she does have previous head-shaving experience. Also, her sister attended cosmetology school, so that has to count for something, right?
Wheels were in motion. I was about to put my head in her hands. The only thing that could stop it at that point was me totally freaking out, which let's be honest, was still a decent possibility.
I showed up armed with every set of clippers I owned--which amounted to three--my trusty Mach 3 razor, and shaving cream. On the drive over, I had a lot of time to think about things. Things like hair, life, Andre Agassi, and what the heck was I doing. I had decided I'd get her to shave it with the #1 guard, which is the shortest, see how I liked that, and then decide if I wanted to go all the way.
After giving me one last chance to back out, she began. There was a brief moment of panic at one point as the clippers died when she was only about halfway done. Apparently, when the instructions say to charge them for at least ten hours before the initial use, you can't just arbitrarily substitute 45 minutes for ten hours.
The shaving process itself wasn't too bad. There was no mirror nearby so the only clue I had about how things were progressing was the looks on the faces of Kywana Jr. and the male portion of Kywana. I would describe them as looks of sympathetic bewilderment. I remember the words "don't look down" being uttered at some point, no doubt as to keep me from freaking out at the sight of my manly locks showering the floor.
As suddenly as it began, it was over.
Then came the hardest part for me--going into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I covered my eyes, separating my fingers slowly to reveal what the clippers hath wrought. And you know what?
It was HORRIBLE!!!!! Noooooooooooooo!! Why?!?!?! Why did I do this?!?!?!
I'm kidding. It wasn't that bad at all. The only question now was whether to stop there or go all the way. I took a pic and sent it to my inner circle. Reaction was swift and decisive. My sister replied, "Oh, you really do look like Steve-O. Yeah, I think you should stop there." My Mom proclaimed, "Well, you'll never get married now. I still had a little hope before." Clearly, everyone was in agreement: it was a complete success.
So now, for the first time in the history of the internet, I am able to present for your enjoyment a freshly shorn (and somewhat tanned) Bone:
OK, so it's not the full Dalhausser. I didn't go all the way. In the head-shaving arena, this is known as third base. And I'm thinking I might stay here awhile.
"Way down south of the border. Way down Mexico way. They're having a big celebration. It's on the fifth of May..."
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser?
I'm off to the beach with the Darryls this weekend. I'm ready for some relaxation. New Orleans seems so long ago (not to mention a tad fuzzy in my memory). We'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, which means I have just over twenty-four hours to make one of the biggest decisions of my life.
This is something I've been grappling with off and on for awhile now. It's a tough decision for a man to make. But this seems like the perfect time, as I'm going to be spending four days at the beach where no one knows me--save for my two longtime confidants. If I'm going to do it, it's now or never.
I've run the idea past my sister and a few close friends, and have gotten a wide range of responses. Then my sister inadvertently brought it up over dinner at Mom's one night, prompting a vehement "Noooooo!" from she who bore me. Later, Mom told me in no uncertain terms that I would be "out of the family" if I went through with it.
She wasn't laughing.
I suppose some background information is in order. Several months ago, I was watching a provocative program on television. It was called The Summer Olympics. Perhaps some of you saw it, as well. One athlete, in particular, stood out to me. And that athlete was Phil Dalhausser.
What was it about Dalhausser that entranced me so? Was it his forceful, sand-blasting kills? Was it his lithe, slender six-foot-nine-inch body? No. It was his cleanly shaven head. Think James Carville with a tan.
I had thought about making the hairy to smooth transition before, but Dalhausser's immaculate scalp brought the issue front and center again. I figure if I do it now, I can get a bit of a tan while at the beach so it's won't be pasty white. That all sounds swell, right? So what's the problem?
The problem is, this is a drastic step--a major life decision right up there with... um... well, surely I've made a major decision at some point in the past 36 years. And while I may talk a good game, I'm afraid that the sound of the clippers and the thought of my hair being sheared away like freshly cut grass will cause me to run home screaming and apologizing profusely to my precious follicles for ever allowing the thought to creep into my head.
As I said, I've received a wide range of opinions on the matter. My sister is all for it, because she "thinks it'll be funny." Thanks, sis. She also asked if I was going to get it "slick" like Mister Clean, or just cut it really short. Well, I don't know. What do most people do? Another friend asked, "What if you have dents in your head?" Well, that's a disturbing thought.
Meanwhile, I've been doing some research of my own. Turning to my beloved Wikipedia, I found these the following two statements:
"Incidents of cutting one's scalp with a razor blade are common, but generally are avoidable..." (Ouch. I'd never considered that. I'd hate to have to walk around with a tiny scrap of tissue stuck to my head.)
"Practical reasons include work safety or comfort, lice prevention, grooming simplicity and preparation for surgery." (Lice prevention. That can never be a bad thing.)
Finally, I've tried composing a mental pro and con list. On the pro side: I would save on shampoo and haircuts. Also, less drag if I ever were to join an over-35 swim team.
On the con side: What if it doesn't grow back? What if there are dents? And of course, I'd be out of the family. Though that sounds kinda cool. Sorta like being out of the "business," which makes me think of Sonny Corinthos and Jason Morgan.
And so, blog friends, it has all come down to this: To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser? That is the question.
If you have opinions, advice, personal testimonials, or would like to adopt a blogger into your family, you know where to find me.
You have twenty-four hours.
"Cut off the mail, and I left on a light, and I locked up the house, and I hopped on a flight..."
This is something I've been grappling with off and on for awhile now. It's a tough decision for a man to make. But this seems like the perfect time, as I'm going to be spending four days at the beach where no one knows me--save for my two longtime confidants. If I'm going to do it, it's now or never.
I've run the idea past my sister and a few close friends, and have gotten a wide range of responses. Then my sister inadvertently brought it up over dinner at Mom's one night, prompting a vehement "Noooooo!" from she who bore me. Later, Mom told me in no uncertain terms that I would be "out of the family" if I went through with it.
She wasn't laughing.
I suppose some background information is in order. Several months ago, I was watching a provocative program on television. It was called The Summer Olympics. Perhaps some of you saw it, as well. One athlete, in particular, stood out to me. And that athlete was Phil Dalhausser.
What was it about Dalhausser that entranced me so? Was it his forceful, sand-blasting kills? Was it his lithe, slender six-foot-nine-inch body? No. It was his cleanly shaven head. Think James Carville with a tan.
I had thought about making the hairy to smooth transition before, but Dalhausser's immaculate scalp brought the issue front and center again. I figure if I do it now, I can get a bit of a tan while at the beach so it's won't be pasty white. That all sounds swell, right? So what's the problem?
The problem is, this is a drastic step--a major life decision right up there with... um... well, surely I've made a major decision at some point in the past 36 years. And while I may talk a good game, I'm afraid that the sound of the clippers and the thought of my hair being sheared away like freshly cut grass will cause me to run home screaming and apologizing profusely to my precious follicles for ever allowing the thought to creep into my head.
As I said, I've received a wide range of opinions on the matter. My sister is all for it, because she "thinks it'll be funny." Thanks, sis. She also asked if I was going to get it "slick" like Mister Clean, or just cut it really short. Well, I don't know. What do most people do? Another friend asked, "What if you have dents in your head?" Well, that's a disturbing thought.
Meanwhile, I've been doing some research of my own. Turning to my beloved Wikipedia, I found these the following two statements:
"Incidents of cutting one's scalp with a razor blade are common, but generally are avoidable..." (Ouch. I'd never considered that. I'd hate to have to walk around with a tiny scrap of tissue stuck to my head.)
"Practical reasons include work safety or comfort, lice prevention, grooming simplicity and preparation for surgery." (Lice prevention. That can never be a bad thing.)
Finally, I've tried composing a mental pro and con list. On the pro side: I would save on shampoo and haircuts. Also, less drag if I ever were to join an over-35 swim team.
On the con side: What if it doesn't grow back? What if there are dents? And of course, I'd be out of the family. Though that sounds kinda cool. Sorta like being out of the "business," which makes me think of Sonny Corinthos and Jason Morgan.
And so, blog friends, it has all come down to this: To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser? That is the question.
If you have opinions, advice, personal testimonials, or would like to adopt a blogger into your family, you know where to find me.
You have twenty-four hours.
"Cut off the mail, and I left on a light, and I locked up the house, and I hopped on a flight..."
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Great moments in Bone sports history
I believe it was William Shakespeare who wrote: "Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." (Actually, I thought it was Kennedy. But evidently not, according to Google.) But I am here to tell you that deep down, most men measure their own greatness by athletic achievement.
Why else would aging athletes keep hanging on or coming out of retirement for one more year? What else could drive men to bowl in a league every Wednesday morning until they're 80? And why else would Huey Lewis & The News have released an album entitled Sports, when none of the songs on the album have anything to do with sports? (Seriously, I really would like to know this. Wikipedia doesn't say.)
With all that in mind, today I will attempt to countdown the top four moments of Bone's athletic career. I was gonna do a top five or ten, but I didn't want the post to be too long. Plus, I could only really think of four. So come along on a magical journey through some of the greatest sports moments you've never heard of. I have a feeling this post will help explain so much.
4. Scoring 26 points in a basketball game - It was my senior year of high school. And what a way to go out. A career-high 26 points. I was en fuego! OK, so it was a church league basketball game. Actually, a preseason church league game. But still, everyone was trying their best! Also I should get bonus points since I did it in those frighteningly short Larry Bird shorts, which were still somewhat prominent in 1991.
3. The race - As some of you know, I am a bit of a runner. How one determines what classifies "a bit" of a runner, I do not know. But nevertheless. How successful has my running career been? Suffice it to say that I've gotten my name in the paper a few times.... along with everybody else who finished the race.
But it all started in middle school. It was the Presidential Fitness Run. The distance was one mile, which was four laps around the orange cones that Mister Stanley, the PE teacher, had set up on the playground. I was running a solid third the entire race--not showing off, not lagging behind--and was pretty much resigned to finishing there. But as I approached the start/finish line to complete my third lap, I saw the two guys ahead of me inexplicably slow to a walk and then a complete stop.
As I zoomed by, I glanced back at them, wondering if they were tired or if maybe I had miscounted the laps. I could see Mister Stanley say something to them, then they started to run after me. I hadn't miscounted, they had! Buoyed by my unbelievable luck, I could not be caught. I won! And from that day on, a myth began to grow about my speed. OK, not really, but it's a great line.
2. The big mud volleyball tournament - In olden times, my friend Ben would attend church from roughly March through July so that he would be eligible to play on the church softball team. Well, one of those months in one of those years, some people from his church decided to get up a team and enter a local mud volleyball tournament. Needing one more player, he gave me a call and as fate would have it, not only was I home, but I didn't have any plans.
The other teams were about equally made up of guys and girls. But our team was composed of five guys--none of whom had ever played organized volleyball--and one girl, who happened to be the volleyball coach at the local high school. It was kinda like a bad volleyball reality show, but with the attractive scantily clad female aspect of Dog Eat Dog.
We came. We played. We got mud on our face and on our clothes. In our hair and in between our toes. And our team finished second. That was out of four. But finishing second alone would not have made this one of the four greatest moments in Bone sports history. Oh who am I kidding, sure it would have. But what elevates it all the way to number two status is what happened next.
A girl on the team we lost to in the finals was standing there talking smack about their victory. So I crossed under the net and proceeded to tackle her gently in the mud. Then some of the girls led us into the woods to a creek where we all hopped in. I had never played mud volleyball before, and never did again, but to this day that still might be the most fun I have ever had.
1. Bone on ice It was my very first time ice skating. I was in high school. What, I was a late bloomer, OK? Anyway, I wasn't doing so well. The first trip around the rink, I must have fallen at least twenty times. Every time I'd let go of the rail, down I went. About a quarter of the way through my second lap, I had just fallen again. Before I could get up, I heard this angelic voice ask, "Need some help?"
I looked up and saw two girls standing there smiling at me. Or giggling at me, whichever. They helped me up and with one girl taking each arm, proceeded to skate me around for the rest of the night.
Can there be any doubt that was the greatest moment of my athletic career?
I would like to be able to tell you that I got their numbers. But it was not to be, for I did not ask. (This was pre-What Would Brian Boitano Do, so I was lost.) That's what makes this such an inspirational, yet tragic tale. It's kinda like in The Natural when Robert Redford hits the homerun, then dies at home plate. Or am I remembering that wrong?
This concludes our countdown of the greatest moments in Bone sports history. I hope these memories have helped to entertain and inspire each of you. Until next time, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.
Unless you're like in a planetarium. That would just look stupid.
"Glory days, well they'll pass you by. Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye..."
Why else would aging athletes keep hanging on or coming out of retirement for one more year? What else could drive men to bowl in a league every Wednesday morning until they're 80? And why else would Huey Lewis & The News have released an album entitled Sports, when none of the songs on the album have anything to do with sports? (Seriously, I really would like to know this. Wikipedia doesn't say.)
With all that in mind, today I will attempt to countdown the top four moments of Bone's athletic career. I was gonna do a top five or ten, but I didn't want the post to be too long. Plus, I could only really think of four. So come along on a magical journey through some of the greatest sports moments you've never heard of. I have a feeling this post will help explain so much.
4. Scoring 26 points in a basketball game - It was my senior year of high school. And what a way to go out. A career-high 26 points. I was en fuego! OK, so it was a church league basketball game. Actually, a preseason church league game. But still, everyone was trying their best! Also I should get bonus points since I did it in those frighteningly short Larry Bird shorts, which were still somewhat prominent in 1991.
3. The race - As some of you know, I am a bit of a runner. How one determines what classifies "a bit" of a runner, I do not know. But nevertheless. How successful has my running career been? Suffice it to say that I've gotten my name in the paper a few times.... along with everybody else who finished the race.
But it all started in middle school. It was the Presidential Fitness Run. The distance was one mile, which was four laps around the orange cones that Mister Stanley, the PE teacher, had set up on the playground. I was running a solid third the entire race--not showing off, not lagging behind--and was pretty much resigned to finishing there. But as I approached the start/finish line to complete my third lap, I saw the two guys ahead of me inexplicably slow to a walk and then a complete stop.
As I zoomed by, I glanced back at them, wondering if they were tired or if maybe I had miscounted the laps. I could see Mister Stanley say something to them, then they started to run after me. I hadn't miscounted, they had! Buoyed by my unbelievable luck, I could not be caught. I won! And from that day on, a myth began to grow about my speed. OK, not really, but it's a great line.
2. The big mud volleyball tournament - In olden times, my friend Ben would attend church from roughly March through July so that he would be eligible to play on the church softball team. Well, one of those months in one of those years, some people from his church decided to get up a team and enter a local mud volleyball tournament. Needing one more player, he gave me a call and as fate would have it, not only was I home, but I didn't have any plans.
The other teams were about equally made up of guys and girls. But our team was composed of five guys--none of whom had ever played organized volleyball--and one girl, who happened to be the volleyball coach at the local high school. It was kinda like a bad volleyball reality show, but with the attractive scantily clad female aspect of Dog Eat Dog.
We came. We played. We got mud on our face and on our clothes. In our hair and in between our toes. And our team finished second. That was out of four. But finishing second alone would not have made this one of the four greatest moments in Bone sports history. Oh who am I kidding, sure it would have. But what elevates it all the way to number two status is what happened next.
A girl on the team we lost to in the finals was standing there talking smack about their victory. So I crossed under the net and proceeded to tackle her gently in the mud. Then some of the girls led us into the woods to a creek where we all hopped in. I had never played mud volleyball before, and never did again, but to this day that still might be the most fun I have ever had.
1. Bone on ice It was my very first time ice skating. I was in high school. What, I was a late bloomer, OK? Anyway, I wasn't doing so well. The first trip around the rink, I must have fallen at least twenty times. Every time I'd let go of the rail, down I went. About a quarter of the way through my second lap, I had just fallen again. Before I could get up, I heard this angelic voice ask, "Need some help?"
I looked up and saw two girls standing there smiling at me. Or giggling at me, whichever. They helped me up and with one girl taking each arm, proceeded to skate me around for the rest of the night.
Can there be any doubt that was the greatest moment of my athletic career?
I would like to be able to tell you that I got their numbers. But it was not to be, for I did not ask. (This was pre-What Would Brian Boitano Do, so I was lost.) That's what makes this such an inspirational, yet tragic tale. It's kinda like in The Natural when Robert Redford hits the homerun, then dies at home plate. Or am I remembering that wrong?
This concludes our countdown of the greatest moments in Bone sports history. I hope these memories have helped to entertain and inspire each of you. Until next time, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.
Unless you're like in a planetarium. That would just look stupid.
"Glory days, well they'll pass you by. Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye..."
Friday, April 17, 2009
Two birds, one stone
Welcome to the Friday Fifteen. Think of it like a Thursday Thirteen, except bigger and far less popular. Far, far less popular. This post will attempt to kill two birds with one stone, serving to update you on my life while also clearing out my mental cache. And also giving me something to post. Well, that's three birds, but that would be impossible. Believe it or not, I have a lot of random thoughts that come into my head throughout the day, as you will see. Sometimes I wonder, where do they come from? And why me?
1. I wonder how the two-birds-with-one-stone cliche started. Did it have a literal beginning? Did someone somewhere along the timeline of history actually kill two birds with one stone? And if so, was it intentional? Were they a bird stoning trick shot artist? Or was it an accident? Like did the stone hit a huge branch, breaking it and causing it to fall on two birds, sending them to a sudden and tragic demise? And if it never really happened, then who came up with this cliche? Do you have any idea how hard it is to even hit one bird with one stone? Well, me neither, but it's bound to be pretty difficult.
2. Two Byrds With One Stone would be a great title if Roger McGuinn, David Crosby, and Mick Jagger ever recorded an album together. (I tried to find a pic of the three of them together to post, but surprisingly there were none to be found. At least not on page one of my google image results.)
3. At the car wash today, there was a lady standing at the thing where you pay. She asked, "Strawberry or Pina Colada?" At first, I thought they were giving away refreshing beverages, but turns out it was just a free car air freshener for customer appreciation day.
4. I wonder if a car air freshener would work in the house.
5. Cinco de mayo will mark my six year bloggiversary. Do I have to post something for that?
6. Spurred on by my recent string of plumbing successes--or, just that one thing--I decided to try and fix the toilet at work yesterday. Mission accomplished. We can now flush the men's room toilet without having to hold the lever down for seven seconds. Who knows, I could have a whole new career on my hands. Or, a career.
7. Why is McDonald's so fast in the morning and so much slower at all other times of the day?
8. My favorite line from The Office last night: "Hear me, Dwight, when I say I brought you into this world, and I can take you out... Bill Cosby."
9. My second favorite line: "I. Understand. Nothing."
10. Which came first, the can or the can opener? If it was the can, how did they open them? And if it was the can opener, just... why?
11. Sunday night, it was incredibly windy here. No rain, no thunder, just wind. For about three hours. It was eerie. The next day, the news called it a gravity wave. When I went to go running Monday afternoon, the entrances to the park were roped off and there looked to be about twenty or thirty trees down, apparently from this gravity wave. I had to drive twenty minutes to another park to run.
12. That's the only time I've been running this week. Apparently, I'm not too lazy to run, just too lazy to drive very far to do it.
13. My fantasy baseball league draft is tonight. And you thought all I did on weekends was hang out with 10-year-olds. Well, not tonight. Tonight I'll be sitting online for two or three hours pretending to draft real players onto my fake baseball team. I finished in 4th place last year (out of ten teams). This season, I'm shooting for the stars. Or, third place.
14. Tomorrow, fave sister and I will be attending Bama's A-Day game. Also known as the final scrimmage of spring practice. ESPN is televising it. Let me say that again. ESPN is televising our spring practice.
15. We leave for the beach in thirteen days. Unfortunately, it's been an unseasonably cool April. I like for it to at least be in the 80's when I'm at the beach. I'll still go if it's in the 70's, but I can't promise that I won't get chilly at night. Oh well. Surely if Kennedy diffused the Cuban Missile Crisis in thirteen days, surely the weather can warm up by then.
"Bring me two pina coladas. I want one for each hand. Let's set sail with Captain Morgan. Oh, and never leave dry land..."
1. I wonder how the two-birds-with-one-stone cliche started. Did it have a literal beginning? Did someone somewhere along the timeline of history actually kill two birds with one stone? And if so, was it intentional? Were they a bird stoning trick shot artist? Or was it an accident? Like did the stone hit a huge branch, breaking it and causing it to fall on two birds, sending them to a sudden and tragic demise? And if it never really happened, then who came up with this cliche? Do you have any idea how hard it is to even hit one bird with one stone? Well, me neither, but it's bound to be pretty difficult.
2. Two Byrds With One Stone would be a great title if Roger McGuinn, David Crosby, and Mick Jagger ever recorded an album together. (I tried to find a pic of the three of them together to post, but surprisingly there were none to be found. At least not on page one of my google image results.)
3. At the car wash today, there was a lady standing at the thing where you pay. She asked, "Strawberry or Pina Colada?" At first, I thought they were giving away refreshing beverages, but turns out it was just a free car air freshener for customer appreciation day.
4. I wonder if a car air freshener would work in the house.
5. Cinco de mayo will mark my six year bloggiversary. Do I have to post something for that?
6. Spurred on by my recent string of plumbing successes--or, just that one thing--I decided to try and fix the toilet at work yesterday. Mission accomplished. We can now flush the men's room toilet without having to hold the lever down for seven seconds. Who knows, I could have a whole new career on my hands. Or, a career.
7. Why is McDonald's so fast in the morning and so much slower at all other times of the day?
8. My favorite line from The Office last night: "Hear me, Dwight, when I say I brought you into this world, and I can take you out... Bill Cosby."
9. My second favorite line: "I. Understand. Nothing."
10. Which came first, the can or the can opener? If it was the can, how did they open them? And if it was the can opener, just... why?
11. Sunday night, it was incredibly windy here. No rain, no thunder, just wind. For about three hours. It was eerie. The next day, the news called it a gravity wave. When I went to go running Monday afternoon, the entrances to the park were roped off and there looked to be about twenty or thirty trees down, apparently from this gravity wave. I had to drive twenty minutes to another park to run.
12. That's the only time I've been running this week. Apparently, I'm not too lazy to run, just too lazy to drive very far to do it.
13. My fantasy baseball league draft is tonight. And you thought all I did on weekends was hang out with 10-year-olds. Well, not tonight. Tonight I'll be sitting online for two or three hours pretending to draft real players onto my fake baseball team. I finished in 4th place last year (out of ten teams). This season, I'm shooting for the stars. Or, third place.
14. Tomorrow, fave sister and I will be attending Bama's A-Day game. Also known as the final scrimmage of spring practice. ESPN is televising it. Let me say that again. ESPN is televising our spring practice.
15. We leave for the beach in thirteen days. Unfortunately, it's been an unseasonably cool April. I like for it to at least be in the 80's when I'm at the beach. I'll still go if it's in the 70's, but I can't promise that I won't get chilly at night. Oh well. Surely if Kennedy diffused the Cuban Missile Crisis in thirteen days, surely the weather can warm up by then.
"Bring me two pina coladas. I want one for each hand. Let's set sail with Captain Morgan. Oh, and never leave dry land..."
Monday, April 13, 2009
The floaty ball's connected to the...
I've been having an issue in the bathroom for several weeks now. And as you may have figured out from Male Restroom Etiquette and some of my other writings, I do not always adhere to the old adage, "What happens in the john stays in the john." So prepare yourselves.
Some time ago, I went to flush and--how shall I put this--it didn't go down. The whole swirling/draining mechanism came to a complete stop. Through trial and error, I found that if I held the handle down for approximately 4 to 7 seconds, the flush cycle would complete. And so, this is how I've been living for several months now--holding down the handle to ensure a full and proper flush. This went on for so long that whenever I used a toilet that flushed properly, it caught me off guard.
Then Friday, more trouble erupted. The water wouldn't stop running after a flush--a not uncommon problem in toilet circles. So I did what any normal person would do. I jiggled the handle. And waited.
It kept running.
So what do I do when something goes wrong around the house? Eventually, I call the property manager. But not before I have a look at the situation myself.
Do I consider myself a handyman? Let me put it this way: I do not. Not in the class of a Bob Vila, Al Borland, or Handyman Negri anyway.
But I am a man. Therefore I possess an unshakable, innate belief that I am equipped with the ability and know-how to fix any device, grill any meat, and find any place on Earth without asking for directions. And so, I took the lid off the back of the toilet and looked inside. Also known as, pretending to know what I'm doing.
You may think a toilet is nothing more than a base, a seat, a lid, a hole, a tank, and sparkling blue liquid that magically fills the bowl when you flush. But the inner workings of this magnificent invention are as intricate and complex as any simple lever or pulley machine.
As I opened the lid, I saw the familiar floaty ball, the chain, the bendy tube, and the stopper thingy. (These are all highly technical terms. No need to concern yourself with them at this point.) My keen eye noticed that one arm of the stopper thingy was broken. Aha!
Now what to do? I knew the property manager wouldn't come out for something like this until Monday. So it was either run up a $200 water bill, cut the water off and go to a public restroom anytime I had to go, or plunge my hands into the bacteria-infested waters and try to fix it myself. *shudder* Talk about a germophobic nightmare. I'd rather lick a shoe.
It wasn't an easy decision. But the Taco Bell bathroom really wasn't all that bad.
I'm kidding. I went to Wal-Mart and found a stopper thingy, which they call a flapper--layman's terms, I'm sure. Then I came home, got out one of the four or five tool sets Dad has given me for Christmases past, and entered the bathroom, which had just become my personal workshop.
Not surprisingly, or very surprisingly, I was able to affix the flapper to the crapper with fleeting aplomb and only nominal water spillage. I didn't even have to use any of my tools. Just some scissors.
And who knows, maybe in thirty or forty years, my hands will feel clean again.
"I washed my hands in muddy water. Washed my hands, but they didn't come clean..."
Some time ago, I went to flush and--how shall I put this--it didn't go down. The whole swirling/draining mechanism came to a complete stop. Through trial and error, I found that if I held the handle down for approximately 4 to 7 seconds, the flush cycle would complete. And so, this is how I've been living for several months now--holding down the handle to ensure a full and proper flush. This went on for so long that whenever I used a toilet that flushed properly, it caught me off guard.
Then Friday, more trouble erupted. The water wouldn't stop running after a flush--a not uncommon problem in toilet circles. So I did what any normal person would do. I jiggled the handle. And waited.
It kept running.
So what do I do when something goes wrong around the house? Eventually, I call the property manager. But not before I have a look at the situation myself.
Do I consider myself a handyman? Let me put it this way: I do not. Not in the class of a Bob Vila, Al Borland, or Handyman Negri anyway.
But I am a man. Therefore I possess an unshakable, innate belief that I am equipped with the ability and know-how to fix any device, grill any meat, and find any place on Earth without asking for directions. And so, I took the lid off the back of the toilet and looked inside. Also known as, pretending to know what I'm doing.
You may think a toilet is nothing more than a base, a seat, a lid, a hole, a tank, and sparkling blue liquid that magically fills the bowl when you flush. But the inner workings of this magnificent invention are as intricate and complex as any simple lever or pulley machine.
As I opened the lid, I saw the familiar floaty ball, the chain, the bendy tube, and the stopper thingy. (These are all highly technical terms. No need to concern yourself with them at this point.) My keen eye noticed that one arm of the stopper thingy was broken. Aha!
Now what to do? I knew the property manager wouldn't come out for something like this until Monday. So it was either run up a $200 water bill, cut the water off and go to a public restroom anytime I had to go, or plunge my hands into the bacteria-infested waters and try to fix it myself. *shudder* Talk about a germophobic nightmare. I'd rather lick a shoe.
It wasn't an easy decision. But the Taco Bell bathroom really wasn't all that bad.
I'm kidding. I went to Wal-Mart and found a stopper thingy, which they call a flapper--layman's terms, I'm sure. Then I came home, got out one of the four or five tool sets Dad has given me for Christmases past, and entered the bathroom, which had just become my personal workshop.
Not surprisingly, or very surprisingly, I was able to affix the flapper to the crapper with fleeting aplomb and only nominal water spillage. I didn't even have to use any of my tools. Just some scissors.
And who knows, maybe in thirty or forty years, my hands will feel clean again.
"I washed my hands in muddy water. Washed my hands, but they didn't come clean..."
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