Long live the spork & me!

I can say without hyperbole I nearly died yesterday.

I lead a soft life bereft of danger. My health is good and exposure to threats minimal.

That meant Sunday in New York elevated all my risks. I’d be inebriated in an unfamiliar city, increasing the chances I’d stumble in front of a speeding taxi or get gunned down by any of the numerous homicidal maniacs who call the Big Apple home.

Any of that would have at least made an interesting death story, and I’m all for that.

That’s why my near death experience would have been fatally embarrassing to my humble legacy, had I not survived it.

Blame it on a bacon-armored shrimp.

John and I were enjoying dim sum at the Golden Unicorn in Chinatown. Dim sum is a great exotic treat where the food is served on little carts pushed by waitresses offering trays of tiny feasts. The girls bring the carts past and you point with your chopsticks at what you want.

It’s wonderful.

And John, whom I’ve recently mentioned as my most corrupt and soulless friend, is great company. He’s witty, profane and so sacrilegious I imagine dining with him would be much like sharing dim sum with Satan.

Our bellies were full from an hour of rapacious over-eating. Yet, we pressed on.

I don’t remember how it happened. I may have been distracted by my eagerness to work the words “dimolition derby” into the conversation whenever the carts collided, but the blame goes to simple poor manners and gluttony.

I didn’t even realize I was choking.

All I remember was my body started shutting down. I remember reaching for a glass of water and my hand starting to shake violently.

I don’t remember feeling pain. Only bewildered alarm.

I remember ordering my body to behave. I didn’t want to make a scene, even as I was choking to death.

An unchewed golf ball-sized chunk of lightly fried shrimp wrapped in bacon was lodged in my throat.

Now, I know better than that. But as this was a Chinese restaurant, the custom is to use chopsticks, the most ridiculous dining utensil ever conceived to convey food into the mouth.

You can’t saw steak with chopsticks. It takes practice to skillfully pick up some General Tso chicken, let alone a slippery pork dumpling. They are inferior to even the spork, a really handy innovation that by all logic should reduce by a full third the space of every single silverware drawer in the world.

But after an hour of using the chopsticks I’d gotten careless. I didn’t want to bite the piece in half and risk having the remainder plummet into a puddle of soy and splash stains on my shirt.

So I just shoveled the whole chunk into my mouth.

John later said it lasted about a minute. He thought I was having a seizure.

Somehow, I got that sucker down. I restored to normal almost immediately and we began to piece together what had happened.

The incident, of course, dominated the conversation the rest of the day. I didn’t see my life pass before my eyes or anything like that and take away no great lessons other than the reinforcement of the ones my mother told me about proper table manners.

I haven’t had any foxhole conversion to lead a better life, change any of my habits or enjoy this precious life any more than I already dearly do.

We spent the rest of the day just as we’d planned. We hit the bars and whooped it up with unbridled revelry.

John, of course, is already spinning the story to his advantage. He said today he intends to compose an e-mail telling all our friends about my piggish behavior and the heroic steps he took save my life, a complete fabrication which I fear will somehow take hold in spite of the lies.

I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say I could have died right there. People choke to death all the time. And that’s not the way I want to go.

I have no fear of death as long as it doesn’t have to hurt. I argue the best way to go is to die peacefully in your sleep of multiple gun shot wounds, which isn’t nearly as contradictory as it sounds.

I can now say there isn’t much real pain involved in nearly choking to death. The body just seems to check out. I’m happy I’ll soon be home in the arms of my loved one who, despite all my jokes, need me around for many more productive decades.

John selfishly wondered what would have happened to him if I’d have died. Would he have been stuck with the whole bill? Could he have persuaded the manager to offer him and a guest a free meal to compensate for the unpleasantness he’d endured the day his old buddy died?

I asked John to describe how I looked as the death mask tried to descend on my face.

“Oh, it was awful,” he said. “Your face was turning bright red. Your eyes were bulging and you were shaking so badly I thought you might overturn the table. I thought you were a goner. It was very disturbing.”

I told him I was surprised by his humanity.

“Oh, I didn’t mean I was disturbed for you. I meant it was disturbing for any of us who had to see it.”

So I’m damn glad to be alive today. Every day, really. I hope you are, too.

And I hope when I do die it will be quick, neat, and far from my evil friend who’s disappointed he couldn’t use my untimely demise as a bargaining chip for a free meal.

Random thoughts from NYC

News reports say stranded cruise passengers survived on nothing but spam, mayo sandwiches and booze! Booze! Booze! Sounds like my diet from 1985-89.

I’m confident I could write a decent and semi-coherent blog post about the whole incident, but I’m lacking the motivation.

As previously reported, I’m in the midst of a splendid NYC frolic. My every instinct is to completely blow off the blog until I feel the urge to write something Thanksgivingy.

But after blogging about three times a week for more than two years I feel compelled to post something. Anything.

This is a mild form of insanity. It’s not like the blog police will come along and revoke my license to blog or make me take a blogging pay cut.

So here are some random thoughts from the past couple of days mingled with a tweet or two.

• Critics saying Bush's "Decision Points" is no "War & Peace." Had he been true to history, he'd have named his book, "War & War.” The release of books by two of my favorite topics for vastly different reasons -- Bush and Keith Richards -- should have spurred thousands of words of comment for me. But all I could manage about Bush was the “War & War” line. I just didn’t want to pile on. As for Keith, I’m couldn’t be more thrilled that by writing his life story he and I are now colleagues. 

• If coral is a stony ocean rock and corral is a pony pen, can corrral be a rocky ocean enclosure to keep seahorses?

• If the Shaws had a son and they named him Rick, would Rick Shaw be destined to go into the ground transportation business?

• Yesterday our group had a really great driver who full times as a decorated NYPD officer. He honored me by inviting me to ride shotgun in the big luxury van so we could yap without interference. We talked all day about our favorite foods. He’d recently driven his family to Pittsburgh just to enjoy a Primanti’s sandwich. How cool is that? We talked about America’s great heirloom sandwiches from muffaletta, to cheese steaks, to lobster rolls. He told me some great cop stories, too, about his involvement in the Times Square bomber case, which celebs are cool (Dan Ackroyd) and which are jerks (Alex Rodriguez and Beyonce). And he told mea about an incident from just the other day where he held a victim’s bloody, dangling eyeball in his hand while awaiting the ambulance. We’re going to meet for cigars next time I’m in town. All I bring to the table in this friendship is a lot of questions. He’s got the stories. I’ve got the questions. I could ask guys like this questions until out of boredom he tases my chest just to get me to shut up.

• How about a half-hour antiquing show where former Happy Days star Erin Moran seeks interesting items. Call it "Joannie Loves Tchotchke!”

• In all my years of visiting New York, I’ve rarely gone to Broadway shows. It just seems too prohibitive with costs, time and other concerns when there are so many other wonderful options. That’s going to change. Last night our gracious hosts took us to see “Memphis.” It’ll go down as one of the best times I’ve ever had in New York. It was absolutely enchanting and I was blown away by the joy and the talent up on stage. I wish I had the dough to tell my wife and the kids to meet me at the airport on Monday so I could fly them right back here to see “Memphis” again. I want to share it with loved ones and cranky strangers. Everyone’s life would be better if everyone went to see “Memphis.”

• I asked my cop friend if there’s ever been a show that even glancingly captures the day-to-day life a New York City police officer. Never, he said. Not even close. I discreetly refrained from telling him about my “NYPD Pink” idea.

• Spent a few hours at the Guggenheim Museum yesterday. It had me dreaming of opening my own art gallery. Patrons will enter and find four bare walls and a roomful of regular guys who do nothing but say, “Hello, I’m Art.”

• The toes on my left foot are getting so spread out I might be the first person in history to be able to give someone the finger with a foot.

• Visiting a really great museum gives me such a happy and peaceful feeling, yet if anyone knew all the moronic thoughts going on in my head security would hustle me out the door and forever ban my re-entry. One example: I saw a bunch of statues of nude men and was repeatedly struck by the bronzed examples of what Keith Richards would call their “tiny todgers.” Either men have evolved in ways that must be satisfying to women or else artists back then were intent on insulting their models. Maybe size didn’t matter in what was known as the age of enlightenment. Of course, what the hell do I know? Maybe next time I go to the Guggenheim, I’ll hire a hooker to comment on the scale of all the art.

• Like many great cities, New York is struggling for revenue. I’ll bet the city could earn nearly $1 billion if it sold for development just about six or seven prime acres of Central Park. Of course they’d never do that, nor should they. That Manhattan island, maybe the priciest chunk of land on the planet, reserves a whopping 843 acres for recreation is a tribute to the priorities of New Yorkers.

• Now, I hope you have a peaceful and relaxing Sunday in the warm embrace of loved ones. On my last day in New York City, I’ll be doing the complete opposite.

My goodness, a trip to NYC

I’d loaded my bag into the trunk, slammed the lid and took one last look up at the house. A could see tears lining the eyes of the 10-year-old’s face as it gently pressed up against the window screen.

I could tell she was feeling an alien emotion. I was going to be gone for four days and she was surprised to learn might to miss me. As the lone male in the house with three gals, my role is to be the butt of jokes. And as soon as middle-age spread concludes its gutsy march, I’m sure they’ll target me for butt jokes. 

Without me, there’d be no one to ridicule.

“Daddy, when will you be home?”

I’ll be home Monday evening, sweetheart.

“But I thought you’d be home Sunday.”

Well, I worked it out so I could spend one extra day with Mr. John. 

I was telling one of the most darling people in the world that, rather than spend another day home with her, I’d chosen to spend a day with one of the most corrupt people I’ve ever known in a place renown for wickedness.

Manhattan, here I come!

I’ve been invited to attend a lavish Big Apple press trip. For the next four days, truly, I’ll be living like a more humble sort of Trump. The itinerary includes three nights at a landmark hotel, great restaurants and luxury box seats to SRO shows.

Go ahead and feel free to resent me. It’s perfectly understandable.

Whether anyone, especially me, is worthy of such posh pampering is a moral puzzle. But the only thing worse than being unworthy of the attention would be to mope about being the recipient of it.

Life’s short and full of pain. You have to dance whenever you hear the music.

My end of the bargain is I need to come home and write and sell a dazzling story to a prestigious publication for all to see.

My great fear isn’t falling short of that obligation. No, I’m afraid I’ll do or say something stupid and I don’t want to come across as a jerk or a boob. Word would spread quickly and the next time I get invited on a trip, it’ll involve someplace like the Bob Evans in downtown Dayton.

To reduce the chances of this, I struggle to bury my inner smart ass so deeply in manners, silence and social aplomb I fear he’ll suffocate and my life will become meaningless.

That’s why the fifth day with John, my old college roommate, is so essential.

After four days of being polite, profanity-free and eating things like salad with silverware, those ponies will be ready to bust free of the coral. The older I get the more I enjoy days of true dissolution like the one awaiting me on Sunday.

Days like that remind me of every day from 1979-2001. I was never truly evil. I never went on one of those sprees that involved breaking all 10 Commandments.

Well, at least never sequentially.

Nothing surprises me more than the number of people who think I’m “good” in the conventional moral sense.

It practically floors my wife who is truly good. Not only is she good, she’s a church organist. I’m hoping the connection will earn her a get-out-of-hell-free card for her backsliding husband.

Yet people persist in inviting me to talk to high school students, introduce me to their friends and foolishly invite me into their homes without bothering to secure things like jewelry and bath towels.

I guess if you live in a small town long enough without getting busted stealing chickens you’re considered one of the good guys.

That’s why a day in New York with the never-married John is the perfect remedy to all that unbidden goodness.

John’s perfectly corrupt. He drinks like crazy, smokes cigars by the yard and is so sacrilegious it’s surprising some crusaders haven’t duct-taped a tall lightning rod to his bald dome.

Once on a drunken ramble with my wife and I, Val -- she was sober, she swears --  twisted her ankle on Lower East Side curb and tumbled into the filthy gutter. John said, “Wow! That’s gonna hurt!” and kept truckin’. He later defended his callousness by citing the need for haste to make last call in a bar with a really great juke box.

I love my wife, but absolved him based on his reasoning.

In short, he’s everything I’d be if I’d never gotten married only with fewer hairs.

So that’s what’s in store for the next few days. Decades of joyful dissolution have dwindled to days.

And Monday, none the worse for wear, I’ll return to joyful hugs and armfuls of souvenirs I can only hope aren’t crawling with bedbugs.

One day of debauchery will have to last me for another six months or so.

Then it’ll be back to being good, for goodness sake.

Eat at Sonoma Grille! I ethically ask

One of the most confounding aspects of what I for lack of a better word call my “career” is the arc of my ethics.

It’s gone completely in reverse.

Fresh from the ethical scolds lording over our nation’s journalism schools, most young reporters embark on careers so free of taint you’d think they were trying to achieve sainthood, not cover the hapless schleps mismanaging local school boards.

They won’t accept gifts, curry favor or drink with potential sources.

I went through that phase myself. Lasted about 10 days.

Then I got a good long look at my first paycheck. I realized I’d never get rich chasing news stories. So I decided being an unethical journalist would at least be more fun than being an upright one free of ethical stain.

I accepted freebies, played favorites and, hell, ever since I was in the fifth grade I’d go drinking with anybody.

Then something dramatic happened to turn me into one of the most unethical creatures on the entire planet, one that true journalists vilified for my scurrilous ways.

I started working for National Enquirer.

I’d found my true calling. From 1992 through 2001, I did more than 1,000 stories for America’s most notorious news magazine.

And it couldn’t have been more fun. I still wake up many, many mornings and read a story that makes me wish I’d never quit to do more mainstream nonsense.

While fellow journalists shunned me, I was always the most popular guy at the party. Everyone wanted to hear my swashbuckling stories about the time I sneaked into rehab with Courtney Love, crashed Julia Roberts’s 30th birthday party and got busted hiding in a church confessional booth the day actor Chris O’Donnell married his sweetheart.

The highlight, or lowlight as it were, may have been President Bill Clinton’s 1996 State of the Union Address. I remember watching it with my wife when Clinton began talking about how laws were needed to protect the privacy of hospital patients.

“We need these laws to protect (legendary entertainer) who had her personal hospital records stolen and published on the front pages of a tabloid for everyone to read.”

Then Clinton gave a grave nod to the gallery and this legendary entertainer stood up and gravely saluted back. Divided by so much, both Democrats and Republicans rose as one and erupted in righteous cheers.

I looked at my wife and said, “Hey! He’s talking about me!”

It was a doozy of a sleuth, one I’ll share in full detail once I’m certain all relevant statutes of limitations have expired.

I justified my shady shenanigans by believing celebrities who lie about their health, their drug usage and -- praise Jesus! -- dupe their fans about their morality deserve to be exposed as fraudulent.

All this makes for a lively class whenever I do occasional teaching to prospective journalism students.

I begin the session on the topic by saying, “Tonight we’re going to talk about the importance of ethics to modern journalism . . . This ought to take about six minutes.”

I always cite South Fork scoundrel J.R. Ewing who advised, “Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

This is funny to me because somehow this little no-pay blog has made me a paragon of ethics.

I don’t know how this happened. Maybe it was a mistake to put “Amish” in the title because it hints at something purer than I’ve ever been.

Because the old me would never have turned down a free meal at one of my favorite restaurants, and that’s what I did this week.

I got a friendly e-mail from a girl representing a viral marketing firm in Pittsburgh that goes by the name Nakturnal. 

They are offering me and I assume a guest a free meal at the Sonoma Grille. Now, my wife and I love it there. We went there for her birthday last year. It’s great. In fact, I gave it a flattering mention it in a recent blog about places I take out of towners to impress them with Pittsburgh.

In return, they want me to write about how great it is -- true -- and then offer a $25 gift card to one lucky reader.

“This would be a great way to reward your readers and get more interaction on your blog, as well as benefit us by getting the word out about this affordable fine dining experience,” the note read.

I should be thrilled with the whole transaction. This is downright wholesome compared to posing as a heroin addict to interview drug-addled Courtney Love as she’s struggling through the old celebrity 12-step.

But I just can’t do it. I don’t think anyone reads my blog to learn why I think the Char Su Duck at Sonoma Grille is so sublime.

If I was that influential, I’d influence up some more readers for my blog or perhaps some actual wage-earning work. And wouldn’t that be something!

So, alas, my lofty ethical standards prevent me from accepting even graciously offered freebies from the Sonoma Grille or any of Pittsburgh’s many other fine dining establishments.

To be clear: send me no freebies.

None.

But don’t let that stop you from sending them all to my wife!




Note: You can see my Enquirer greatest hits at www.chrisrodell.com

Make Daylight Savings Time weekly

I love this turn back the clock thing so much, I wish we could do it once a week. The cool thing about this is in 20 years, we’d only be about 18 years older.

Yes, Daylight Savings Time slows aging. But only by one hour.

If we did it once a week or maybe one minute per hour, we could live to be 175 years old.

I see many benefits. Gas prices would rise more slowly. Happy Hour would be Happy 61 Minutes (and generous bar owners would feel obliged to round up). And the timeless game of baseball would seem endless.

Well, that baseball part would remain unchanged to those who underappreciate its nuance.

We’ve never used “Time Out” as a disciplinary tactic. I guess it works for some, but it’s too early to discern the long-term effects.

For instance, when this generation of misbehaving children grows up and starts attending college and professional sports, will they depart the arenas and en masse head for a quiet corner whenever a referee whistles, “Time Out!”

Again with baseball, it used to be popular for teams to have “Turn Back the Clock Day,” when teams would dress in bygone uniforms and sell things like soda and popcorn for a buck and a quarter.

It was great fun and we thought it would be wonderful if the whole city complied. So if you had a “Turn Back the Clock Day” to say 1929, beer citywide would be a nickel and commuters would have to find horses to ride to work.

I guess I’d like to turn back the clock to the 1950s when it seemed like it must have been a really great time to be a white male who liked to drink. That would have worked for me better than say if I were a black male who liked to vote.

So I’m pretty comfortable with our times. Despite all our many upheavals and daily doom in the headlines, I’m optimistic about the future. I’m just not in that big of a hurry to have it come rushing up on us so quickly.

The exception, of course, being the year 2020 when my enduring insistence that 2020 will be a great year for visionaries is likely to finally gain marketing traction.

A friend of mine once said time is man’s worst invention. It’s very profound. As I’m becoming more conspiracy minded the older I get, I must conclude the concept of time was conceived by the guy who’d invented the first clock but couldn’t find a use for it.

So, voila, time! Now, if you have one fussbucket with a time piece then everyone needs one.

I say to hell with time. Let’s all just show up whenever we feel like it. And bring a book.

I have three watches I adore: one from my late grandfather; an Elvis one from my good buddy Quinn: and a really snazzy one generously gifted to me from a Las Vegas resort for work that didn’t warrant the bauble. They gave one to Val, too.

It was the oddest thing. We were there on an assignment for a now-defunct magazine. The magazines I’ve worked for that can now be described as now-defunct are too numerous to name.

But we were on a fancy lake cruise outside of town and our host presented us with two boxes from an elegant jeweler. Inside were these fabulous watches.

I said, no, we couldn’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.

As I was saying this, I was admiring the watch was on my wrist and thinking, “It’s a tad too snug, but I saw a jeweler in the casino. I’ll bet he’ll size it for free.”

I was correct.

Ethical considerations be damned, there was no way I was leaving Las Vegas without that watch. It’s magnificent.

To this day, Val still thinks some husky guy is going to show up at our door and tell us we need to kill Vinny or he’s taking back the watches.

I know this much: Val will kill Vinny. She loves that watch. Me, too.

But one of these days I’m thinking of making all three timepieces obsolete.

I’m thinking of getting a $75 tattoo of an $18,000 Rolex for my left wrist.

It’ll be waterproof, impressive in refined company, and will make even the wafer thin models look clunky by comparison.

I’ll do it one of these days, I swear.

I just need to find the time.

Standing is the new sitting

So I’m sitting here trying to think of a decent blog idea and all I can think about is how I wish I were laying here trying to think of a decent blog idea.

I’m doing this because in my mind I’m wrestling with recent news reports that said  standing has become the new sitting.

This is from Michael S. Rosenwald’s story from The Washington Post (I love the lead):

“Some people can’t stand working. Mark Ramirez works standing.

“He is not a waiter or a factory worker. He is a senior executive at AOL. Mr. Ramirez could, if he wanted, curl into a cushioned leather chair. No, thanks. He prefers to stand most of the day at a desk raised above stomach level.

“I have my knees bent, I feel totally alive,” he said. “It feels more natural to stand. I wouldn’t go back to sitting.”

Well, good for you. I guess none of us wants to be stuck one row behind guys like Mark next time we go to catch a matinee.

The story says standing at pricey gut-level desks (www.GeekDesk.com sells them for $799) is healthy, reduces drowsiness and is shown to increase life spans. It cited one fanatic who not only stands but walks a steady 1 mph on a treadmill while working at his desk.

Clearly, this endocrinologist missed his calling. He’d have made a dandy postal employee.

It’s an interesting debate, but I think I’ll sit this one out.

I learned early on stress is a killer and without fail I’m most stressed the more degrees I am removed from 180 horizontal. So my preferred postures are, in reverse order, sprint, jog, stand, sit, slouch and lay.

I’ve found the circumstance most geared to wellness is center bed, buried toes up in a quilt, while TV Land broadcasts a day-long marathon of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

If research proves that relaxing posture cures heart disease the way it cures hangovers it could replace CPR as a preferred emergency treatment.

I remember reading shortly after President George W. Bush appointed him defense secretary that Donald Rumsfeld’s true position was upright. With great foresight, he stood throughout the day for many of the reasons cited by today’s advocates.

I remember thinking: “Outstanding. What an innovative and thoughtful gent. Now, here’s a good guy to turn to if the country ever finds itself mired in a really stupid war.”

But successful standers are rare. The only two I could think of are “Price is Right” hosts Bob Barker and Drew Carey. Of course, if the tabloids are to be believed, both men spent considerable time horizontal and in the comely company of surgically enhanced women adept at gesturing toward things like skidoos.

At the other extreme is Hugh Hefner, the only man who’s made a success of his life lying down. But that job’s taken and when Hef goes he’s taking it with him.

So sitting to me is a happy middle ground.

I just can’t see standing catching on.

And how would history be altered if great leaders throughout history stood? What if Abraham Lincoln was renown for standing? How would that have altered the stunning Lincoln Memorial?

They’d need a hole in the roof.

How much more mayhem would Custer-killer Sitting Bull have wreaked had he been Standing Bull?

Would The Situation be more compelling if he was The Standuation?

It’s a lot to ponder, especially as I’m still trying to process just how Prop 19 was defeated in California.

You mean there is a deficit of pot smokers in California? The only thing I can figure is they’re all planning on casting their ballots this Saturday afternoon.

Now, there’s a group that’ll never be swayed by the standing-is-better argument.

In fact, many of the most avid pot smokers I’ve known through the years are perfectly at peace only when fully reclined.

Giving them the three options -- stand, sit, or lay -- and there’s only one eventuality.

Sit or get off the pot.

At least my hair's growing up

Barbers look at my hair the way gardeners look at weeds. That’s the sense I was getting the other day when I told the gal who cuts my hair I want to let it grow.

I want for my hair what I want for my children.

I want it to reach its full potential. I want it to be uninhibited. I want it to revel in the world for however long it is able.

“But you look so much better with short hair,” she says.

I resist the urge to tell her she’d look so much better with her face hidden behind a copy of my 2003 book, “Hole-in-One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore on Golf’s Luckiest Shot!” (Andrews McMeel, current Amazon Bestsellers Rank, 1,505,957).

It’s clearly in her self-interest that everyone walks around looking like Sinead O’Connor. 

But I don’t want to say anything to hurt her feelings, particularly when she’s waving a straight razor near my jugular.

Plus, I like her. She’s what my old man used to call a “broad.” She swears, tells bawdy jokes, and says her next shop will have a pool table and a keg of free beer for customers.

What a gal.

I spent about as much time looking for her as I did for a good bride.

A trip to the barber shop has always meant a lot to me. I’m convinced our late father never moved south to escape bitter winters because being away from Tony the barber would have killed him as surely as perpetual darkness kills petunias.

Besides a tidy trim, Tony brought light into our lives. He taught me my first dirty joke, how to place an illegal wager and he let me look at the Playboy magazines he kept in the drawer under the shelf with all the witch hazel.

About 10 years ago, Tony, besides hair, started cutting back his hours and I started getting my hair cut nearer to home. I tried the most popular and efficient barber in town. For $6.50, he could in four minutes make Samson resemble drill instructor extraordinaire R. Lee Ermey.

Of course, I wound up looking like every other guy in town.

My bar is full of them. Their heads are practically shaved. When two of them put their heads together to talk confidentially about guns, Sarah Palin or NASCAR, the combined effect looks like one wide bottom is trying make an angry point by mooning some invisible cross-bar antagonist.

I didn’t want any part of that.

So I went for a long extended purgatory in the awful unisex salons where I felt they were psychologically cutting off things more dear to me than hair every time I was assaulted by music from people like Beyonce.

That’s why I was thrilled to find Eileen, whose little shop is near my Mom’s place. She has a fellow barber, a Navy veteran whose every customer strolls out of the shop looking like they could be piped aboard a destroyer to commence swabbing poop decks.

It’s not the look I’m after so I go on Tuesdays when Eileen has the run of the place. There’s an old dog, a friendly clientele and lively banter to enrich the life of a guy who spends so much time alone with his imaginary friends, his imaginary employers and all their imaginary paychecks.

I knew she’d be resistant to my goals to grow my hair long, something I haven’t done in 20 year.

True, my hair is exhibiting signs of male pattern baldness. I’ve got the makings of one of those little monk caps on the crown and the forehead’s becoming a fivehead. Soon, I’ll have one of those little Nixonian tufts that look like some skilled motorcyclist burned rubber down the top of my skull.

So I guess I want to give the hairs that have stuck around a sort of farewell tour. Maybe that’ll convince a few of the wafflers to hang in there, that the fun’s just getting started.

Really, I’m not letting my hair down, I’m letting it up. I don’t want hippy hair like San Francisco Giant pitcher Tim Lincecum (way to go, Giants!).

I want to look like Einstein. I want go-to-hell hair.

Because I just don’t care. My wife’s not going to leave me if I’m having a bad hair day (although just at lunch she gave me a sarcastic, “Nice hair, Cosmo.”). 

My kids won’t run in shame if they see me approaching with unruly hair. Well, they won’t run any faster than they already do.

So that’s my plan. I’m letting my hair go wild. I’ll spend about six seconds on it in the morning and then it’ll be free to behave like East Germans did after the Berline Wall came down.

It can have a party.

Let’s call it a last hair-rah.