The Bavarian Buff

Like many New Yorkers, I get a fair amount of my random knowledge and news blurbs from small televisions in the elevators in my building. They flash a series of headlines, stock quotes, and other current event updates throughout the day. I am in the elevator about a half dozen times over the course of the day and I will catch 1 or 2 stories each time that I am in there.

While leaving work one day last week I was preoccupied with something but glanced up for a second to catch this headline.

German Nudist Hiking Trail

Whatever I was thinking about before, was quickly forgotten as my mind tried to wrap itself around the ridiculousness of this news story. I did a little more research to find out the details. This is what I found:

Germany is launching a new hiking trail for tourists who like to walk in the nude. The 18km (11-mile) route runs through the Harz mountains in central Germany, between Dankerode and the Wippertalsperre, near Leipzig and is receiving praise for giving nudists an opportunity to express themselves more freely.

Now, I am not a hiker. In fact, I know very little about hiking. But I am of German lineage. And I would now like to take this time to make fun of my people. For the sake of this post, I will be taking the side opposing the German Nudist Hiking Trail.

I will start with the obvious. Hiking usually involves being out in the wilderness with bugs and critters and other things. There are places on your body you should never NEED to put sunscreen, never mind bug spray. These are the parts of my body I do not want to expose to mosquitoes or poison ivy. And ALL of those parts get exposed during nude hiking.

I mean, can you imagine trying to explain that to your dermatologist?

Oh yea, I was hiking in Germany. What's that you say? No, no I was not wearing pants. What? No, no underwear either.

I would also like to point out that from what i do know about hiking, it is not something you should do barefoot. Good socks and hiking boots seem to be necessary equipment. So if you are wearing shoes and sock you are not technically naked. I know I'm splitting hairs here, but I just want to point that out.

Being German I know that when I am outside I should stay as covered up as humanly possible. There are many kinds of sunscreen available but the only kind appropriate for me is SPF Poncho.

Germans take good things to the height of ridiculousness. I mean... just look what they did to dancing.

Some things are good in extremes. Giant beer? Good. Giant bratwurst? Very good. But this latest spin on hiking just doesn't seem to be an improvement at all.

Also shouldn't the possibility of chafing along turn them off the naked hike? And again, does backpack = naked?

I just don't think it's necessary for a nude trail. I mean, even the animals on this trail aren't naked. They at least wear fur!

What also scares me is Germans affinity for travel. in my travels around the world I have noticed they travel more than almost any other country. This naked hiking thing is something that could possibly spread to other trails in other countries!

What if I DO decide to take up hiking? I don't want to have to worry about being accosted by Frau Hatenmypantz. But in fairness to the trail itself, the proper authorities (be they naked or otherwise) have put up a sign warning people that says;

If you don't want to see people with nothing on them, you should refrain from moving on.

But if I saw that sign, I would probably just think it was a joke. I wouldn't honestly believe there was a chance I would see some naked people!

It is also understood that some kinds of naked are hilarious. Like watching somebody streak across a baseball field from hundreds of feet away. That is hilarious.

Watching somebody streak towards you in the middle of the woods? That is terrifying.

As I understand it, undergarments were made to enable us to move quickly with ease, thereby streamlining the transportation of ourselves. So what happens if a bear made his appearance in the woods and you had to run? I can't imagine running naked feels (or looks) good.

Also I am curious as to when it is that these naked hikers remove their clothes. Is it before they even leave the house? Do they gear up that way? or do they arrive at the trail head and somebody just fires a gun and yells STRIP!

Is the park ranger for this particular trail naked? Shouldn't he or she be? Because if they park ranger isn't naked, I can only imagine the kind of perverts you'd get applying for that job.

And also can clothed folks be on the same trail? If you have committed to an 11 mile naked hike you have probably also committed yourself to not taking any sit down breaks. I know I am not crazy about putting my bare butt on public toilet seats, so, putting my bare butt on the world of nature? I mean jeez.

Plus I don't like animals seeing me naked. I think they judge me. A cat saw me naked once and I might be exaggerating here, but I am pretty sure it was judging me. It cocked its head as if to say; "You disgust me pale boy. Cloak yourself."

And then the cat walked into a closet and tried to dig a hole.

My point is this whole naked trail thing can only be a harbinger of bad things to come. I know this might seem like a momentous occasion to some. And there is a probably a swell of enthusiasm for would-be nude hikers around the globe.

So for all you who are exited about what this trail means, and the opportunities it presents, I will say to you what my parents said to me when I got too excited about things as a kid.

Keep your pants on.

More Signs of More Times

Those of you who read my blog (all 6 of you) are probably aware of the fact that I am not that good at editing. While I love to craft a good story, and rework it until it shines with humor, I am practically incapable of spotting typographical and grammatical errors.

In fact I am positive that the ability to spot typos is dependent on a certain gene or chromosome that I just do not have.

But while I cannot edit very well, I am fairly decent at spotting signs that are extremely confusing or just completely asinine. For your benefit (all of 6 of you) I keep a running list of all the stupid that people feel the need to put in print for the world.

I would like to preface this first sign by stating that I love the superintendent of my building. He is extremely friendly, always says hello, and lets me know when I have a package. But his English is a bit broken. And when we were experiencing trouble with the lock at the entrance of my building, my super put this sign on the front door;

Door Open. Do Not Use Key.

I appreciate his commitment to keeping the tenants informed, but there are other ways to do this. Perhaps everyone who comes within spitting distance of my front door doesn't need to know that the door doesn't lock. I'm sure we could have figured it out on our own, because the sign my super put up sent the wrong message. It essentially could have been replaced with a sign that said;

Residents Vulnerable; Rob Them.

Luckily the sign was only up for a couple of days and nothing terrible happened. Inside my building however, there was another sign that concerned me.

My floor has a garbage chute. It is a small metal slot behind a full sized door. You can't put objects in there much bigger than a small grocery bag. There are rules posted about what items should and should not be put in there. But recently somebody, perhaps my super, perhaps an angry neighbor, left a sign up that had some fuzzy grammar that I questioned.

I don't really understand this message. Obviously whoever wrote it was feeling steamed.

I can relate to the desire to drive home a point. And by underlining certain words, you make people understand that this is important and this word should be focused on. But the quotation marks? I don't really understand what it is you are saying.

Are you using the quotation ironically? If you say "DON'T PUT" does that mean you actually want them to put? Or are you trying to use a word other than put?

Perhaps the note was justified, but it is the height of passive aggression leaving a note for someone else to find. It reminded me of the post its my pot smoking roommate my sophomore year of college used to leave me. He would leave a post it on the trash that said; Take out trash.

Oooh OK. Thank you for your knowledge contribution. This is a way better idea than actually taking out the trash yourself.

In retaliation I should have put a post it on our balcony porch that said; Don't smoke pot here.

Which, by the way, when I asked him to stop smoking pot on the balcony, he responded by saying;

I'll try and keep it down.

Keep it down? You know it's not the sound that bothers me right?

A friend of mine lives in an area in which there is a strip club between the train stop and her apartment. It is impossible to get to her apartment without walking past the strip club.

Honestly, I swear.

So the last time I went to visit her, I walked past the strip club and I noticed the doors were caution taped closed and there was a sign on the door that said;

The department of buildings has determined that the conditions in these premises are imminently perilous to life.

Imminently perilous to life? IMMINENTLY PERILOUS TO LIFE?

I don't think there was even a sign like this at Guantanamo Bay, and those premises really were imminently perilous to life.

I'm not sure what that strip club did to deserve such a stamp (I can only imagine) but whatever it did do, was enough to piss somebody off.

How on earth is that place ever going to do any bit of business again? What sign can they possibly put on the door after this one has already been up?

Hello fine upstanding frequenters of strip clubs. Remember that time when the department of buildings said the conditions in here were imminently perilous to life? Well, everything is OK now. Silly misunderstanding. No seriously, we're good.

I mean it's a strip club that presumably serves alcohol (Again I'm guessing because I never went in) so how good can it be for you in the first place? Strange naked women and booze was never something the doctor recommended as a cure for anything except maybe boredom.

I received a plastic Viking helmet recently as a gift for being a finalist in a contest. And on the side of the helmet it says;

Warning this is a toy. DOES NOT PROVIDE PROTECTION. MADE IN CHINA.

I have a couple of problems with this warning. First of all if someone is looking for general head protection be it for a bike ride or a construction site, I would hope their first inclination wouldn't be to purchase a plastic Viking helmet.

Second. Does not provide protection... from what? Actual Vikings? If you are being attacked by Vikings you have bigger problems than a plastic helmet, I mean, you might have accidentally gone back in time and that is something you should be concerned about.

And finally, a Viking helmet made in China? Can you imagine Vikings outsourcing the creation of their helmets to China? Perhaps if the Vikings had been willing to work with other nations to begin with they wouldn't have had to resort to the whole conquering, pillaging, and killing thing.

Then again, maybe the Vikings wouldn't have had to be so violent if the other nations had just put a sign outside their village that said;

Door Open. Do Not Use Key

Second Puberty

As I continue on this meandering path into manhood, I am learning many things. One of those things is the fact that I can't spend my whole life walking around looking like I just woke up. I need to get my life in order so that as I venture deeper into my late 20s I look like a semi-competent individual instead of just, well, an idiot.

It seems that no matter how old I am, my body is always entering a new form and a new stage of puberty. And the puberty of my late 20s has brought some changes I did not expect.

The first time I hit puberty, though repugnant to girls, and with a voice like a broken cello, life was relatively easy. My personal grooming consisted of brushing my teeth and showering. There might have been some deodorant involved as well. But basically that was it.

And in terms of self-beautification, well, that was just using large quantities of hair gel and/or hairspray to shape my hair into a perfect quaff. It was not uncommon for me to spend 10 minutes coaxing individual hairs into place. They night have been stubborn but I knew that my will could outlast that of any of my hairs on any day.

Apparently that will only applies to the hairs that grow on the top of my head.

Recently I noticed a rogue nose hair. For the last quarter century of my life, these little guys stayed neatly tucked away and were of no concern to me. This fella, due to unknown circumstances, had started a slow, creeping escape from the nasal cave. I'm not sure what his thought process was. Perhaps it was something like;

I have spent my entire life in this windy darkness... I SEEK THE LIGHT!

The day I noticed my friend was going AWOL, I panicked. Wasn't this something that was supposed to happen in my late 50s? Didn't I have time until such a point in which my teenage daughter bought me an electric nose hair clipper for Father's Day?

I'm sure it was probably one of those things that I noticed but nobody else did. But what if somebody did notice? It is not like having spinach in your teeth or an eyelash on your face. There is no quick fix. There is no smooth way to hide this nose hair. I can't exactly comb him back into place.

Having no nose hair clippers and seeing the immediate peril in tying to shove a scissor into my shnoz, I opted for the tweezers.

Yea, I know. It was a bad decision.

Let me tell you, there are few sensations more disturbing than the feeling of pulling a hair out of your nose. I am not sure how to describe it other than it feel like you are sneezing pain.

The mission was successful but I was left with a predicament. Was I supposed to just admit defeat and by the nose hair trimmer now? Was I going to be that guy? The guy in his 20s with a nose hair clipper. Or should I just yank the bastard out the next time he made a break for the border?

I still have not made the decision. And I don't like either option. But let me tell you, the anxiety is killing me.

The nose hair debacle, though unexpected, came with a pretty obvious solution. Things that happen on the outside of my epidermis are easy to react to and I can usually form my own opinions about a solution. The things that happen inside my body, well, I just take other people's advice.

The more I read about what I should be doing to stay healthy, the more trusting (or gullible) I become.

For a long time I never took vitamins. Once I had consumed my last grape Fred Flintstone, I pretty much retired vitamin taking. Now that has changed. I take my multi-vitamin, a Vitamin C, and because doctors everywhere tell me to, a fish oil capsule.

FISH OIL.

Have you ever in your life heard of a more disgusting thing to eat for breakfast? If my mother told me when I was a child that I had to eat fish oil every morning before I left the house... I probably would have run away from home.

Granted the fish oil is sealed in a tasteless, easy to swallow capsule, but it is still fish oil. And every once in a while, a couple hours after I've had one, I will catch one of those burps that lets you know exactly what is in your stomach.

And let me tell you, a fish Eggo combo is not an awesome taste.

During my first puberty I don't really recall spending much time on foot maintenance either. In fact, I recall spending exactly zero time on foot maintenance.

Perhaps you are aware of my recent experience with the PedEgg. After that very unrewarding interaction I figured I needed professional help. I decided it was time to let a strange Asian woman I'd never me before, take care of my feet.

I got a pedicure.

I know, I know. I am doing the opposite of manly things. But stay with me on this.

My feet had deteriorated to the point of needing professional assistance. It's a strange thing to take a part of your body that most people find completely repulsive and shove it in someones face for them to make it better.

Here you go strange tiny Asian woman, fix them. FIX THEM NOW!

I didn't know exactly what to expect from the experience. I couldn't tell if the woman scrubbing my feet hated me or just wasn't paying attention to me because the 3 times I tried to start a conversation with her, she just didn't respond. I took this as a sign that we were not destined to become friends and that this was strictly a business relationship.

I was pleased with the results. But maybe not enough to make it a regular activity like eating fish oil daily or yanking hairs out of my nose. But the smoothness of my feet was noticeable and appreciated. Maybe this puberty wouldn't be so bad after all.

Until of course I hit my 30s. God only knows where the hair will start to grown then.

Textual Face Googling

The handoff, in American Football, is defined as a play in which the quarterback, who starts every play with the ball, literally hands the ball to another player on his own team, transferring responsibility for moving that ball to someone else.


I would like to propose a new definition.


The handoff, in American societal communication, shall from this point on, refer to the moment in time when a person uses one of the following phrases; "I'll text you later. Are you on Facebook?" or "Google it!" to transfer the responsibility for communication to someone else.


By using these phrases people are literally saying, they would rather take the chance of not speaking to you later, as opposed to definitely finishing your interaction now.





These 3 phrases have turned useful and fulfilling communication with other human beings into something delayed, hollow, and extremely ridiculous.


My sister dated a guy once that we all referred to as "The Texter." This individual, while seemingly normal enough in person, was apparently incapable of dialing and talking into a phone. His primary form of communication was text messages. If he was proposing a date, drinks , or just checking in, he did it all through text message.

He was, in essence, a 14 year old girl.


Now I will not deny the importance of text messaging. I do it all the time. In fact, I text so much that I recently had to increase the amount of text messages I am allowed every month as part of my plan.


My friends and I use the text message as a supplementary form of communication. Not as the form. But as time marches on, I see more and more people using texts as the sole way they interact with others.

This guy my sister dated was physically incapable of calling her to schedule plans. Perhaps it is because we have made typing so second nature that talking to people actually made him uncomfortable.

We are dividing ourselves out from the responsibility of face to face contact. In fact, I am pretty sure that within the next decade we will start seeing "Google it" popping up on people's tombstones.


Some time ago, when I still believed in the gym, I was there (getting huge obviously) and I overheard 2 people talking. It was a guy hitting on a girl who was obviously not interested. It was a painful situation. So painful in fact that I considered dropping a dumbbell on my own face so I wouldn't have to watch it anymore.

This guy is rambling on and on and I can't look away. It was like a really long, slow, car accident. He was completely oblivious to how much this girl didn't want to be talking to him.


In the span of 5 minutes this clown told this girl to "Google it" three times. Once about some band he liked, once about his tour guide from his trip to Israel, and by the third time he said it I didn't catch the reference. I was too busy eyeing a sizable weight to end my misery.


Google it? No. That girl didn't want to Google it. She's not taking notes. She's not a reporter OK? You are not hitting on Lois Lane. This is a conversation not a press conference.

Don't tell me to Google things because I am not going to. If I wanted to google it I would have Googled it before I left the house. I want you to tell me what it is. Now. That is the point of having a conversation. And if you don't know what it is, you shouldn't be talking about it in the first place. I will not Google it. I will not Wikipedia it. How dare you turn nouns into verbs on me? Why don't you go Google it and talk to me when you have some actual knowledge?


A hundred ago when somebody didn't know what something was, they didn't say;


Hey go dictionary it.

or

You should library it.


No. They just, of their own volition, got up and looked it up. I don't need you to tell me what knowledge I don't have. Go find your own knowledge.


Idiot.


But I think the ultimate slap in the face is the one that Facebook hath brought upon us.

Long ago in olden times, when people wanted to become friends or stay in touch with somebody they'd just met, they made their best efforts to do so. What started as, "May I stop by your home sometime?" eventually evolved to, "Can I get your number?" and has finally settled on, "Are you on Facebook?"


I remember the first time it happened to me. It was my last semester in college and I ran into somebody I wanted to keep in touch with. I was about to say "Hey give me your number and we can chat" but before I could say that I was hit with;

Are you on Facebook?

Oh. Oh I see how it is.


Facebook has become the consolation prize of friendship. Too lazy or uncaring to ask for a phone number, we offer up a half assed "Are you on Facebook?"


We do it so much so that it has practically become mandatory for all interactions.


So basically what you are saying is instead of spending 10 seconds putting 7 digits into your phone and pushing save, you are telling me you are going to go home, turn on your computer, get on the interweb, log on to Facebook, search for my name (pending you can spell it correctly) click the button that says "add as friend" and then wait for between 3 and 15 days while I make you sweat it out on whether or not I will accept your friendship so as not to make you think that I am a a loser with nothing else to do but sit on Facebook 23 hours a day and instantly respond to any and all requests that come my way.


And then, finally I will click "accept" so that instead of being a person of moderate relevance in your cellular phone, I can be added, and probably lost, amongst the hundreds of "friends" you are "connected to" on Facebook.


Yea, you are right. That is way better than pushing 8 buttons.


I suppose it's better than actually becoming friends. In fact, if you want to become friends with me, you should probably just go through my blog.


And if you don't know the address, well... just Google it.

Harvard

I have a friend who recently started business school in Boston. But she isn't going to just any business school; she is going to the business school. Harvard Business School, the home of the academic elite, where people wear repp ties and discuss the Orwellian implications of a free market economy under a cap and trade system.

Or something like that.

Now, I went to a state school where I was a straight B student. I didn't break any academic records. And my experience with people from Harvard had been limited. Maybe I had met a graduate or two on several occasions. I had never spent my time in a room full of them. I imagined I would stick out like a Prius at a tractor pull. And I got my chance to see what that was like, when I visited.

My friend comes from a non-traditional background, which is to say not from a world of high finance and economics. She comes from publishing. So students like herself had to come in a few weeks early for some extra schooling before the rest of the students with more traditional backgrounds arrived. This is a program which Harvard calls, "Analytics."

They are not called, as I was referring to them, "The Deficients."

The first night my friend and I went to dinner and then met up with her new friends at a house party for her classmate's birthday. When we got there, the party had been going on for a while.

My preconceived notions firmly in place, I fully anticipated walking into a house with passed hors d'oeuvres, a string quartet, and people with names like Muffy discussing the retched state of the proletariat.

I certainly did not expect to hear Jay-Z blasting through the front door.

In fact, I wasn't sure this was the right place. I even suggested my friend call to make sure. But my friend, more brazen than I, pushed right into the house.

What I saw was the complete opposite of what I expected.

The party music was indeed blasting, and people were dancing in the living room. There were a mess of cups around, alcohols, and foodstuffs, and a stack of Kraft cheese slices in the kitchen. There was also a conspicuous couple lurking in a dark bedroom. All in all about 50 people socializing and just having a good time.

Granted they had been drinking for 6 hours when we got there, so that might have helped to loosen the mood.

Sure there was Absolute Vodka instead of some fake Russian crap in a plastic bottle. And people had actually brought edible things instead of Taquitos from the gas station, but it still looked like a typical college party.

And aside from the fact that everybody looked a little bit older, and there were perhaps a couple more dress shirts and a few less flip flops than there would have been 10 years ago, it could have been a freshman party in a house off campus in any town, USA.

It distinctly reminded me of walking into parties my first couples years of college back before I drank alcohol. Everyone would hold those red solo cups full of keg beer or jungle juice, and I would just stand there, with my arms akimbo, orbiting my body like I was in an anti gravity chamber, as they searched for a comfortable position to rest in that didn't scream, "I AM 18 AND VERY INSECURE."

Even though that was many years ago, I still had a flash of that feeling and quickly went to find a cup.

But what made this party different was people did not pretend I didn't exist. They would introduce themselves to me and shake my hand, ask me if I was in the program with them.

The first couple of times that happened I laughed, because, well, even though I consider myself a bright individual, this was still Harvard Business School. And I could even make it through sophomore year of my Bachelors in business. Let's just say I didn't take Calculus twice because I wanted to.

But if I hadn't known in advance that all of these kids were going to Harvard, I probably wouldn't have guessed it after meeting them. Everyone just seemed like a normal human being, which kind of made me wonder why I thought there would be such a bizarre difference to begin with, but still.

And when I met these people, it was Friday night. There were no mandatory study groups, there were no tests of reviews or projects or otherwise. They were going to party like it was their first year of undergrad, and that is how it felt.

They weren't pretentious. Most of them seemed almost kind of scared of what was to come. But I almost felt like I fit in. I know that couldn't be right, and yet, there was something beautiful about these people who had finished college, and worked for several years, embracing this decision to go back to school.

And even though it is Harvard Business School, there is still something decidedly post pubescent about shunning work to be a full time student. As competitive and grueling as a program might be, there is a youthful mentality that goes along with the decision to just not work.

Even if that does mean performing regression analysis for foreign currency markets.

Either way it was such a refreshing thing to be partying with a bunch of "kids" who were still kind of buzzing on the fact they had been admitted to Harvard to begin with.

They weren't condescending or elitist. Heck, maybe that would come in time, but for now, they were just kids on the eve of their first real week in college.

Which kind of makes me think that we are never that far away from the people we once were. All that separates us is time, and a few experiences. But it is amazing how easily we can slide back into the mantle of our youth.

Perhaps it is the comfort of a time without consequence, or a memory of a sunset whose colors burn brighter in our memory than they could have ever been in real life, but there is a satisfaction that comes from looking back, and reliving the emotions of our past that we can never hope to replicate in the future.

The Shave

Many of you may have heard that I am fascinated by becoming, what our society refers to as, a "man."

I love the manly arts. Rare books, leather club chairs, and those activities and rituals that have been gradually forgotten as time goes on. Things like going to the barber for a shave.


I got my first shave when I was about 17. While I don't really remember what the impetus was behind the shave, I do know it was back when i was still going to my GreekTalian barber.


Most likely it was before a prom. I decided I would put a couple of extra bucks into getting cleaned up. I went under the spinning barber pole for a traditional shave that I had never engaged in before. And I had high hopes.


This barber shop was probably unchanged since its opening. It probably didn't bode well for me that I was getting a shave in a chair next to a jar of fading 1 penny Chiclets that had most likely been there since Burt Chiclet dropped off his original batch.


I don't remember too much about the experience. But I know it was more painful than I expected it to be. In fact, it was probably such a not great experience that I waited almost 10 years before I got my next one.

So I went in there and it started out well enough. The hot towel on the face, fantastic. Hot shaving cream lather on the face, very nice.


Despite my burly, rugged exterior, I really do have baby soft skin, so a degree of care is needed when shaving my face. But that didn't seem to matter if you were 104 years old yielding a blade that was probably handed out to everyone who fought in the Great War.


The barber started running the blade over my face like he was scraping butter off of toast. I'm not sure if he could notice my wincing but I certainly felt every time he slipped. Now, you ladies may say something like;

Oh suck it up, we shave our legs every day.



And you are right. I am not jealous of you. But I would rather shave my legs every day. Because you what you don't have on your legs?

A face.

If you screw up shaving your legs, you get a cut, you get a scar, not a huge problem. You screw up shaving your face, you lose a lip!

I don't know how long it took, but when my shave was finally over I remember being quite surprised at the amount of tiny red slashes I had on my face. And the great things about an ancient barber is he repairs those little red slashes with an ointment that seemed to be made of liquid fire and battery acid.

When the barber was done I probably lied and told him it was great because I have no spine and apparently I would rather be polite than honest.

When someone asks you how an activity went, "bleedy" is never a word you should have to use. It honestly felt like the barber was shaving my face with the jagged edge of a hubcap or something he had found in a tomb.

So fast forward 10 years later and my sister, darling wonderful human that she is, bought me a gift certificate to a fancy men's spa for what they call the "Royal Shave." I felt like I needed a Shakespearean accent and an ability to roll my Rs just to pronounce it.

I was very excited to get my fancy shave since I knew this experience would be much better than the one of my teenage years. I'm not saying the barber of my youth didn't do his best, but I am OK with paying more than the price of a DVD for someone to rub knives against my face, which is essentially what is happening.

It amazes me the things I did when I was younger that didn't phase me at all. Yes the more I learn and the more experiences I have, the more a general paranoia of all things becomes apparent.

Like when I was a kid I used to eat candy almost every day. Nearly every week I blew my entire allowance on treats from the store around the corner. Now every time I eat candy I am thinking: Will I get a new cavity? Am I going to get diabetes? Will this make me addicted and obese?

But as I went in to redeem my gift certificate, I started to worry. Holy crap. I am about to lay down in the chair of a complete stranger who may or may not have already had a bad day and some kind of undiscovered twitch who is going to drag a Ginsu sharpened piece of steel across my fragile epidermis.

This was also not helped by the fact that once I laid down in his cushy chair with my eyes closed and the hot towel on my face, I started to doze off. I was worried that I was going to do that awful sleep twitch right before you lose consciousness where your whole body convulses and snap back into coherence. Because if I did do that, it would allow my Uzbekistani barber to slice my neck in half like an overcooked eggplant.

But as it turns out, this guy was a Zen master. Nothing could break his focus. His phone rang mid-shave. But he didn't just have a normal ring tone. No his phone rang so obnoxiously outrageously loud that I was positive there was an entire Uzbekistani dance party in his pants. I mean I was kind of surprised he didn't jump, but I was also I amazed I didn't either. This was really just an experiment in seeing how close I could come to cheating death.

The shave proceeded pretty much without incident. I managed to (barely) stay awake the entire time. Once the shaving was over he gave me a bit of a facial, painting something that felt like cold glue on my face and placing what appeared to be chilled plantains on my eyes.

That part was definitely my favorite, and something that was certainly missing from my first shave. Granted I now looked 10 years younger, but it was a handsomish 10 years younger.

And best of all when I left the shop, some European tourists who had been peeking in the window took note of me when I walked out. They tried not to be obvious as they stared at my super smooth face but I smiled at them and asked, "What do you think?"

They smiled in return and gave me thumbs up. Perhaps because they didn't know much english. But at least they didn't say "bleedy."

Losing It - Part 2

You know you are in a bad way when you walk into a library looking for a fight.

In addition to being frustrated with everybody lately, I have made an effort to save money. I have stopped purchasing books and instead started using the Library. The Library is great. It is quiet, it is free, and in the summer, it is cool as can be.

But I got myself into trouble with this place recently. Due to some very exhausting weeks at work, a bout of slow reading, and general laziness, I had a book that was becoming increasingly more overdue as each day passed.

By the time I was finally able to return the book, it was approximately a month overdue. Entirely my fault for sure. And the day I brought it back was just as busy as all the ones before it, so I was only able to carve out a handful of minutes to run over to the library.

So I hustled my butt over to the library. Being completely fed up with service people and knowing that the book was extremely overdue I tried to drop it in the night slot hoping that I could just pay the fine at a later date. I would rather have the money owed already on my account to than have to see the look of disappointment in the librarian's eye as I hand her my book that was due roughly 4 weeks earlier.

I must pause here to tell you a story about my childhood. I was a pretty good kid, didn't get in too much trouble, but in the eyes of the library I was pretty much a felon. I couldn't for the life of me, bring myself to get books back to the library on time. I was always getting those carbon paper overdue notices saying I owed something like $1.67. And my parents would make me go there by myself to fess up and pay my fine.

The librarians even knew who I was. They were an old decrepit bunch, adorned in clothes from another time, spectacled, and smelling of powders. I would walk, barely taller than the counter and tell them I had a fine to pay.

Ahh yes, Richid Bomkey.

It was always so embarrassing.

The pinnacle came though when I had an abundance of overdue books and the library sent the notice along that said how not returning books was against the law and in addition to fines, criminals would be sent to prison. PRISON!

I held it together long enough to get out of the house and get on my bike to the library but once gone I started bawling. I cried all the way to the library and then sat down on the lawn outside reread the notice, get to the part about prison, and then start bawling all over again. How could this happen? I was too young to go to prison! I think I cam close to dehydration that day.

So fast forward to the future and you can understand my issues with returning overdue books. I tried the overnight box, but it's locked. So I have to go into the library where there is usually at least 2 people at the desk, one doing returns and one signing out books.

But of course today there was only 1 person at the desk (what is this the post office?) and a line of 11 people waiting to take out and return books. Having been there before I recognized the lady behind the counter as one of those shining beacons of civility and kindness.

I am pretty sure this was also the same clerk who snapped at me the last time I had been there when I accidentally handed her my gym card instead of my library card.

That's not the right card!

Alright library lady, play it cool. That was just a simple mistake on my part. Tiny plastic cards look alike OK? I am not trying to pull a fast one here.

Might I also point out that these books are free. What conman scheme could I possibly be running here. I mean, sheesh lady. Chill!

So as soon as I noticed there was only 1 person behind the desk, I did that thing where I looked around fanatically for another person to help me. I looked at the snaking line of misery and just muttered to myself while spinning around in a circle like I was Mary Tyler Moore.

Realizing there were no other solutions, I walked up to the counter, already a little bit on edge, and asked the woman if I was just returning a book if I could just leave it on the counter.

Did you check the drop box?

"Yes I did." And then I walked over and tried it again and came back in, and it's locked! "Can't I just leave it on the desk?"

I CAN'T BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR THAT, she snapped at me.

Can't be held responsible for that? What is that? That is a book! It is not like I walking in holding a radioactive baby Jesus. It's a frigging book! I can promise you it is not going to jump off the counter and run out the door.

But I guess I must be ridiculous. How could I expect you to control your own eyeballs and be aware of the shoebox sized orange book I place 1 foot from your face? And ya know what? Somebody is probably not going to steal it either because it's F#$%^& FREE! Everything in this place is free! It is a building dedicated to free. It shouldn't be called a library, it should be called the Freebrary. You don't even need to put locks on the doors!

After she snapped at me I stood there muttering rhetorical questions to no-one in particular. things like, "Well what am I supposed to do about this? Huh? Hrmm?"

And then I stormed out in a huff, holding my overdue book that was about to cost me 35 cents more.

So much for free.

Everyone was driving me crazy. The lifeless, unresponsive, barely coherent bodies behind desks whose only job is to scan a book or hand you a marble frosted. Are the only people who take these jobs those who have had their souls removed? I mean it must be miserable sitting in an air-conditioned building all day handing out donuts, stamps, and free books to people. Why are you so disgruntled?

I can only imagine the job posting these trolls replied to.

Hey there! Are you not proficient at anything? Do you have a bad attitude? Do you hate people? Have you never smiled in your whole damn life? Well have we got the job for you!

These feeling were all bubbling underneath the surface like lava, just waiting to explode. I was going to lose it big time, and this time it wouldn't just be muttering. I was going to do something that would get me into trouble that I would regret.

I was venting about these very things to a friend on my cell phone as I waited to cross the street in the city later that week. The light changed and I started to cross.

As I walked leisurely across the street talking into my phone, I must have looked like quite the a-hole. but ya know what? I was walking at a normal pace, and while I may have looked like I thought I was hot shit, I didn't actually. The little white man on the sign is walking, he is not sprinting, or pogo-sticking across the street. So I took was walking.

A guy waiting to make a turn obviously was not happy with my speed and shouted several derogatory things out his window at me. Without even thinking, and without turning my body I just reached back to give him the finger before I realized, wow Rich, this is not something you do.

So instead of giving him the finger, I just pointed him. Without looking. As if to say, "While I acknowledge your dooshbaggery, I choose not to respond to it."

I didn't stop walking. I didn't turn to see his reaction. I just kept on moving, praying the whole time that he wasn't chasing after me with a tire iron.

Maybe I need a vacation.