Pissy Mood!

“Why am I in a pissy mood?” you ask.  Because I haven’t shaved since September 7^th and strangers on the street are telling me I missed a spot when attending to my morning titivation!

It’s not the opinion of strangers that authors my angst.  It’s the humiliating truth that at sixty years of age, I fall behind most twenty-year olds in the production of whiskers.  My main assertion is that a mane should befit a man’s mien.  (Hah!  Three homonyms in one sentence:  Let’s see you top that, Brenda Moguez; if that is your real name.)

Reason dictates that I am merely a victim of the genetic dice-roll.  I should consider myself lucky I avoided the fate of my enate uncles who all sported the ever-popular bozo.  No, no comb over for me; short and fuzzy every time.  But I digress.

The true genesis of my unshaven state is a latent realization that at my advanced age, I am not bound to subscribe to societal dictates.  If I choose not to shave and the consequent patchwork stubble that resides on my cheeks and chin offends the members of the population at large, so be it.  There is only one reason to shave and that is concern for ones level of attractiveness.   The days of submission to the desires of the community at large are ended.  I feel no further impulse to please the masses with my previously handsome countenance and alluring profile.  I need be slave to only one emotional driver, “I hate to shave!”

I have hated to shave from my very first bloodletting experience.  (See my blog post “Suave and Debonair” from March 7^th, 2013… yes, I’ve been at this for that long.) There are probably only two readers out there who have seen me without a mustache, but a mustache is no beard (See the blog post “The Zen of Mustachios” from July 3^rd, 2013.)  A mustache is a statement.  Scraggly whiskers are a surrender. Or, are they a victory?

I can hear the synapses of the female reading audience closing as I type, “Men have it so easy, they should try shaving their legs!”  Well ladies, let me assure you, I have shaved my legs.  No, there was no gender identity crisis involved.  As a high-school football player with bad knees (that should have been an omen, but young equals stupid) I had to shave my legs so the training staff could apply joint bracing tape.  And I aver that shaving ones legs is far easier, less painful and less bloody that shaving ones face.  This is particularly true when you are young and your skin is as tight as a drum.  But I digress.  

There, you have it.  In a perfectly self-serving tack, I have opted to please my own sense of need.  I shall place my individual interests above that of the community at large.  Thank you John Galt!  (Yes, Brenda, after twenty-some years I finally followed your advice and read the liturgy of objectivism… thank you.  (For those of you wondering where you got off the train, Google “John Galt” and all will be clear.)

And anyway, my barber calls it a beard… says she likes it… trims it for free.

Next week, I will announce the winner of the “Name Dale’s Beard” contest; so vote early and often.

Why Worry?

The human body is a reasonable analog for the writing process.  Sometimes there’s junk flowing out of every orifice and at others you’re sealed up tighter than a can of sardines without a key.  This week is very much the latter.  So, being absolutely void of anything interesting to share, I will write about everyone’s favorite debate subject; global warming.

Hey… you get this for free, remember!

If you read the news, especially via the internet, you are more than aware there is a dearth of source articles available that claim to interject some new fact bolstering the argument that if we fail to take drastic measures immediately, rampant man-caused climate change will surely render our planet uninhabitable to life as we know it.  Scientists always like to add that tag, “as we know it” to the word “life”.  I conjecture that it is because they really have no idea what life is and they’re just covering their bases.  Oh, they can identify the parameters under which life will operate.  But if you ask them, “How did it start?”  Their answer is always, and I commend them for their veracity here, “I dunno.”  And if you do not know the origin of a phenomenon, you surely haven’t got a handle on it, cosmically speaking.  But I digress.

One of the stories I read this week offered that a dire consequence from extreme climate change was the congregation of 35,000 walruses on the beaches of the Pt. May, Alaska.  This unprecedented (by the way, who is counting the walruses?) gathering is apparently the result of diminished sea ice.  As there are no bergs upon which to rest, they have been forced to lie about on the beach.  The article did not intimate that any poll was taken amongst the walruses to query their motives for coming ashore.  Perhaps they just grew tired of having cold tummies.

Another, unrelated story, proffered that the ease with which ISIS was able to subjugate a swath of desert larger than Oregon in what used to be Iraq and Syria could be explained by severe drought (not your every day, run-of-the-mill drought mind you; but a catastrophic, globe-altering drought fueled by the run-away green-house effect) that prevented farmers from realizing normal crop yields.  Never mind that for the last four thousand years (yes, even before the Prophet), one conqueror after another swept through the area establishing a temporary dynasty, e.g. Babylonians, Sumerians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Britains, etc. (I know that should be “the British”, but the prose just doesn’t flow as well and if I can recall your attention to the opening paragraph, you know I am all about the flow.)  But I digress.

 

Or maybe, both examples are just among myriads that can be attributed to Darwinian natural selection.  Maybe the walruses are engaged in a practice that will somehow cull the herd.  Perhaps the time is right for the Semitic (look this word up, it probably doesn’t mean what you think it means) peoples to discover a unifying ethos that will allow them to prosper (no matter how dangerous to the rest of us).  Allah knows they’ve had enough false starts.

But to bring this to the point I want to make (finally!): We cannot continue to believe our destiny as a species is dependent on climate change.  The universe has our number and some day it’s going to make the call.  If you look out over the long term, we know that our sun will eventually run out of fuel and doom our planet.  That is, of course, if we aren’t smacked by a big ol’ asteroid in the meantime.  And don’t forget the bubbling cauldron of volcanic death percolating under Yellowstone valley, overdue and just looking for an excuse to exterminate us interlopers.

In understanding nature, one does not buck trends.  And the trend has been 99.9% of all species that have ever lived on earth are extinct (source).  Do we really think that because we, (as a species) have codified Darwinian Theory we are exempt from the law?  So I say give the argument a rest.  Take a cue from the walruses; relax and go to the beach.  But be sure to lather up with sunscreen.  There’s no reason to tempt fate!

 

If You Can't See It, Does that Prove It's Really There?

Well, it’s finally happened; positive proof that black holes do not exist.  Please consider that for a moment before going on.

Let me expand on my amazement with that brilliant statement.  A scientist has, mathematically mind you, proved that a theoretical concept whose fundamental physical characteristic is that it cannot be seen does not exist.  Let us recall that Einstein’s theory of gravity predicts the existence of black holes.  And so predicted, they have become the metaphorical rack upon which cosmologists have hung their big bang theory.

Now Professor Laura Mersini-Houghton from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill tells us that our previous understanding of what happens to a really big star when it dies is all wrong.  The theory of black holes is that when a particularly large star (much larger than our Sun) runs out of fuel for its fusion, the star collapses on itself.  The gravity of the collapsed star is so great that nothing can escape, not even light; ergo, black hole.

One of the problems with this theory has been the nagging inconsistency with what we believe to be true at the other end of the universe; the very tiny, tiny world of quantum theory (which for Scott Bakula fans, I’m sorry to say, has nothing to do with time travel) makes gravity impossible.  Tell that to your knees next time step on your own shoe laces.

Without getting too technical, not because I don’t think you can handle it but more because I don’t understand it, it seems that when a very large star collapses on itself it releases a type of radiation (energy) known as Hawking radiation; so called because it was predicted by Professor Stephen Hawking.  “Professor Mersini-Houghton believes the star also sheds mass, so much so that it no longer has the density to become a black hole.” (source).  Therefore, black holes cannot exist.

“So what does this mean, Dale?”  Well quite simply, this:  If someone tells you they saw me at Pure Platinum, it is prima facie evidence that I was not there.  Everybody knows I don’t emit any excess energy anyway.

Global Warming!

Relax, this is not going to be a political diatribe related to the hotly contested proposition that the world is well on its way toward destruction resulting from the runaway greenhouse effect. Although this past week has been one of the warmest I remember with midday temperatures rising to 105 degrees, today the trend seems to have broken and we are back to the usual range for September in the coastal valleys of San Diego.  My impression:  It was hot!

How hot was it?  It was so hot I was running my air conditioner for the better part of the day.  Now being a member of the Skinflint clan, the notion of spending money just to cool the air is rather odious to my nature.  But when it became impossible for me to watch my favorite Fox News Channel programs for the sweat cascading from my forehead into my eyes, I realized it was time to acquiesce and open the pocket book.  I guess it won’t be too damaging to forego eating for a few days; I could stand to lose a few pounds anyway.

I remember when I was in high school a day was set aside, April 22, 1970, on which we students were assembled to hear lectures from visiting pundits expounding the theory that increasing levels of Carbon-dioxide in the atmosphere put us all in danger from an imminent ice age as a result of global cooling.  Just a few degrees decrease in global mean temperatures would cause the earth’s free water supply to be locked up in the polar ice caps leading to death by thirst or hypothermia, whichever came first (or seemed scarier).  As I recall, it was a pleasant day and the lectures were presented outside in the warmth of the sun.  No mention was made of the likelihood of the return of the Wooly Mammoth.

It is now nearly twenty years later and we are still “celebrating” earth day each April and to my great disappointment, nary an iceberg is to be seen in San Diego Harbor.  Today, we needn’t fear a frozen planet.  The polar ice caps it seems have out flanked the global cooling proponents and instead are threatening us with rising sea levels.  Although I have yet to observe sea waves lapping at the intersection of Broadway and Front Street, the experts assure me that soggy days are ahead.

Well, to continue in the tradition of public education this blog provides, I will now share with you the steps I have taken to protect myself from either extreme.  First, to limit the importance of future climatic catastrophe, I have had no children.  Once I’m gone, I don’t care what befalls the planet.  Second, I have chosen to live well beyond the tidal zone no matter how much of the ice melts.  My home is at 1,700 ft. elevation.  Come on Poseidon; give me your best shot.

You might recoil from such thinking, believing it to be rather selfish.  You are correct!  Nature has proven itself to be no friend of life; just look at the paleontological record.  There are more species extinct in the history of the world than currently exist today.  And most of them expired well before humans starting meddling with the environment.  We are just one Yellowstone volcanic eruption or one asteroid collision away from extinction ourselves.  Both of these phenomena are overdue, by the way.

 

So take my advice:  Forget about EPA ratings and buy a fast car.  You may not be able to outrun Armageddon, but you’ll be among the last to go and enjoy the ride to boot. Whee!

Investment Opportunity!

The truth is, I am a liar.  I have been all my (long, long) life.  Here’s a harder pill to swallow; so are you.

Think about what you are seeing in the news presently.  In the last three days, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell has changed his story about his awareness of the facts in the Ray Rice story (Baltimore Ravens running back accused of battering his wife) every time a fresh news tidbit is released by TMZ.

It seems each week we are regaled with yet another tale of lost e-mail archives belonging to IRS operatives close to Lois Lerner.  But we are assured that the system crashes and hard drive destruction do not implicate any of the players.  The events, it seems, were all in line with standard data protection procedures.

Three CIA contract security officers (all ex-spec ops veterans) are making the media rounds promoting a book they co-wrote in which their central point is they were prevented by order from responding to the American diplomatic compound in Benghazi during the September 11, 2012 attack during which four Americans were killed, including the U.S. Ambassador to Libya.  In form of a denial, officials of the State Department and CIA parsed words over the meaning of “stand down”.

Just yesterday, President Obama delivered a prime-time televised address in which he presented his plan to arm the Syrian Rebels as part of the effort to “degrade” ISIS.  In an August 8 interview, the rebels were described by the President as not capable of using and protecting such assets effectively.

This is not intended to be a political rant.  I just use these recent events to illustrate the propensity of humans to use falsehoods.  Everybody lies.  The question is why.  Where do we learn this shameful social behavior?

I posit that we do not learn to lie, but rather we must be taught to tell the truth.  Self-preservation is the strongest driver of the human psyche.  Lying is innate.  The instinct to avoid conflict runs deep.  And one way to avoid conflict is to rearrange facts to mirror the information people want hear:  “If I can just get them to believe me, I can get out of here with a minimum amount of damage.”  We don’t even work to make the lies believable.  As long as it delays punitive action (yes, we are an instant gratification culture) we are satisfied.

“But Dale,” you ask, “How can you say this is instinctive rather than learned?”  Because as soon as we can talk, we start telling lies: Ask any toddler with cookie crumbs on that innocent little face, “Did you get a cookie out of the cookie jar?”  Their instant answer, bolstered by the dramatic, thoughtful head shake is, “No.”

So there you have it, immutable proof that we are born liars.  And how, you wonder, is this going to make you rich?  I am offering you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of the next big thing.  An invention so right for our times that it will become an instant best seller, Halon Pants.  These pants would be lined with thin pockets filled with halon 1301.  The material of which the pockets are made would melt well below the ignition temperature of the fabric of the trousers.  The release of the halon gas prevents fire by chemically mixing with all three of the elements necessary for ignition, oxygen, heat and fuel. Voila!  Fire proof pantaloons.

Our engineers were interviewing women about the unique challenges related to the design of fire-safe skirts and dresses when they assured us such work was unnecessary as women never lie.

      

The Princess and the Pee-er

This post is not about fairy tales.  It is not about urinary tract infections.  There is no misspelling which might suggest the title references vegetables.  No, this is a blog about May-December romances.  You know the ones I mean; older guy playing the role as sugar daddy to a young hotty.  Or it could be a fading dowager entertaining the advances of a young gigolo.  You know the story; robbing the cradle.  As the examples attest, we generally pooh-pooh such matchups as serving some nefarious stratagem designed to exchange emotional and physical affection for monetary advantage or economic security.

But there are other motives:  Men seeking affirmation that their masculinity is intact; women with daddy issues; men with unnatural attachments to their mothers; power plays.  One can identify myriad reasons for May-December unions, but rarely does the list include true romance.  Can the heart of a man of advanced maturity truly harbor an untainted love for a woman one or maybe two generations removed?  Is it possible for a well-centered young woman to attach emotionally to a man of age without at least the hint of some economic motive?  Must there be exceeding emotional vacancy in the heart of a sage woman for her to attach to a man much younger?  Will only a young man seeking to fill the void of motherly love unite with a woman beyond her reproductive years?

Hollywood says yes, or no, depending on which of these questions one is seeking to answer.

“Aha!” you shout. “This week’s missive is about movies.  Thank God, I thought he was going to drone on about some personal experience that would eventually lead to nausea for us, the readers.”

No, you’re safe.  There are no personal histories or tawdry anecdotes.  But do you find fault with the proposition that in polite society (or am I dreaming of a bygone era) romantic unions that span generations are generally sneered at and believed to have their genesis in prurient or pecuniary motives?

If you look to the Golden Age of Hollywood, it would seem pure May-December romances are not only possible, but common and blissful.  To wit, I offer the reader some of my favorite movies in which age disparity is a key element.

To Catch a Thief (1955-Paramount Pictures): Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, this Riviera set thriller features Cary Grant as a retired, reformed jewel thief, and Grace Kelly as a young jet setter (back when being a jet setter meant something) he sets up as bait to catch a burglar that has been leaving clues behind which suggest Grant has come out of retirement.  As one would expect, a romance ignites between Grant and Kelly.  What is unexpected is the mastermind behind the thefts and how it fits into the theme of this blog entry.  See the movie to understand this assertion.

Love in the Afternoon (1957-United Artists): This is another of my favorite Billy Wilder films (director/writer, to see more about Wilder films, see the post “A Wilder Ride” July 31, 2014) and deals very directly with this subject in a relationship that develops between a young Parisian musician (Audrey Hepburn) and a worldly American businessman (Gary Cooper).  The two engage in an affair of convenience, but as is de rigueur for the puritanical fifties (we had to defeat the march of Communism, for God’s sake… there was no room for moral ambiguity) in the end they legitimize their love by getting married.  What sets this film apart is the deft manipulation of the bon vivant Cooper by the seeming ingénue, Hepburn.

North by Northwest (1959-MGM): Lore has it that Alfred Hitchcock (Director) envisioned a climactic fight scene atop the stone monument at Mount Rushmore and commissioned screenwriter Ernest Lehman to write a script that would get him there.  The product is perhaps the greatest suspense drama ever.  Cary Grant plays a middle-aged business executive thrown into espionage intrigue resulting from mistaken identity.  While trying to unravel the mystery, he encounters the much younger Eva Marie Saint who it turns out is employed by, as well as romantically entangled with, master spy James Mason.  The scene on the Twentieth Century Limited (that’s a train that ran between New York and Chicago, youngsters) in which Saint seduces Grant will reaffirm that the snake (you know, from the Garden of Eden) really was a rank amateur.  It’s Hitchcock, of course there’s a twist!  But it’s consistent with the theme of this post.  You’ll also want to look into a train trip.

Murphy’s Romance (1985-Columbia Pictures):  Directed by Martin Ritt, this is one of two movies for which James Garner was nominated for an Academy Award (The Notebook).  He plays a near-retirement pharmacist in a town where domestically abused Sally Field has just moved with her son to escape the ex-husband.  This is a cute, little love-conquers-all flick that demonstrates how people can overcome generational differences to find true love.  After you have watched this (because I recommended it), then see The Americanization of Emily (1964-MGM, director: Arthur Hiller) to see Garner in a truly tour-de-force performance.

Harold and Maude (1971-Paramount Pictures):  Director Hal Ashby was known for his quirky, off-center comedies that shone a light on the dark corners of life.  That’s not unusual for the times.  But this effort went way beyond quirky.  It’s just sick; in a subdued, comical kind of way.  Bud Cort plays a detached, death obsessed twenty-year-old who stages gruesome accidents and faux suicide attempts, much to the chagrin of his mother.  Her quest is to get Harold involved in a love affair that will change his focus.  Unpredictably, he meets the eighty-year-old Maude (Ruth Gordon) at a funeral for a person neither of them knew.  The relationship they develop is fueled by the isolation each feels from humanity.  The need for human connection and affection evolves into a sexual relationship. I saw this movie about the time I was becoming sexually active and I’m surprised it didn’t set me back a couple of years.  See this movie; no matter your challenges in life, it will make you feel better about yourself.

As much as I love the fantasy world of movies, I live my life steeped in realism and logic.  I don’t believe the power of love can bridge an extreme generational gap. Maybe it would be different for one as handsome as Cary Grant.  But if you care to try to prove me wrong…  

Thank you, Bruce

I don’t remember my first haircut.  Who does?  I’m sure, having many times witnessed the trauma of children enduring their first coif, that my parents took me to a local barber shop sat me on the booster seat and tried to comfort me against this most egregious violation of personal dignity ever.  And I’m sure there efforts were unsuccessful.

My earliest memories related to personal hair grooming are of my father shearing my tresses with a whirring clipper like a shepherd collecting wool from his flock.  In the early days of my school career I sported a butch.  This was not problematic as around 1960 the butch was considered a manly styling choice; not as cool as a crew cut but better than a Poindexter.  Now I’m sure, knowing the philosophy by which my father steered his life, that his choice was not based on some appeal to fashion chic.  No, he calculated the savings he would realize by buying a cheap trimmer and amortizing its cost over the number of haircuts I would need until I got a job and could pay for my own trips to the barber.  The choice of style was driven solely by the ease and speed by which the results could be achieved.  Sometimes, on a crisp autumn evening, I’ll flash back to the family garage, my father’s homemade workbench stool and the smell of gas fumes emanating from the Buick.

After completing my fifth-grade studies, we moved to a larger home which meant I would be attending a new school.  During my first haircut at the new location, I broached the subject of letting my hair grow out to a less juvenile length.  After all, I was going to be eleven years old when the new school term started and my class would be populated by girls who had not yet formed the impression that I was a hopeless geek.  I don’t know whether he had compassion for my plea or just figured such a change would allow him more time to hide behind the daily newspaper, but he acquiesced and so began my relationship with Al the local barber, who was quite the eloquent conversationalist compared to Al (my father).  I learned that it was not necessary for one to remain completely motionless, including movement of the lips, for one to receive a precision, quality trim.  And so I was introduced to the business man’s special; razor tapered on the back and sides, off of the ears, parted on the left, gooped in place with Brylcreem.  For the next seven years, Al was my date every other week.  He wisely dissuaded me from a Beatle cut.  He deftly redirected my desire to wear bangs like Mr. Spock.

Upon graduation from High School (Go Monarchs!) and the liberation afforded by personal ownership of one’s first car, I left Al in favor of the discount haircuts offered by the Exchange Barber Shop on board 32^nd St. Naval Station.  As my father had been a career sailor (twenty-years) all dependent services were extended to me until I reached the age of twenty-three.  With the price of gas seemingly static at about thirty cents per gallon, it was more economic to drive the fifteen miles to the base and save about a dollar (over fifty percent) on the price of the haircut.  I reasoned that know I was paying for my own haircuts, I could exercise some control over the style (not the only example of my proclivity to totally misread the tea leaves of reason).  I would go to great lengths describing to the base barbers (it seemed I never got the same one twice) exactly how I wanted my hair to look; a little longer, hair over the ears, blocked in back, parted in the middle.  They would go to work and low and behold, when finished, I would have the business man’s special; razor tapered on the back and sides, off of the ears, parted on the left, gooped in place with Brylcreem.  My hair looked suspiciously just like a regulation Navy cut.  I am so thankful my father had not joined the Marine Corps.  Or maybe it was a communication problem born of my lack of skill with the Tagalog dialect.

Sometime during my first year of college (the first time) I just stopped getting my hair cut.  Over the next several months my tresses grew to cover my ears, fall over my collar and eventually touch my shoulders, almost.  I was in style.  When I returned to campus for my second year, I looked like a college student.  I do not believe this added to the level of confidence felt by my faculty advisor when I was elected to the position of President of the Criminology Club.  The atmosphere in the Criminology Department was a bit more staid than that of the general student population.  Though he said nothing, I could tell he was relieved when I showed up for the second meeting of the semester in a cut more befitting the office.  By this time, I had abandoned the base barbers and returned to Al.  He was a nice guy and, generational differences notwithstanding, we had a rapport; business man’s special; razor tapered on the back and sides, off of the ears, parted on the left, gooped in place with Brylcreem.

Throughout the remainder of my Community College career and into my short career in law enforcement, I maintained my hair to uniform standards.  After my departure from the Sheriff’s Office, I generally let my hair grow a bit longer and was lucky enough to be involved with women who would scissors trim my hair for me.  That is until I encountered The Woman!  It is amazing what compromises to our principles we will make for love.  She introduced me to a barber of her choice (I believe “hair stylist” is the appropriate moniker) and was paying some outrageous price for the privilege of meeting my eventual ex-wife’s standards.  This was the late seventies, and while I never embraced the disco culture, styled locks was the mode-o-day.

As college graduation approached (the second time) my concerns turned to landing a lucrative job.  I had the hair stylist shorten things up a bit to make me presentable for the accounting profession.  I don’t think it worked.  When I finally did land a job in my chosen field of endeavor, me and the (soon to be ex-) wife relocated to Los Angeles.  At first, I continued to patronize my San Diego stylist whenever I would return home to visit friends and family.  But after the inevitable (and I am willing to accept all responsibility) separation, I turned to Super Cuts.  And there I stayed for several years.

With the advance of society, so it went that hair styles throughout the 80s and 90s tended to shorten.  Then, with the advent of the 21^st Century, the bad boy trend of purposely mussed hair became all the rage (and seems to remain so… Comb your firggin’ hair!).  I couldn’t stand it.  My logical approach to all things would not allow me to accept the paradox of spending so much time and money on a haircut intended to give the impression that absolutely no time and money had been involved in its evolution.  By this time, my own hair was thinning noticeably.  I could no longer pull off the gentleman’s business cut, parted on the side.  The part now started half-way up my skull.

All considered I do fall on the lucky, if not blessed, side of the masculine hair-loss conundrum.  I have inherited my father’s hair.  Now this confused me somewhat because, I was raised to believe the myth that a man receives his hair gene from his mother.  And my mother’s brothers were all Bozo bald; all eight of them.  To a man they used the side-to-side comb over.  Holiday get-togethers resembled a Turtle Wax convention. My father, while his hair thinned considerably over his lifetime, did not develop male pattern baldness.  But he was still slave to his vanity and would let the hair on the top of his head grow long and comb it straight back to cover his scalp.  My fervent belief that misdirection is tantamount to self-delusion would not allow me to follow either path.

With retirement, I eschewed the world of hair salons and began to patronize barbers again.  I had one that would share his most intimate opinions on how to please a woman; our relationship did not last long.  Next was the pretty Mexican woman who was always enthusiastic to see me, even though I could only catch about half of her heavily accented discourse.  But alas, the owner of her shop retired to Minnesota (Minnesota, really?) and she had to relocate to a shop in Oceanside.  She was worth a thirty-minute drive, but not ninety.

So I stumbled into a shop in Valley Center and met my current barber, Tami.  And in the duration of our commercial relationship, she has taken me from a “two” to a “quarter” (you guys with short hair know what I mean).  That’s right; I’m back where I started in the old garage.  And I love it.  You can’t imagine the money I save of shampoo!  When I camp, I no longer feel there is a greasy beaver in residence on my head.  My hair is never mussed.  Rubbing the stubble with my palm makes me feel happy.  And I owe it all to the baby-boomer who made it cool to be bald.

  Thank you, Bruce Willis, for illuminating our path with the sheen from your chrome dome.