Category: tunes

Music. Bands. Songs. Concerts.

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chills

This song needs a Rosetta Stone.
After such a triumphant return to writing yesterday, I feel the need to keep it up and make sure the blog’s longest dry-spell is put to rest with nary a memory remaining. Anyway, today was the first day back to work, so as you can imagine it was filled with jumbled attempts at getting “back into it.” Catching up on e-mail, answering phone calls, going to meetings, etc. Wow, what a puss job eh? Woulda sounded much more impressive had I said something like: poured a foundation, raised a barn, and helped foal three roans. Foal three roans, man that’s a literary gem. Intro paragraph over.

Have you ever heard a song that could give you chills? I mean, consistently? Like every time you hear it? There are several for me, really, the Star Spangled Banner, when sung well, is one for instance. Are there too many commas in that sentence? Nevermind. I mean, I was thinking about songs that have that “power” the other day – mostly because I was listening to one: “She Sends Kisses” from the Wrens’ Meadowlands LP. An unlikely tune for this category perhaps, but the swelling culmination of harmony and music at the end so perfectly puts a bow on what is already a masterful combination of bleedingly personal poetic lyrics and ingenious song structure, it’s undeniable. Seriously, take a listen to this thing – for me, hair stands up and eyes mist over right around the five-minute mark. Can’t tell what the marble-mouthed New Jersey native is warbling about? Lyrics can be found here, “hopes pinned to poses honed in men’s room mirrors,” and “I put your face on her all year” indeed. Brilliant.

While at the ballgame the other night, I spied an ad in the men’s room for “laser back hair removal – $99.” Nothing like discount medical procedures to get my attention. Now, some qualifying text stated that the $99 was “per treatment,” and I’ve heard that several treatments is almost a universal requirement – but dang. Even if I had to go five times, I think it would be worth it to get these damned culturally-unacceptable locks off me backside. After a little research online, however, I was somewhat dissuaded. But when the miracle-cure for this affliction does roll around, I’ll be the first shirtless dude in line.

Speaking of afflictions, I head to the allergist today to do a follow-up on my cold-induced urticaria. After a couple weeks on every antihistamine known to man, and a week of hard-core antibiotics, we get to see if I’m still stricken (hint: I am, my hung-out-the-window-on-the-way-to-work arm was nice and itchy this morning). Perhaps seeing the actual allergist rather than his PA will pay off more than my previous visit? Who knows, I’m not really keeping my fingers crossed. Crap? I just forgot I never got the bloodwork I was supposed to do for this visit. Sucks. Dang, how could I forget that? Crappy.

Oh, and while doing the research for the “Wrens made me cry” piece above, I got intrigued by the lack of lyrics for the track “A Faster Gun” from the same album. And that’s how I ended up spending nearly two hour with headphones on, replaying the same song over and over and over in an attempt to transcribe the words. Here’s what I got, and after a million revisions I think I’m actually getting pretty close. If anyone can help me out – have at it. Yeah, I have that kinda free time. You envy my luxury? You should, I do what I want.

And should the urge strike you to get the whole album, here ya go. It’s totally worth it, every track is exceptional – with the aforementioned “A Faster Gun” and “Ex-Girl Collection” being among my faves.

Dave out.

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problem #1: ignorant people

GIS for bleeding heart?
I know, it’s been a few days. Well, get used to it. I don’t plan to write much all next week when I’m away on holiday. I’ll try and drop a few entries on ya, but I’m not making any promises. I guess I’ve just been kinda bummed lately with this whole CIU thing… a visit to the allergist this week confirmed that I won’t be able to go on our planned rafting trip next weekend, which meant I had to cancel those reservations. Even crappier, since I didn’t find out until pretty close to the event, they’d only refund me 75% of what we paid in – which effectively means that this “disease” screwed a bunch of people out of $40 each. So, not only was I feeling bad for not being able to make the trip, I felt worse for hitting people in their pocketbooks because of it.

So I did what I do when I’m down, I took a morning off work and used it to work in the yard. I was at the Home Depot by 6:30am and swingin’ a pick by 7am. It’s amazing how much you can get done before noon when you don’t wait until 10am to get started. Got all of zone two sprinklers done, and covered. Just having a flat, un-trenched backyard makes things look so much better – even if it is still all dirt. I formed up the patio, and seeing the outline visually really helps the imagination – you can almost see what it’ll look like when it’s done. Also got five yards of decomposed granite (the base for the pavers-based porch) and 3 yards of cedar mulch for the slope above the retaining wall. After putting just a little mulch on that slope, it makes a big difference? this thing is actually starting to look like a backyard. I’m going to change subjects now, mixing in some of the half-written things I had for the days I skipped this week.

Getting older and taking more of an interest in politics must go hand in hand. Am I supposed to have this much hesitation and distrust of all news sources and politicians? I honestly don’t think I am. Were early Americans so leery? I mean, I have a hard time taking anything as 100%. What do I mean? I mean that whenever a politician or pundit speaks, I automatically assume that at least some of what they say is “spin” or pure crap. Where did this doubt-factor get built in to my thought processes? It’s the same kind of doubt that I have with auto mechanics, thinking that at best they can utter half-truths only. When it comes to politics, I have this built in notion that I have to take whatever I hear with a grain of salt. Everyone, from learned people I know and like, to analysts on Capitol Hill, has their agenda… where can a brother go for the straight dope? Not the Post, not Fox, not CNN?

Right now I’m listening to the new Interpol album, and I gotta say it’s outstanding. I needed to be weaned off the Killers, and I think this may be just the album to do it. My mind is in other places though, calculating volumes of rock and sand and mulch for the backyard, drifting hive-less down a river during my upcoming week off, or thinking back on my weekend on the range (I can still smell the campfire smell on my sneakers, and it’s awesome).

So, to it then. The weekend was outstanding. And like all things that I enjoy immensely, I’ll probably never write a proper entry about it. Suffice it to say (sufficed to say?) that we had a blast, playing cowboy in the high-desert under the shadows of the Sierras. It was relaxing, cathartic, and perfectly timed. Now I’m back in the working-world and once again feeling the pull of Summer, baiting me with every cloudless sunny day, taunting me. I can make it through these next two days and onto my vacation, I know I can.

In other news, today is my fourth wedding anniversary. I’ve been married for four years, been in CA for four years? it’s simply flown by. Four years ago today I was in a small church in Cocoa, Florida, getting married to someone I’d already been with for nearly eight years. Four years ago tomorrow we were arriving at our bed and breakfast in Martha’s Vineyard. I’m old.

Last night I checked my e-mail at home and found a forwarded letter waiting for me. It was from Sharaun’s grandmother, a woman who I love dearly – but also a staunch conservative who often sends Bush-loving, Kerry-hating missives that are making the rounds (you’ve seen the one about Kerry’s houses and that stupid ketchup rumour, I’m sure). I’m not going to get into politics, why quibble over the lesser of two evils – but this letter was a little different. It was a forwarded letter that was supposedly originally written by a father to his sons, regarding the war and terrorism and whatnot. It was long, but it caught my interest and I read the whole thing. For the sake of background, here’s a webized version of what I’m talking about (which is good because it doesn’t have the one-million carats and typos that come from a grandmother-forwarded e-mail). As a disclaimer, I have no idea what that site is about – it was just the first Google return for “muslim terrorists love dad letter.”

Now to the letter, it’s well-written, but some of the lines that I love are: “Why were we attacked? Envy of our position, our success, and our freedoms.” Yeah? Seems a bit classist and elitist to me. I mean, perhaps envy played a role – but I think the real reason lies in these peoples’ belief that our country is so immoral that they are commanded by God to destroy us. Not only that, but they feel that we attacked first. Read Osama’s letter, he tells us why they attack us. Anyway, there is some decent text in the letter, the portion addressing speaking to all Muslims being bad and Hitler’s Germany, etc. But for the most part it takes on a bit of a “conspiracy theory” vibe, talking about France eventually “fading” to the Muslims. I’m not sure, but is this guy trying to justify genocide here? What does the war in Iraq have to do with Muslim terrorists? Are all Iraqis Muslim terrorists?

Problem number one: ignorant people. Problem number two: the belief in divine justification for certain deeds. Either of these problems by themselves can be deadly, but the combination of the two is most certainly. When you have a person or group or persons who believe that they are called by God to do something, and that a) if they don’t do it they will be held accountable by said God, and b) that because it’s done in God’s name and at his command, it is beyond reproach or examination, you’re against a wall. There’s no arguing with it, there’s no logic that you can apply, there’s nothing. Whatever, I’m not defending terrorists… at least that’s not what I intended to do here. Hate me because California is turning me liberal, I guess.

I have nothing more, but I’m sure my logic above is all flawed? so tell me about it. Dave out.

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you’re just chicken

Hot dogs are beef? I coulda sworn they were pork.I was thinking of all the jobs I can’t do anymore now that I have my new disease. Can’t be the coach of a Super Bowl winning football team, I couldn’t survive the traditional Gatorade and ice dousing. Can’t be a SCUBA diver or ice fisherman. Can’t be a ski instructor or pro wakeboarder. Can’t be a Shamu-rider at Sea World, or a chainsaw-wielding ice sculptor. Can’t be Santa Claus, can’t be a meat packer. Bummer. Good thing I’m a computer engineer who gets to sit in a climate-controlled cubicle all day. The worst I have to worry about is hemorrhoids or maybe some kind of “repetitive stress injury.” I knew I went to school for something other than a lifetime-long school loan repayment plan.

So I’m gonna keep talking about this thing because it’s what’s on my mind of late. I was reading online that cold-induced urticaria can come up at any time, and last either: a) forever, or b) one to five years. Gimme a #2 and that scantron… I’m clearly and neatly bubbling in ‘b’ on this one. For real though, one to five years? I wonder what deity I angered to be cursed with this? Not only is it an extremely crappy ailment, it comes off as very dubious to the uninitiated. Like when everyone is like, “Come on y’allz, let’s swing off this kickass ropeswing into the lake!” And everyone is like, “Heck yeah, that ropeswing looks so fun and awesome!” Then Dave goes, “You guys go ahead, I’ll just stay on the shore – I’m allergic to cold water.” “Yeah right,” says everyone, “You’re just too chicken to do the ropeswing so you made up a fake disease!” “No, for real guys, it’s called cold-induced urticaria,” I reply. “Sounds more like cold-induced chicken-caria to us, bawk bawk!” comes the chorus. Sigh… woe is me.

While telling everyone about it at work, the question that comes up most is “Is this very common?” Which, I’m pretty sure, is a polite way to ask if it’s real or if it’s just something in my head. Either way, that got me thinking… how can I make some money off my new sickness? Maybe I could start a webpage that would be like a cold-induced urticaria support group. Then I could charge money or something. You know, cold-induced urticarians unite! Power to the people and all that crap. Maybe now that a person of such high profile, such as myself, has this disease, it will raise awareness of the tens of others who are suffering this very minute.

On the music-tip, I’ve had my MP3 IV set on a full drip of the Killers’ LP “Hot Fuss” for about a week now. The more I listen to it, the more I like it. From front to back it’s got some great tunes, even if they are in that becoming-ever-more-popular Hot Hot Heat/Franz Ferdinand vein. I don’t care, I’ve come to realize that, with the sudden increase in popularity of good music, I’m gonna have to be OK with sometimes finding new choons from the MTV or even a Toyota commercial. It’s cool, I’m cool with that. So yes, it was me you spotted driving around town with several lengths of 20ft schedule 40 PVC hanging out either end of a green Ford Explorer, listening to the Killers’ track “On Top” at a heinously ear-ruining volume. I don’t even care, that song kicks major butt… I’ll listen to it non-stop if I want to… so shut up. You’ll still not catch me with the Justin Tenderlegs or Ursher or anything featuring Lil’ John coming from my Alpine.

Time to go practice for my presentations tomorrow, nothing like being last minute. Dave out.

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tethered to their haggard bodies

Trendy.
The dismal drive home from my folks’ place… six long hours of cows, brown grass, and barbed-wire fence. I asked Sharaun to drive because I knew this is the only chance I’ll get to write today – barreling homeward down the highway. She’s a pretty good driver, but must be a really poor colorer (’cause she can’t stay in the lines for crap). Intro paragraph: over.

It was a good weekend away, just the two of us. Even though the drive there and back is long and empty, it’s a good chance to sing along to some tunes, talk, and share a #2, animal style, with the other Southern California road warriors. I get pretty liberal with the music choices on the long trip, since it’d just be one six-hour fight if I tried to keep only my ears happy the whole time. Really, it’s my chance to “get with it,” and be relevant with what tunes I know. I mean, where else I’m I gonna learn that Usher has like three “songs” in the top ten right now? Certainly not on my own, that’s for sure. So I let the tonal indiscretion slide, and sorta benefit by at least being able to say “yeah, I’ve heard this song… it blows hard.”

We headed down south Friday night, getting a late start because Sharaun was busy at work preparing sub-plans for her absence today. It’s cool, I hung around the classroom and practiced my rope-skipping skills, which, I might add, are severely terrible. Saturday we all rode out to Los Olivos and did the art gallery thing. We thought maybe we could find some paintings for our house, but it seems local Santa Barbara artists are obsessed with brown-hill landscapes dotted with cows or horses. It’s either that, semi-nude native American women – again riding horses. So, we passed on it. Not that there’s not some talented hill-and-squaw painting artists down there, but it’s just not right for our crib.

After hitting the galleries we took a trip to the Chumash reservation casino. Casinos are always a mixed-bag for me. I enjoy gambling, and there’s something about the draw of a casino that I like. But there’s also a really depressing side to the whole thing. To see these old women rooted in front of a slot machine, smoking cigarette after cigarette. It makes me sad, especially since so many of them have those little “frequent gambling” cards – where you just store money on them and insert them into the slot on the front of the machines. They’ve got them tethered to their haggard bodies with stretchy cords, clipped to their lapels or blouses – like some life-giving umbilical cord to the mechanical entertainment that sucks them dry. Between the “greatest generation” chipping away at their social security pull for pull, and the white-trash couples in neon spandex and oversized Eminem t-shirts – casinos can be a real bummer. Anyway, we dropped $10 each and called it quits. Too bad I’m always too intimidated to actually sit down at the blackjack tables, I know how to play.

Sunday was my buddy Shaine’s wedding, and the whole reason for the trip (although spending Father’s day with dad was a worthy aside). Shaine was my best friend in the 5th grade, my first real best friend I’d say. It was really surreal to be at his wedding nearly 15 years later. Taking place aboard a yacht on Marina del Rey, the whole affair was awesome. And being that he was getting hitched into an Armenian family – there was plenty of Armenian dancing and music. It was a total blast, and I always love watching people of other cultures. The customs and dancing and music, all fascinating and enjoyable. Anyway, it seems like he found a great one in his new wife – and were really happy to be able to be there. Not only that, I got to listen to Death Cab’s “405” and “Los Angeles” while I was actually in LA and on the 405. Neat.

I guess I’m outta here, don’t wanna burn out the writing in me – I still have to do another one of these tonight, for Tuesday. Because we all know, if I don’t write at night – I don’t write. And I’ve been told lately that my blog sucks and that I need to work on being funny on demand more. So yeah, I’ll give that a go.

Until then, Dave out.

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a new wiping technique

Schematics, I know this!
Quarter to eleven and time to write tomorrow’s thingy. Came home, tidied a bit around the house and finally unpacked from the trip this weekend past. Did some dishes, watered the trees, took out the trash and then sat down with the laptop to multitask between the NBA playoffs and knocking out some work in order to meet this week’s commitments. Now I’m done working on PowerPoint slides, and I’m sick of them, so I quit and came back here to the computer room to do some serious music downloadin’ and rippin’.

Looks like I’m not alone in the desire to digitize my entire music collection: Wired magazine had a feature this month about pay-for-ripping services that will convert your CD collection to digital audio for a fee. I’m on the Ms now, Steve Miller to be exact. In a strange burst of random activity, I spent 20min this afternoon “linking up” some items on the “cast” page. I’ve been wanting to do it for a while, since I’ve written entries about lots of things I mention on there. Anyway, intro paragraph over!

I was experimenting with a new wiping technique the other day. Oh yeah, I’m talking about what you think I’m talking about. See, I’m kinda self-conscious about my current wipe – I kinda think I’m in the minority with the technique I employ. First off, I’ll start by saying that I’m semi-obsessed with being “clean.” Not to the point where it’s OCD or neurotic or anything (although I guess that could be debated), I just like to feel like I’m relatively “clean” – especially in my nether regions. I think that my current wiping strategy was born out of this desire for cleanliness, being what my mind settled on as the most efficient and tidy method.

My current wipe? Rear-wipe, sack-to-crack. Yes, that means I actually sit up off the seat a little and reach around my body to get the job done. I never thought much of this method while in the privacy of my own home, but shitting in a communal setting tends to make one examine his techniques in light of other techniques witnessed as feet-under-stalls. I noticed that most guys don’t visibly “move” when it’s time to do the wiping, and I figured that – looking in on me in the same situation – there would be visible motion associated with my wipe. I mean, I’m not propping one leg up on the seat or anything, but the slight “lift” required to get my arm around would most likely be given away by some telltale calf-flexing or heel-raising at least. So here I am, sitting in the middle stall with two other dudes dropping loads on either side – studying foot and calf movement during the wipe-phase of their food-transactions. Putting myself in their positions and pretending to examine my own movements, I suddenly became aware that I may be in the rear-wipe minority.

The majority of field data I’ve gathered is decidedly not in-line with my methodology. In fact, I’ve never seen any visible sign that someone is a rear-wiper. So it must be that the majority of people are front-wipers. Of course, I’ve never actually had the opportunity to observe my own technique (either in a mirror or via an out-of-body experience), so I’m not even positive there are any noticeable motions associated with it. However, faced with this seemingly overwhelmingly scientific data, I decided to give the front-wipe a go. For my test run, I chose the Courtyard by Marriot in Houston, TX. I took some paper (won’t even get into the paper method here, that’s another entry altogether) and went for it. Hmm… not too bad. Have to make sure that my hand doesn’t hit the surface of the water, have to make sure not to wipe too far forward – things I’m assuming come with practice and are second-nature to the seasoned front-wiper. Maybe people kinda “loom” above the seat a little even when employing the front-wipe, like I do with the rear? It just seems like a tight squeeze to get your hand down in there between the offending area and water surface.

My conclusion, the front-wipe just isn’t for me. I just don’t trust that I’m not draggin’ poo right into that dead-zone between the canyon and cajones. I mean, I guess the same could be argued against my technique, possibly lodging poo near the top of the crackish area – but I just feel I have a better go at it from that angle. I mean, they never really taught this in school or anything – you’re just kinda on your own to figure it all out. Or maybe I missed that day? Coulda been the day the Army came and gave the ASVAB test – I skipped on purpose that day so as to not alert the brass to my superior intellect and face the inevitable compulsory enlistment.

Wow guys, I just got done writing all this – and decided to search on the web… seems my fears are unfounded! I found a website which offers a wiping “poll,” and guess what? Rear-wipe, sack-to-crack/bush-to-tush, is by far the #1 technique for men and women! For really y’allz! Check out the crazy results here. Seems I’m not in the minority after all, I guess the people I work with are just all front-wipers – or I have an exaggerated idea of what the whole process must look like from an adjacent stall. Good to know that I’m not a freak, at least.

To be honest, I’d rather do like the Japanese and French do and be rid of the whole wiping thing once and for all – the bidet has to be the single best advancement in crapper technology. What a preferred solution! Faced with reaching my own hand, TP-clad or not, into my own asscrack – or having a toilet shoot a nice stream of water up there… there’s really no choice. Water cleans, people. Paper just smears and pushes around, there’s really no comparison. When I get an extra five grand saved up, maybe I’ll go all out for one of these dealies. “They’re years ahead of us!”

OK, so I didn’t mean for the wipe thing to consume the whole blog today, but it kinda went on a word-rampage and stepped all over any other ideas. Being as it’s midnight-thirty and I’m getting’ tired… I’m gonna call it a night.

Dave out.

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a 7th grade attempt at fantasy

Just a really cool GIS for "womb."
Last night was the sneak-attack Decemberists/Shins show in Davis. Pat and Cynthia accompanied us, as Cynthia was the conduit for tickets being a UCD student and all. The acoustics during the opening band were kinda lacking, and I don’t know if I just got used to the hollow “high school gym” sound or if the equipment/mix just got better with each act – but the Decemberists and Shins sounded great. Was a fun night with an earlier bedtime than the usual SF shows.

Shipped off a couple of old 5.25″ Apple IIgs floppy disks today, sending them to a dude that does file recovery from old Apple disks. I found them in the spare room the other night. They are mine and Joey’s class disks from our middle school Language Arts class. I’m pretty sure they contain all our work for the year, including essays and whatnot. The main thing I want off of them is our “final” project from that year: a long fictional narrative. I’m pretty sure mine was called “Quest,” and was a 7th grade attempt at fantasy. I remember being extremely proud of it at the time, which was before I ever even read the Hobbit. I think Joey’s was about some kid who went inside a waterfall in search of some treasure or something? but I can’t remember. Anyway, I’m hoping to at least get those stories – and kind of getting my hopes up for some recovered surprise, maybe some lost stories we were working on or an interesting assignment. Anyway, it cost $36 to get text files off two disks – hopefully it’s worth it.

One the “indie music is on TV” tip, Pat brought over a Newsweek article to rub in my face the other day. Here’s the online version of the article, without some supporting graphics from the print version. In the actual magazine, they have a graphic that does that “if you like this band, try this other band” thing – pointing people towards indie bands that may fit their likes. The bands in that sidebar graphic read eerily like my Best of 2003 from last year: Shins, Bright Eyes, Postal Service, Death Cab, etc. It’s actually a good article, and they mention several newish albums that are also on my current playlist. I like the quote from Gibbard about “feeling” something coming? I wonder. What the heck am I gonna listen to to be cooler than everyone when everyone’s listening to indie? Man, a self-important music-snob’s job is a hard one?

OK, I have nothing more. Oh wait, I got one thing. I forget where I stole this from, but check out Britney Spears’ backwards message. If you play the chorus of “Hit Me Baby One More Time” backwards, you can hear “sleep with me I’m not too young.” OK, where do I sign up?

Dave out.

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my curse


Hey guys, here goes the customary intro paragraph. Which is odd because I usually come back and write it last, after I’ve gotten the “meat” done and am out of stuff to say (don’t worry, you’ll be able to see it all happen in “behind the blog,” soon to be shown 600 times a week on VH1). No but for real. This weekend was good. Friday night Kings game at my place, Saturday worked in the yard and went mini-golfing, Sunday on the river all day and another Kings game. Next week sounds good too, Tuesday we catch the Shins/Decemberists show in Davis (a local show? awesome!), Wednesday Kings game. There, see – we’re all caught up on the junk and I can write what I’m here for.

Watching TV the other night, I saw a commercial for these new condoms that produce a “warming” sensation. Are you for real? Dude, if there’s on time I don’t need to be any warmer – it’s humpin’. Considering my natural internal body temperature is lava-hot compared to most humans, and that I’ve been known to break into a fevered sweat from just thinking too hard – artificial warming is the last thing I want. I mean, especially when I’m doin’ it. I gotta open the windows and turn on the fan as it is, I’d have to be insane to want to turn up the heat anymore. I’ve been cursed with a Bikram existence that has me sweating from a shower and while swimming. Now come up with a condom that chills the room to meat-hanging temps and you’ve got a lifetime customer.

I’ll tell you a story that haunts me to this day. Back in my first year of high school I used to ride the bus. Now, yes, there are some great bus-stories (carefully placing homemade pungee-sticks to pop the bus’ tires and render it useless for transporting us to school; removing one screw from a different place each day until every window and seat was ready fall apart; etc.), but in this story the bus in only the setup. We were ridging home one afternoon, headed towards the corner where we’d be dropped off to walk the block or so home. This day it so happened that the man who lived in that corner home was out mowing his lawn as we drove up. Only thing was, this guy had what was quite possibly the hairiest back I’d ever seen. So, here comes a bus full of young kids – and there’s this old, slightly overweight, sasquatch-looking dude mowing his lawn. We did as all good kids would, we laughed till we cried and made fun of this poor sap. I mean, why would someone so disgustingly hairy mow his lawn without a shirt?! Surely he knows how utterly repulsive he is as an example of the human form, right? Hairy man, do you have no shame?! If I remember right, I actually yelled some comment out the window at this sad man – although I’m sure he didn’t hear me over his lawn mowing.

So, what’s the point you ask? Well, for those of you who don’t know – I am now that man. And I can’t help but think that my cruelty that day has spun around on the wheel of fate and dealt me this Teen Wolf hand as some ironic justice. The God of body hair looked down on me that day and put me on his list. Then, as I reached my late teens – he sent his demons nightly to slather my back and shoulders with Rogaine. These follicle-awakening imps took me from baby’s butt to missing-link with a quickness, and one morning I awoke to a hideous sight. That sad man, that poor sap – he had nothing on me. My hair had reached a thickness and luster to rival Pantene commercials. And as the years went on, not only did the Black Forest that is my back and shoulders continue to flourish, but the hair that I’m supposed to have started to take off. Maybe those “good guys” hairs from the top of my head were forced out by the urban sprawl of my back hair, I don’t know.

That’s it, I’m outta here.