Haircut? Now’s the Time.

So, then, in my last post I discussed how Young Son #2 had very long hair and that some people seem to have a problem with that, and how he is allowed to decide when he will get it cut and how we, as his parents, are okay with that.

Guess what? He wanted it cut last night. And not a buzz, either. He had me cut it in stages. First, I did a cut that was fairly long. He wasn’t sure how he liked it, but he hung out for a while and let it dry while I cut Eldest Son’s hair.

Eldest Son hasn’t been much for long hair in the past, but this year he decided to let it grow out. His hair is straight and doesn’t grow as fast as Young Son’s, so even though he’d been growing it a year, it was only about shoulder-length.  Eldest Son wanted a cut before his graduation ceremony, so I obliged.

When I finished with him, Young Son came back. He hated the way his curly hair was poofing out in odd ways. I cut more of the length off. Still not working for him. More hair went, but this time I did some layering, which took off some of the poofiness. That did the trick. Young Son likes his new haircut, and I must say that it certainly is adorable. (But don’t tell him I said so. He’s a teen boy. It’s not cool to look adorable.)

I took a picture of Young Son before I started snipping away, but he gave me such a look of death when I did it that I’m pretty sure he would be less than keen to have me post it online. I’ll have to sneak a picture of him with short hair, just so I have a point of comparison and can remember how I cut it when called upon to do so in the future.

Cut Your Hair! Not.

Young Son #2 has incredibly long hair. It reaches his mid-back and is blond and wavy. Simply gorgeous. He keeps it very clean and uses maybe a quarter of a bottle of conditioner on it per shower so that it doesn’t get tangly.

Young Son has always gone to extremes with his hair. It was long and spirally by the time he was two and gave people the impression he was a girl. When he finally decided to get it cut, he wanted it buzzed. And so it has gone. Long within a year, buzzed during the summer, long again, buzzed.

Because it is long now and has been for most of the school year, kids at school keep razzing him about it. “When are you going to get your hair cut?” Daughter told me tonight that kids her age will come up to her and ask her when he’s going to get it cut and, “Why don’t your parents make him cut it?” Young Son and a friend were walking home from a movie last week and a woman in a mini-van drove around the block so she could yell “Get a hair cut!” out the window at Young Son.

Okay, People Obsessed with the Length of Young Son’s Hair, what year is this? Have we not lived through the Beatles, Hippies, Eighties Metal Hair Bands, and Grunge? Did Jesus, in all of our Anglo representations of him, not have long hair? What the hell is your problem?

It’s Young Son’s hair and he’ll cut it when he is good and ready. We, as his parents, figure that hair is a minor issue. He’s not doing drugs or drinking or getting into trouble with the law. He’s a nice, intelligent, sensitive young man. If he wants long hair, he can have long hair. If he wants to dye it blue, he can do that too. (Actually, Eldest Son has expressed an interest in doing this with his hair, just to see what it would look like.) Hairstyles are temporary and fairly easy to change, and why shouldn’t boys have the same kind of variety that girls are allowed with their hair? Besides, we like it long. No matter the length of his hair, we love Young Son for being Young Son.

So, then, all you mad hair-cutters, put your scissoring remarks away and deal with it.

The Discomfort Goes Both Ways

Hubby and I visited a large grocery store in the Twin Cities metro area last Friday. I made a bee-line for the bathroom when we got there; Hubby waited for me near the check-out counters. When I came out of the bathroom, I spotted Hubby. Passing by him was a woman whose face was familiar. I was sure I had met her before somewhere and I could feel my synapses trying to work out how I knew her. Then recognition clicked. It was Esme Murphy, a reporter for WCCO News.

I asked Hubby in order to be sure that my powers of recognition were working correctly and he confirmed that they were. He said that she had passed him a bit earlier and given him a look that he interpreted as “please don’t bother me”. Hubby said that maybe he was projecting that interpretation on her because that’s how he would feel if he was well-known and wanted to get his shopping done.

Needless to say, neither one of us went up to her or acknowledged her in any way. We both figured she wanted her privacy, but there was more to our not bothering her than that. For as uncomfortable as celebrities must feel about being constantly approached out in public, there are those of us in the public who will not approach a celebrity because we are feeling our own form of discomfort. It’s odd to have a flash of recognition, but then have no further shared background with a person to follow up that recognition. Worse yet is the knowledge that the person you so readily recognize has no clue as to who you are. The potential relationship is off balance before it even gets started.

What do either of you say in such a situation? At least upon meeting strangers, you can begin with small talk, but when there’s a celebrity involved, about all there is to resort to is a compliment on the person’s achievements or an acknowledgment that you recognize him or her. There typically isn’t time to go any deeper than that, which, in my experience, merely enhances the discomfort. Best to experience the recognition, quietly nod and smile if within each others’ space bubbles, and keep on walking.

If you’ve ever met a celebrity, or recognized a celebrity in a public space, how did you feel about the situation? How did you react? Did you try to talk to the celebrity, or purposely try to give him/her space?

Clichés Are the Comfort Food of Language

I was conscious of writing this blog post in the middle of the night as I was trying to remain unconscious. The cat and my bladder were not cooperating with that whole sleep thing, but at least something productive came of the exercise.

I’ve been listening to The Killers’ album Day & Age this past week. The first few listens of a new album are always a bit awkward. I don’t catch all the lyrics right away and need several listens in order to feel the groove of the songs. Now that I’ve played Day & Age over and over for a week, I’ve come to a couple of conclusions: a) I’m really digging it. The lyrics tell intriguing stories; the music is distinctive and compelling. And b) Clichés can be used to masterful effect and not come across as clichés at all.

Let me explain that second conclusion. When it comes to writing, one of the pieces of advice given to writers during the editing process is to eliminate all clichés. We shouldn’t be turning phrases that have been turned before. While I tend to agree with this sentiment for the most part, rules are made to be broken (ahem! – Cliché Alert!). Clichés that are thrown about without any thought can make writing flat, but clichés that are used with purpose can seem fresh and not cliché at all.

There are a few clichés woven into the songs on Day & Age (i.e. “cut the cord,” “burning with desire,” “chips are down,” impending doom,” “my darkest hour”), but all of them work seamlessly with the surrounding lyrics, which are quirky and contain interesting juxtapositions. (“Saw Cinderella in a party dress, but she was looking for a nightgown,” “Are we human, or are we dancers?”, “You sold your soul, like a Roman vagabond” – which I misheard as “Roman bag of bones”.)  The  clichés work as markers of familiarity in the stories presented.

I dare say, clichés are the comfort food of our language. Used sparingly and with forethought, they give the reader (or listener) instant recognition and an easy entrance into a story. If over-indulged in in an unthinking manner, they can lead to bloat and boredom. The Killers have managed the former beautifully on Day & Age.

Russian Commuter Dogs

According to my friend Jody, a story about Russian dogs that have learned how to commute on trains has been making the rounds of the internet lately. Russian commuter dogs? How incredibly cool is that? I had to check it out for myself.

The Sun of the UK covered the story in Wild dogs take Chewbilee Line

English Russia has an article on the topic called Smartest Dogs: Moscow Stray Dogs

The Wall Street Journal published In Moscow’s Metro, a Stray Dog’s Life Is Pretty Cushy, and Zoologists Notice

There’s even a Russian site (written in Russian) devoted to the dogs: http://www.metrodog.ru/

What’s as amazing as the dogs’ adaptability to human culture is how the human population tolerates the behavior of the dogs, allowing them to ride the train and regularly feeding them. Pictures of the dogs are included with the above links, so you can see how they sleep on train seats and such.

However, not everyone wants the dogs around. While researching this topic online, I found an article about Moscow’s dog-catchers wanting to poison and beat the dogs to death prior to the Eurovision event that was held there in mid-May. People were outraged. It is unclear from the article whether any dogs actually met death in this manner.

Auto Exec Missing the Point

Recently heard an auto manufacturing executive say that the reason car manufacturers in the United States don’t make fuel efficient cars is because gas is so cheap here. If we had expensive gas, like in Europe, we’d have fuel efficient cars. I think he’s missing the point. Gas/petroleum is a finite resource. No matter how inexpensive it is to buy, we shouldn’t be wasting it. Period.

Toothpaste is inexpensive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to use half the tube and throw the rest away. See my point?

The Face Game

Upon her return from a band trip to Chicago, Daughter was showing me the photos she took of the scenery and her friends. In many of the friend photos, the kids have purposely made silly faces. Daughter informed me that this was The Face Game, a good way to relieve boredom if a digital camera is handy.

This led to a family discussion about how photography has changed since Hubby and I were kids. It wasn’t all that long ago that cameras came with film that had to be taken to a photo shop to be developed. With the physical limitations of film (only so many pictures per roll, cost of developing), people didn’t waste too many shots posing in silly ways. We wanted to look good in pictures, so we posed properly, which naturally made us look unnatural, stiff, goofy, non-photogenic. Hubby and I both are of the mind that we don’t look good in pictures and are thus reticent to be in them.

If you go back even farther in time to examine photos from the late 1800s, early 1900s, people in photos rarely smiled and most portraits were taken in formal studios. There weren’t any throw-away snapshots because everyday people didn’t own cameras. The cameras themselves were big box affairs with shutters that stayed open longer than today’s typical cameras. The benefit of this was that these cameras captured an amazing amount of detail, but it also meant that people had to hold perfectly still while having their picture taken because the slightest movement would blur the image.

With the shift to digital photography, the nature of the form has changed considerably. People are much freer to experiment, to play, to push the technology without being concerned with the results. An ucky photo can simply be deleted, no prob. Digital cameras allow for The Face Game. They also make it easy for people to take pictures of themselves (with the typical single shoulder forward self-portrait that will become the signature of our age).

From personal experience, when you have the opportunity to snap pics of yourself without an audience, you gain a certain comfort with the camera and with posing to best effect. I never had a chance to do this with film cameras as a kid. It goes a long way toward alleviating that crushing feeling of not being photogenic, especially when the purpose is to look as ridiculous as possible. (Really, I meant to look that way!)

Me, playing The Face Game, looking as ridiculous as possible

Rocks ‘n’ Cycle

Dang! if I haven’t been itchin’ to blog. No time, no time. Too busy livin’ to write about it. Got a moment, listening to The Killers Day & Age (love it, love it, love it), have my notebook open, and I’m down to business. This itchin’ to blog is a symptom of my desire to write more fiction, but having difficulty finding the time necessary to really develop an idea and stick with it long enough to see what kind of story comes of it. A blog post (or two, or three, or four) should keep me from going completely bonkers, so then ….

I went for my first motorcycle ride of the season, on the back of Hubby’s bike, that’s my perch. Big, old helmet-head. If we’re not going too fast, I keep the face shield up so I can feel the breeze – much needed with our near-90 degree temps today. I’m telling you, if there’s a heaven, it smells like lilacs. Not lilac perfume, mind you, but uncut, on the bush, blooming in the spring lilacs. As we rode past massive blooming lilac bushes, I sniffed up the scent. Nothing better, except maybe fresh-mown lawn with the hint of small gas engine.

If there’s a hell, I’m convinced it smells of creosote-soaked bridge decking. Our little pre-supper ride took us under an old railroad bridge that’s been converted into a recreational trail and I could smell the creosote wafting off it. Blech!

Did you know that all motorcycle license tabs in Minnesota come due in February? I learned that through observation. Hubby and I had to take his cycle to a repair shop this past Monday in order to have the clutch cable fixed and every licensed cycle on the showroom floor had plates with “Feb” stamped into them next to where the tab goes. Makes me feel a little like Sherlock Holmes to have figured this out. It’s the weird sort of detail that would be right at home in a novel.

Other than taking a cycle ride, working, and jonesing to write, what have I been up to? Ah, yes. There was the rock-picking last night. Hubby is leading an effort to start a community garden to benefit the Food Shelf. The garden plot was plowed Sunday. Before it can be tilled, big rocks had to be removed because it’s not good to hit them with the tiller. Hubby, Young Son, Daughter, and I did the requisite stone moving, with Young Son and Daughter impressing me with their strength. Daughter was adamant that she wanted to help with this task because she has heard some of her friends complain about how hard it is and wanted to experience the pain first-hand. To reward everyone’s effort, we purchased Icees at the gas station afterward.

The night before last (The Day of the Great Clutch Cable Repair), we attended Daughter’s last band concert of the school year. Wonderful show, first-class performance. Following the concert, Hubby’s parents treated us to dessert at a local restaurant. It’s a post-concert tradition in the family.

That’s what I’ve been up to lately and now that I’ve gotten that properly blogged, I’m feeling less goosy about getting to my writing. Whew!

Wassup?

Even though I’m Blogging Without Obligation, there are times I get busy and don’t have a chance to write new posts, which makes me feel like I’m missing something. It’s not that I’m not thinking about blogging. I’ve got a backlog of ideas in my notebook just waiting for me to expound upon them. (Although, truth be told, there are periodic stretches of days where I don’t have a single idea and I’m perfectly fine with tossing out inconsequential thoughts on Twitter.)

As I’ve come through a few weeks of not much blogging, what have I been up to instead? Other than house cleaning and visiting with relatives, I’ve been reading and watching movies. I normally read books at a dribbling pace, a few pages a night, a few at lunchtime, until I finish. Lately, though, I’ve been reading for longer stretches of time, particularly on weekends. At this pace, I tend to burn through books, which is fun because I can keep better track of the storyline or topic. I read Geraldine Brooks’ “People of the Book” within a few days, after having done the same with Christopher Moore’s “Fluke.” I’m now reading “13 Things That Don’t Make Sense” by Michael Brooks.

We’ve done some movie nights in the past month in our household. Last night we watched Rent, and the night before we watched The Da Vinci Code.  “Rent” was Daughter’s choice because she has most of the tunes from the movie on her iPod. If you like musicals, you’ll like “Rent.” The singers all had fabulous voices. While the story was told pretty much one song to the next, it wasn’t difficult to figure out the plot.

“The Da Vinci Code” was disappointing in movie form. It dragged so much that Hubby kept falling asleep. The book, which I read long ago, was a couldn’t-put-it-down-page-turner.  I think I could see what the movie’s creators were attempting to do. They were trying to translate a lot of the explanatory stuff that was in the book into the movie – the stuff about the Masons, Opus Dei, Mary Magdalene as the Holy Grail, the Rose Line, etc. Unfortunately, this didn’t work because bringing a movie to a screeching halt to explain complicated things tends to make the scenes look forced, which they did. I also felt as though the main characters weren’t ever in any real danger. There wasn’t enough tension, although there was plenty in the book.

I’ve heard that “Angels & Demons,” the follow-up prequel to “The Da Vinci Code,” is a better movie than its predecessor. We’ll have to see.

Spider

Eldest Son recently mentioned a game he and his sister invented while they were in middle school. We were eating at a Burger King and they got bored, so Eldest Son drew a spider on his placemat. I’m not sure who made the next move, but either Eldest Son or his sister drew an object that would smash the spider. Then someone drew an object (stairs, I think) to protect the spider from being smashed. From there it progressed to an object that would get rid of the thing protecting the spider, and then on to something that would get rid of the thing that would get rid of the thing protecting the spider. Does that make sense?

The whole point of the game is to have someone protect the spider and someone else try to destroy it, either directly or by eliminating whatever is protecting the spider. After a while, the game degenerates into silliness and no one can remember who’s protecting the spider and who’s trying to destroy it.

It’s a simple game; all that’s needed is a piece of paper and pen or pencil and some general boredom.

Eldest Son kept the placemat that the original game was played on. While there are drawings all over the placemat, including another spider, the game is the mess of drawings along the right edge of the photo. The second photo below shows the spider to be protected/destroyed within a circle.

Spider on a Burger King Placemat

Spider in Circle on Burger King Placemat

You can just make out the stairway covering the spider, plus a number of implements of destruction. I remember a lot of laughter during this original game.

People of the Book

Have I mentioned how much I love GoodReads? It does precisely what I need it to in terms of tracking the books I have read and those I want to read, plus it allows me to write little reviews to remind me what I thought of each book.

The latest book I’ve finished is “People of the Book” by Geraldine Brooks. After seeing the title, I knew I had to read it because it was a title I had considered for a book long ago (an early novel attempt that won’t ever see the light of day) and I wanted to see the story behind the title.

Here’s my review from GoodReads.

People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
The story follows the history of an ancient haggadah and Brooks does an excellent job of conveying the history of this book and detailing the technical aspects of book conservation. The writing was straight forward; it got the job done as far as telling the story, but it wasn’t the sort of writing that made me want to pause to re-read it for that certain je ne sais quoi.

The book made me realize how little I know about Middle Eastern and European history. Brooks used a number of words I wasn’t familiar with from a variety of languages and I wasn’t always able to deduce their exact meaning from the context. This made me wish for a glossary at the back of the book.

View all my reviews.

The Bean

Daughter took a trip to Chicago with her school band last week. She took the camera with and filled it with photos of her friends and the local landmarks. Her favorite thing in Chicago out of what she describes as an all-around fun trip was The Bean.

The Bean is a highly reflective stainless steel bean-shaped sculpture in Chicago’s Millenium Park. It’s not actually called The Bean, although if you Google “the bean chicago,” the first site on the list brings you right to an official description of the sculpture.  Its real name is Cloud Gate and it was designed by artist Anish Kapoor.

Daughter’s fascination with the sculpture was due to its reflective qualities, which made for good photographic opportunities. Another bonus was that she and the other kids could get up-close and personal with it, including being able to walk underneath it and touch it. Art at its finest.

Here are some of Daughter’s photos of The Bean.

Cloud Gate (The Bean) by Anish Kapoor

Even birds can hang out on The Bean. (Cloud Gate by Anish Kapoor)

Cloud Gate (The Bean) by Anish Kapoor

Touching The Bean (Cloud Gate by Anish Kapoor)

Inside The Bean (Cloud Gate by Anish Kapoor)