Mar. 23, 2003 - 11:33 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
I can best describe my own personal haircut as “there”. Thursday saw me with a spare half an hour so I went down to see Guapo, a fictitious name for my real life barber. Amid the incredible skyscrapers that bloom out of the earth like marigolds – only without the floral beauty or purpose – there is Guapo’s little barber shop, replete with red, white and blue pole displayed outside his window. Did you know the red, white and blue pole dates back hundreds of years, to when barbers were also considered doctors (or vice versa)? Guapo is not a doctor; he is a crude, but funny man. His hair is newly-fallen-snowstorm white, his eyes are sparkling blue and his vocal timbre is pure Eastern European. He never seems to recognize me at first, no doubt because I walk in with shaggy hair each time and he only really remembers me when I am shorn. He is full of barber sayings, only with an urban twist. “So you have girlfriend?” I alter my answer every time just to see what his wisdom for my alleged plight would be. Last Thursday, I chose “yes”. “You married?” “Not yet.” “You have kids?” “Not yet.” “You sure you are not knocking at wrong address? Heh heh heh.” I gave him a I’m-a-guy look and said, “hey whatever door opens, right?” “Right! Ha ha! Funny young man!” Despite the forays into sexism and other grotesque things, I enjoy his character. And his cuts are always $19.
This being said, I would not call him “fascinating”. Just interesting.
Reluctantly, I am coming to the conclusion that I do not like parties all that much. When I was 18, I said something that got me a certain amount of attention from girls, so I repeated it often: “Parties are doomed to fail.” Indeed, at that point in my life, every party seemed to have a few loose cannons that seemed to demoralize or trivialize the reason for celebration. At that point, I didn’t mind all that much, as I’m the kind of cool cat that loves to get in the middle of two parties fighting to break it up. I did it once on instinct, and one girl said, “whoa, Vince, that was cool. You’re cool.” So I did it often throughout my early 20s. Rather silly thing to do in retrospect. Years later, I started throwing parties of my own and attending others. Again, Loose Cannon Disease was always present in one form or another; you may be gladdened to hear it never did infect me. Even at the last Clowns party I hosted, one guy tried to fight me. The reasons escape me – and no doubt him, as the next time I saw him, he was all in Apologetic Male mode. “Hey, sorry ‘bout that, man.”
This has a point. Last Saturday, I hosted a relatively low-key party. On the whole, everything went swimmingly, but I did detect bits and pieces of Loose Cannon Disease floating up through the air. The odd comment. The occasional rise in voice. This put me on Orange Alert, and I generally grew quiet and kept an eye on everyone to make sure no one went too stupid. But after saying parties are doomed to fail since post-adolescence, I may be just now beginning to believe it.
Michael Moore was booed at the Oscars after he won an award for “Bowling for Columbine.” It was really remarkable. Hollywood, so long the bastion of the liberal, has no real spine. I suppose I knew that, but it irked me to see it so displayed. Also, on CNN, a poll was taken to the question “Are war protests anti-American?” 49% said yes.
I’m wondering when the ‘world is a better place’ phase is going to kick in.
Non-returnable unless in Maine,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
