Baldness is not a crime.
Rugs.
Mullets, bowl cuts, and
ponytails are all amusing, yes, but the capital of capital offenses has got to be the male wig, AKA rug, toupee, or dead squirrel.
Please don't misunderstand: I do not hate the bald. In fact, some of my best friends are bald. But a rug is not an appropriate response to the situation. In fact, toupee wearers suffer from profound psychological problems. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), rug-rockers exhibit symptoms of Dementia (cognitive impairment involving a generalized and progressive deficit in making good make judgments), Narcissistic Personality Disorder (a pathological unrealistic or inflated sense of self-importance, an inability to see the viewpoints of others, and hypersensitivity to the opinions of others), and Schizotypal Personality Disorder (peculiarities of thinking, odd beliefs, and eccentricities of appearance, behavior, interpersonal style, and thought).
It's kinda crazy, you know? Does the wig wearer actually believe that nobody notices? Sorry, but I seriously doubt your God-given hair looked like bright black nylon doll hair. I don't care how good you think your toop looks — we all know you've got a pelt stapled to your dome.
So what drives the wigged to these insane lengths? Well, like all other retarded shit men do, it's women. Why else would you subject yourself to the ridicule of everyone around you? It's because you don't think you're gonna get any. But wear a wig, and you surely won't.
It's a cruel Darwinian paradox. They claim that baldness is the result of an excess of testosterone, which would make bald men more desirable as potential mates. But no, it seems it's always the Fabios and Michael Bolton and Billy Ray Cyruses of the world that are getting all the action.
But there is hope. For every Fabio there's an Ed Harris, and for every Andre Agassi, there's a, well, Andre Agassi. So hairless humans, keep your heads up. Don't front. Let the bald head breathe.
And don't rock the toupee. 'Cuz you'll look like a jackass and you'll never, ever get laid again. ßßß
Toupee Resources
Back in the saddle again.
I thought my posts of the last coupla days have been really lame and self-indulgent, but I've gotten tons of email and junk from folks who claim they feel the same way. Who knew? It's times like these I wish I had some fancy Blogger-type comment action on this site. No such luck.
I think it's safe to say that Matt Wilson hates his job, too. I also think he's losing his already tenuous grip on sanity. I'm considering staging an intervention. Email me if you're interested in participating.
Apparently the Webbys were last night. Raise your hand if you care. I think craigslist won something, so that's cool, I guess. But the high point must have been when masked anarchists made off with Inside.com's award.
ODB is on suicide watch in the joint. I don't think it's the prison sentence that pushed him over the edge; I think it's that he married someone named Icelene.
Bay Area baseball is heating up. Barry left the yard twice last night, and the A's have won 10 of their last 12. Sorry, Steinbrenner — it doesn't look like AL MVP Jason Giambi is headed your way. Perhaps I could interest you in a late-model Greg Vaughn? A Ryan Klesko, perhaps?
No Internet access at work at the moment. That makes it really difficult to write a weblog. OK, it's back now.
Can someone explain to me what in God's name has happened here?
Yes, that is the artist formerly known as Sporty Spice, who from now on will be known as Porky Spice. Jesus Christ, Mel, mix in a salad or something. You're almost as fat as Emma and Gerri now. ßßß
Work is hard. Distractions are plentiful. And time is short.
So the Miller family's number finally came up in the layoff lottery: Wife Tracy was part of the 7 percent of Gap headquarters staff released from their employment yesterday. So if you know of any great analyst gigs, let her know.
So she is home right now, sleeping, and getting paid to do so. How cool is that? But all this talk about layoffs, as well as my existential musings on my lack of a real life, have got me thinking about the nature of work and junk.
In the dozen years since my graduation from college, I have held many jobs. I have:
Nice career trajectory, huh? One slacker gig after another, until fairly recently. There's some saying that goes "If you've sold out by 20, you have no soul. If you haven't sold out by 30, you have no brains." And there's definitely an element of that going on.
Not that I think I've sold out. I still more or less do what I want, look how I want, and say what I think. What I do to support my family doesn't hurt anyone or go against my beliefs or morals. But it doesn't help anyone either. So I don't know.
I was brought up on the East Coast, and got a heavy dose of that Protestant work ethic. You work because you're supposed to, you don't ask questions, and you work until you can't work anymore, or until you die, whichever comes first. That shit is no joke, and it don't really jibe with the kick-back Cali attitude.
So what is the nature of work, and what importance should it hold in my life? I don't know.
But if a guy whines and complains every day on his weblog about working too much, will people eventually get sick of it and stop coming back? Ohhhh, yeah. So I'm shutting up. Now get back to work. ßßß
Life Wanted: Inquire Within
A quick shout-out to all my Gap peeps who were let go today. Keep your heads up. You were too good for them anyway.
When you have no life, it's difficult to produce interesting blog fodder. I guess I could do the usual "Not Necessarily the News" witty headline treatment, but that gets old fast, and there are many other folks who do it better. But this troubles me. What's the point in working when I can't enjoy the fruits thereof?
An average workday for me goes something like this: I get up at 5:30 in the morning and haul my ass into San Francisco, catching the 5:50 train so as to avoid the crush of humanity that awaits me on the later trains. I go to the gym and work out some of my aggressions. Then I'm at the office by 8:30 or so to write this thing, and actually working by 9. Or 9:30. By 10 at the very latest.
So I work and work, and read weblogs, and IM my friends, and I work some more. Then it's 6:00, and I start thinking about going home. If I get out of the office by 6, I can usually get home by 7. By the time I eat dinner and watch the Daily Show or what have you, it's 9:00, and I have to get up in just over 8 hours. This cannot, as they say, be all there is.
What's all this supposed to mean? Supposed to mean? Hell if I know. But it looks like it's time for another one of those priority checks I seem to have every few months. Stopping to smell the flowers and pet the dawgs, reading more, complaining less, and generally getting more out of life. And breakin' off chickenheads on tha regular. ßßß
Belated happy Bastille Day.
Blawg and the other sites on the .ronn network are down at the time of this writing, which is just as well, 'cuz I got nothin' to say. I spent two days migrating my old, ugly, table-based v.1 archive pages over to the new, fancy, table-free v.2 model this weekend, and I don't know that it was worth it. If I have to do that again if/when I move to PHP, I'm gonna lose it.
I also added a feature to the Archives page. It now includes links to the top 10 blawg posts, as voted on by you, the blawg reader. So peep it.
I reserve the right to post more stuff later, if the server ever comes back. In the meantime, check out the best of.
So Tracy and I got to baby-sit my amazing nephew yesterday afternoon, which rocked. What else rocked was that VH1 was showing the creme de la creme of Behind the Musics. Megadeth, Poison, AC/DC, Metallica — all the classics. I think the Megadeth one was new, or at least I'd never seen it. Dave Mustaine went through detox and rehab 15 times. Fifteen. Wow. Now that's persistence. Winners never quit, huh Dave? Jesus.
But the best part was that the Green Day BtM premiered last night, and it crushed. Green Day are more punk than you and anyone you know. Cuz they do what they want and don't give a shit what you think. And that, I'm pretty sure, is what it's all about. ßßß
Don't miss last week's brilliant insight.
