American Fez

Suffer Little MIcrobes

Nature abhors a vacuum, which is my excuse for not cleaning the carpet recently.

I don't want to disturb the fragile eco-system of the shagpile. I don't want its feng shui to get suctioned out of shape. And god knows I don't want to unleash the full power of Mother Nature's fury if I even so much as look at that bottle of Shake-N-Vac. 

But I do wonder about the tiny microbes and dust mites that make their home in my carpet. I hope they are happy in such a tranquil beauty spot. My small carpet must be like a glorious National Park to them, featuring an expansive picnic area with cutting-edge grilling stations, trestle tables, Adirondack chairs, and clean bathroom facilities. A fibrous Yosemite bathed in eternal sunshine, free from the ravages of the Dyson and the Hoover.

My hardwood floors, however, I mop religiously. Whatever little creatures live in the cracks between the planks are facing a lemon-scented Tsunami every Sunday. Chore Day is a Biblical epic for them.

I think the moral here is: don't get caught between a rug and hard place. 

Upper Pattern Baldness

My suede shoes are balding from the toe. I've tried brushing the nap forward to make a sort of suede comb-over but it doesn't fool anyone.

I suppose the only consolation is that my shoes now match my head: my body is now bookended by baldness.

The local cobbler gave me a funny look when I asked about suede transplants, so perhaps I should shave all the suede off my shoes so they're completely nap-less; sleek and smart like regular leather shoes?

Then I could be walking around with two Yul Brynners on my feet; flashing a pair of shiny Kojaks as I saunter down the street: "Who loves ya, Blucher?" 

Alas, I find myself wearing a couple of misshapen Friar Tucks, complete with ill-kempt tonsure and grubby cassock.

Saint Kojak

Have you read Paul's Epistle to the Alopecians?  

It claims the only cure for male pattern baldness is the application of a topical solution as directed by Follicular Law. 

Alas, this intriguing and controversial epistle is excluded from the New Testament as most scholars believe it has got nothing to do with anything and that I just made it up because I thought it sounded funny.

True, Jesus is rarely - if ever - depicted with a receding hairline. Frankly, I think a little thinning at the temples would make his story more relatable, but most religious artists disagree.

Speaking of temples, "Alopecians" also claims that it was the hairdressers, not the money-changes, to whom Jesus administered a spanking they would never forget.

The reason why Jesus ejected the hairdressers from the temple is admittedly vague. Perhaps he objected to their suggestion that he should adopt a combover to disguise his bald spots?

It seems a reasonable solution to his problem if you ask me. After all, you don't want to be preaching your sermons only to have most of your audience fixated on the cueball-sized patch of hairless skin on the crown of your head. 

Then again, perhaps the Messiah didn't have a receding hairline and Paul's Epistle to the Alopecians is indeed a load of hokum invented by a bored blogger.

I guess we'll just have to take it as an article of faith. 

Paper Cut

When I was hired for my first job out of college, the most satisfying rite of workplace passage was gathering your office supplies and arranging them on your new desk. A proud moment for any young graduate.

Big and small writing pads, at least two colors of Sharpie, ballpoints and highlighters, stapler, various types of tape, a wad of manila folders and a block of black binders, sticky Post-it notes, a bottle of white-out, high tech looking scissors, and some sort of cylindrical object to put all those pens in. 

Within weeks, the pads were covered with nothing but doodles, the Sharpies had been borrowed and never returned by a colleague, the stapler was jammed, the bottle of white-out had been spilled all over the manila folders, and the Post-it notes had become unstuck from their moorings and fluttered out of reach behind the filing cabinet. The binders, of course, were empty and always would be.

I was thinking recently, now offices have mostly progressed beyond paper and its subsidiaries, I wonder what the new business recruits of today put on their desks? Then I remembered that they don't actually have jobs, so it's a moot point. 

Surprise!

Do hard-bitten, career crooks buy crime-fighting superhero toys for their kids?

Would a professional cat burglar buy a Spiderman outfit for his son? Would a wise-cracking safe-cracker purchase a scale model Batmobile for his nephew?

And do the leaders of murderous third-world military regimes gift Han Solo action figures to their offspring?

Or do they just bring a lump of kryptonite with a bow on it to the birthday party and say "He'll grow into it."

Chez Cannibal

Reading an article about genetically modified foodstuffs, my mind wanders to the meaty subject, literally, of cloning cuts of beef, chicken, lamb, and pork. 

Personally, I would much prefer to order my coq au vin knowing the protein portion was grown in a lab, rather than being dimly aware it was previously a living thing that spent its entire miserable existence in a cage.

Bring on the cloned meat, I say, and may the DNA tinkerers make it as juicy and as succulent and as guilt-free as possible. The only drawback, of course, is that the hubristic science won't stop there; and neither will the gastronome's desire for something special. 

Without a doubt, a some point in our dystopian future, the private dining rooms of the most exclusive restaurants will be serving cloned human meat to an ultra-rich clientele of ghoulish gourmands. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if hot plates of human meat were not already staples of cold-blooded kitchens in more debauched cities of the world.

That's bad enough. But just imagine the grim theme restaurants there will be:

"Hi. Welcome to The Morgueasboard. My name is Burke and I'll be your grave-robber today. Have you dined with us before? No, well, I'll just a take a few minutes to go over the torso with you .... "  

Hippocratic Nope

My old doctor was the sort of bushy-bearded, no-nonsense, antediluvian eccentric whose picture would not look out of place adorning the heavily curlicued label on a bottle of Victorian liver tonic.

"You drink alcohol?" he might say. "Well, for Heaven's sake at least drink strong ale, vintage port or single malt."

"You smoke? Well, there's nothing really wrong with the occasional Cuban every now and again."

"What's wrong with you now? A nasty cough? Don't bother me with such trivialities. Buy yourself a packet of lozenges. If you're still coughing in a fortnight go to the Emergency Room."

Alas, the dear fellow is retired now, replaced by Nurse Ratchet's nephew and his computerized diagnoses.

Honestly, these days, I'd prefer traipsing into the woods to see the wise woman who lives under an oak tree and drink her elixir of berries and twigs than visit a sterile clinic for a prescription of little pink pills.

Straight From The Tap

One of the great disappointments of the dictionary is discovering that our word "bath" is not derived from the story of David and Bathsheba.

Aside from fancy scented bubbles and a cute loofah, the notion that merely dipping her toe into a clawfoot tub might be the prelude to a sorry tale of adultery and murder would certainly add a certain frisson to any young woman's daily ablutions.

'Don't forget to wash behind your ears, and be careful that no Biblical Kings are observing you from a place of seclusion while you scrub your lower back."

Men meanwhile, especially those named David, would be required to remove themselves to a reasonable distance when a female enters the bathroom, just so they are not tempted by the sight of fancy scented bubbles sliding across a well-turned ankle.

If all the above precautions were taken, then men named Uriah could breathe easily. 

But as it is, our word bath actually just has some boring Germanic root, which is no fun at all.