American Fez

By The Hair Of My Chinny-Chin-Chin

"Prices slashed" claimed the pharmacy notice attached to a display of heavy-duty disposable razors featuring triple-bladed ultra cutting action for the closest of shaves.

Prices wouldn't be the only thing slashed, I thought, if I shaved with those fearsome objects: my face, for instance, would surely be reduced to a bloody mess of red stripes. The image of a barbershop pole with two eyes and a nose stuck on came to mind; a bathroom sink overflowing with a scarlet tide of gory shaving foam.

Not for me, then. The purveyors of such medieval grooming supplies could keep their discount coupons, final reductions, and unbeatable value. I don't want to walk around town looking like I've just undergone a primitive tribal scarring ceremony or a Prussian duel with swords.

Normally, I use a fancy electric shaver on my face. It rubs a little at times but never rips hunks of flesh from my chin like an insatiable robot zombie. For something that's sole function is to cut, it's a lover, not a fighter. I think of it as a facial lawnmower languidly buzzing away on a summer morning, taking the occasional break for a sip of refreshing lemonade in the shade.

The problem is that replacement blades for my electric razor, although kind and gentle, are more expensive than simply buying an entirely brand new razor with a fresh blade already attached. Thus, despite boasting a lifetime warranty, my nonviolent electric shaver is, economically at least, as disposable as the vicious plastic razors sold in packs of three.

So I guess my options are prices slashed, face slashed, and commonsense slashed. Slash and burn. Apparently, everything must go if my five o'clock shadow is to go. This is why I contemplate growing a beard, it's the only sane response. 

See Hear

I've seen fire and I've seen rain sang James Taylor as if such mundane observations endow his relentlessly folksy mind with the wisdom of an ancient sage. Perhaps they do, for his visions of the elements and various weather patterns, however prosaic, inspired a song that continues to sell in surprisingly large quantities. So he must be on to something.

As for me, I've seen the impatient queue of customers in the coffee shop waiting behind an aggrieved hippy complaining about his guava smoothie while James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" reverberates through a cheap speaker hidden behind a dusty cactus on an otherwise empty shelf above the barista's head.

The coffee shop itself has seen better days, obviously. The impatient customers have probably seen longer lines. And the aggrieved hippy has apparently seen guava smoothies with a lot more chia seed in them. He's seen cheaper prices, too, which seems to be his point of contention. For her part, the barista has clearly seen the writing on the wall and must be thinking there are easier ways to make minimum wage than dealing with patronizing, middle-aged men wearing tie-dye t-shirts. I can see that in her eyes. 

Meanwhile, I've seen fire and I've seen rain, the plaintive, disembodied voice of James Taylor continues to declare, a boon to those of us in the coffee shop who'd rather listen to the ear-splitting screech of an espresso-maker at maximum volume than the aggrieved hippy's entitled whining and wheedling. Everyone would like to see the back of him, including, I have no doubt, the fidgeting woman next to him who appears to be his long-suffering companion. 

We all bear witness to life's ups and downs, the daily fires of ambition and the predictable rain that douses all expectation of success. James Taylor transforms his observations into toe-tappable, sing-a-long popular song. I write this rather diffident, somewhat facetious, and extremely obscure blog. He's rich and famous but I've never been depressed and hooked on heroin. Would I swap places with him? Well, I guess it depends on how you look at it. 

In Black and White

The first time I read the word "mulatto" in a book there was no obvious context enabling my pre-teen mind to correctly define the term. Since the character so described was a shipmate of protagonist Captain Bravo, I assumed being a mulatto was a specific job aboard ship. It sounded rather romantic in its way; a variant of matelot; a spy-glass toting occupant of the crow's nest; perhaps a type of pirate.

The book, whose title I do not recall, was a swashbuckling adventure yarn where aspects of the South Seas and the West Indies merged into one perilous, treasure-laden coastline. Consequently, it wasn't surprising that a character's parentage should combine DNA from the Straits of Gibraltar and far-off Afrique shore.

This misapprehension continued well into my teens. Fortunately, "mulatto" usage is rare in modern writing and speech, so opportunities for my exposure as an ignoramus were few and far between. At least I never enquired of the guides on a school trip to Monticello exactly when Sally Hemmings felt the call of the running tide. That would've confused us all.

No doubt that same callow mind of mine would fail to parse the contemporary term "mixed race" today, simply assuming the character was some sort of shipwrecked decathlete who had fallen in with a gang of salty desperados on a desert island the size of an Olympic running track. This is why I don't read science-fiction: the nomenclature of space-time, human-alien hybridization is surely too much for my tiny brain to cope with.

Small Plates Large Glasses

Celebrating my long-awaited wage increase, we dined at Le Awkward, one of those trendy restaurants that do "small plates"

Unusually for a small plate restaurant, Le Awkward serves enormous portions of food. Consequently, your dinner keeps falling off the small plates onto the table. You'd think the restaurant would figure that out and provide extra small plates to accommodate their ungainly gastronomic creations. But they don't.

Sometimes the food falls off the small plates before it even reaches your table, which is frustrating for both the waiter and the patron, especially if you've already been waiting a long time for your order like we had.

Le Awkward's busboys not only have to clear the tables but must also scrape spilled tapas sauces off the carpet. They use a repurposed pooper scooper for picking up cod cakes and pork empanadilla from the floor. 

Following the menu's suggestion, we ordered five small plates to split between two people, about twelve percent of which never actually made it to the table, a further sixteen percent fell onto the table, and the rest we managed to eat. 

Fortunately, we are both skilled at playing Pick-Up-Sticks and so were able to remove the maximum amount of food from our small plates with the minimum amount of waste. 

I don't think we'll be returning to Le Awkward, especially as it's likely to go out of business very soon. And why they poured my after-dinner dram of Scotch into a pint glass I'll never know.