Hair today...

I haven't gotten a haircut in a while. While it hadn't gotten too long in the back, in the front it was getting unmanagable, and when I awoke or rode my bike, it was starting to look like Austin Powers's. So it was time.

I went to the same cheapie Mexican hair salon I always go to, riding my bike down the street. There were no customers getting their hair done or cut, just two large women sitting around. The more rotund of the two sat me in the chair, not even pretending to speak English to me this time. I always tell them the same thing: "Bien cortito atras, un poco menos en frente," and ask for it to be spikey on top. In fact, I'd memorized what setting I liked on the clippers. Hey, I'm easy.

So I said it as usual and she went to work, shaving the back of my neck and moving the shears up. Maybe she was in a hurry, I don't know (after all, the TV was on, and commercials don't last forever). She moved in front of me and pushed the razor over my forehead, blocking the mirror I was facing. Then she stopped, for some reason (it is in my estimation that this is when she realized she made a mistake, but of course, there was no admission of this). She moved out of the way and I was shocked to see a bare swatch of skin running through the front of my head, like the trail a lawnmower makes after waiting too long to mow.

I gasped. I said, "I said spikey," then said it again in Spanish. She said, "Si, si," as if everything was fine, and proceeded to shave the rest of my head. I thought maybe I was overreacting, that I had just waited so long that I wasn't used to short hair, but I did ask her if she had it on the right setting. When she unblocked the mirror again, I stared with horror at the bald, goblin-like creature reflected before me. A sense of surreality washed over me, the sensation I get when get in a car accident, see U2, find I have killed a homeless person, or recognize that my friendship with the cast of "Growing Pains" has all been a dream. Never, not even when losing a bet in 1993, had I had so little hair. I looked like a cancer patient with my discolored scalp. I looked like Doctor Evil with my misshapen nose. I looked like Gollum with my protruding ears. I looked unhappy.

"Ay, está tan triste," the woman chuckled to her friend, still sitting and watching the proceedings. To her credit, the other woman did not laugh.

I am not a vain person--quite the contrary--but my hair is my only physical attribute I take pride in (mostly because my maternal grandfather is bald as as a Telly Savalas character and everyone said I'd start losing my hair in the mid-Nineties). And it was gone. Not just short, not just shaved, but gone. Unlike Bruce Willis (who looks cool bald), or Eminem (who looks tough bald) or Kevin Spacey (who looks menacing bald), I looked like one of the aliens in "Galaxy Quest."

The woman said, "At least you won't be hot now," in Spanish, and I tried to come up with some retort. The best I could do was a weak "Or get a haircut until January." She told me I'd surely come in again before that, and, perhaps anticipating that I would never return, said, "Oh, but the girls will be all over you now." Staring horrified at the badly-processed clone in the mirror, I tried to say, "Or the army recruiters," but didn't know the word for recruiter.

As I rose from the seat, I was tempted to just walk out, or at least berate the fat woman. What would Uncle John do? What would Batman do? What would Sigourney Weaver in "Alien 3" do? But instead, I just pouted, stewing in my hairless juices. I gave her a twenty, and she went into the backroom to get my change, leaving the twenty on the counter. Again, the impulse came over me to just leave--to take my twenty and get the hell out of there--just to prove a point.

But if you know me, you know I couldn't do that. I took my change and walked out the door.

I showed my head to nobody. I now wear a hat in public. I was given one at work yesterday and I might sleep in it till my hair grows back. Otherwise, I might scare the children.

Oh, and the Jews.

Rish "Cueball" Outfield

Please update the site, Jeff.

This has become my mantra of late.

Enter: Old Age

"Everybody knows it sucks to grow up, but everybody does."
Ben Folds

Getting old is a real drag, kids.

You probably already knew that, having grandparents or neighbors or lovers who have gotten brittle and gray, sent off to a nursing home, a bad-smelling bedroom, or the grave.

But it doesn't really suck until it starts to happen to you.

Last week, I went on a big, irresponsible trip to Indianapolis, Indiana, to attend the Star Wars Celebration III, a place where gr'ups pretend that they're still like Miri (how about that for crossing my Sci-Fi references?). It was an expensive, uncomfortable trip, and I found myself really cynical of the next and suspicious of the upcoming last "Star Wars" movie. And is it the last, when there's a hundred episode television series in the works?

Many children ran around, swinging lightsabers, and even more adults did the same. I found myself frowning, watching it all and feeling out of place, feeling grouchy about the lines, about the latest attempts of Lucasfilm Ltd. to get my hard-earned money. I was much more interested in the gorgeous model-type dressed as Leia than the guy with the working General Grievous costume or the dude with the anamatronic tauntaun. I was more amped to find a place that sold allergy medication than for seeing George Lucas in person. On the flight home, I was much more occupied in hoping someone hadn't broken into my apartment (again), than if Episode III would be a fitting end to the saga.

To make matters worse, I was more looking forward to being back at work than another day waiting in line for something.

When I got back to work on Monday and a coworker asked me about my vacation, I told her how nice it was to get a full night's sleep, away from allergies, snoring roommates, and a lumpy alien mattress. She told me, "You know what that means? You're getting old."

As Unca Vader suggested, I searched my feelings and I knew it to be true. It had finally happened to me.

A good friend of mine considers himself a sixty year old man in a twenty-one year old's body (with the libido of a 70 year old), but me, I've always been the opposite of that. Immature as hell, to the point where I was asked to play a middle school student at twenty-seven years old, I have prided myself in being much younger than my calendar age.

When my friends stopped playing with toys and began playing with themselves, I still tried to collect all the Predacons to make Predaking (was that really his name? Talk about lame). When my pals started dating on Friday nights, I used that time to get to know the inner workings of Charles Xavier's mansion for mutants. When my buddies were standing at altars, gazing at their soon-to-be-wives, I was discovering the joys of late-night computer gaming. When my amigos were popping out children, I was creating the world's worst DVD collection.

But now it has happened to me: I am old.

It's about time, really. When I first moved away from home, my father gave me the briefest of talks, something he only did when I was in the worst of trouble. During this two minute exchange, he told me it was time that I grew up "and put away childish dreams."

I dwelled (dwelt?) on that admonition for a good long time, half resenting him for saying it and half resenting myself for deserving it. I had played the Peter Pan game for longer than anyone I knew, daring to extend childhood not just a year or two, but well into my twenties. I played a good game for a long ole time, but here I am, ready now to settle down, to get married, ready to begin to really live.

It took the final Star Wars Celebration to show me that.* A clue should've been given me when I awoke the second day at six in the morning, and instead of leaving to get in line with my roommates, I stayed in bed until nine or so, preferring a chance to let my body recuperate rather than be the first to buy lightsaber replicas, Sandtrooper statuettes, and Naboo Royalty tampons. Another hint that I had grown old was when I wanted to ask the pretty babe at the Cincinnati airport for her number way more than I wanted the autograph of the chick who plays blue Twi'lek Jedi Aayla Secura. I guess I could go on and on (and it looks like I am).

My coworker was right. I got old.

How does it happen? I ask the calendar.

Though I don't expect an answer, it responds:
When you start to choose comfort over excitement. When you watch a show about children or teenagers and relate to the parents instead of them. When you think of the good times and the best days of your life as being behind you. When the things you used to do for fun, maybe for years, now seems like a waste of time.

"Thanks," I say to the calendar. Then grab a book of matches.

Rish Outfield

May 2nd, 2005

*There's talk of a fourth Celebration to commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of Star Wars in a couple of years. I just don't know if I have it in me, though. It's like Admiral Kirk said, "Galloping around the cosmos is a game for the young."

Epiphany

I just realised something I could do here. I keep a dream journal for some reason (maybe it's to show the review board at my weekly psyche evaluation . . . they seem to get a laugh out of it), chronicling the latest sick tangent my subconscious took me down. But instead of writing about werewolves surrounding my childhood home while the power was out there, I could write it here.

Hmmm. Maybe that isn't such a great idea.

Jon Lovitz: The Adventure Continues

I ran into Jon Lovitz on Saturday night. We went to the Westwood video arcade (which, like noble buffalo, once roamed this land in numbers too great to count, and now dwindles to scattered, dying populations foraging for food and trying to avoid white man who slaughter them for their horns and tongues), and there he was. He looked great, and was in much better shape than the last time I saw him. He was with a young guy who I thought might be his kid. Well, he looked to be in his late teens, but also looked about as non-Lovitz-like as possible, so I don't imagine it was his son. Might have been, though. He was playing that great mini basketball game Denise Ching Curtis and I used to play until two in the morning, and he was really good.

I was going to approach him, and then I froze. I don't know why, exactly. I've met more than my share of celebrities since moving to L.A., so it can't be that I was starstruck. But that's sort of what it felt like. I thought, "I'd like to say something really funny and/or poignant to him, since he may not have the fanbase he used to nowadays." My mind stayed blank, though. But I remind you: this was no Harrison Ford or Halle Berry or William Shatner or Tom Bosley . . . dude, this was Jon Lovitz. I once had a conversation with Arnold Schwarzenegger, for heaven's sake.

In the end, right before he left the arcade, I just went up to him and said, "Jon, I gotta tell you, before I met you I was nothing, nowhere, nobody." He sort of chuckled, but I don't know if it was because he was genuinely amused, or if he was just being polite. And then he was gone.

I've thought a lot about my turning into a silly stammering schoolgirl, and the best I can come up with is my experience back in 1998 when I first ran into him. He was one of the first celebrities I ever met, he was in trouble, and I did nothing. Well, technically, I guess I didn't do NOTHING; I did write my best friend's wife (who is very religious) and asked if she would pray for Jon Lovitz. I mean, he was one of my favourite "Saturday Night Live" stars when I was growing up, appeared in Big and Mr. Destiny, and seemed like the kind of underdog I could really root for. I don't know, I'm rambling.

My encounter with Lovitz really stuck with me, much longer than it should have, and I thought about it a lot, wondering what I should have done, wondering what a friend would've done in that situation. I even wrote a story based on that experience, and with time, I put it behind me.

It's no big deal, I guess. In fact, I'm wondering if I should even post this. But since I'm still of the mind that nobody reads these things, I'll just let it lie.

Rish Outfield

Is that Bowling For Soup song really that good?

Okay, it was mildly amusing the first time I heard it. But they play it every hour on 98.7, with more regularity than the most devout Islam. I submit to the jury that the song is not all that good. And the more I think about it, the more I think the band is actually making fun of my generation, and that its lyrics are being misinterpreted.

Besides, the name of the band does a disservice to intelligent people everywhere.

Cynical Trial (Part One)

The other day, I saw the first trailer for "Fantastic Four," the big-budget 20th Century Fox adaptation of the Marvel comic book with a "The" in the title. While not a big fan of the series or characters, I anticipated the film and expected it to be pretty entertaining.

Until I saw the trailer. And now, I don't really feel the need to see the movie.

Man, it was a weak trailer, with a machine gun barrage of images, uninspired special effects, unfaithful images, and worst of all, a septic tank-scraping Hip Hop song playing throughout. That's all it took to guarantee (in my mind) that "Fantastic Four" will suck.

I wasn't always so cynical. Honest. My favourite part of going to the movies used to be the trailers, which offered up an assortment of potentially-great future films engineered to keep me from killing myself. Heck, if my perpetually-tardy friend Rhett made us too late to see the previews, I'd often get tickets for the late show, or not go at all.

But somewhere, something changed. I no longer expect movies to be great, not after shelling out hard earned cash to see "Ghostbusters 2," "Hook," "Highlander 2," "Godzilla," "Freddy's Dead," "Dragonheart," "Alien: Resurrection," "Battlefield: Earth," "Batman & Robin," "Tomorrow Never Dies," "Father's Day," "Star Trek: Nemesis," "Hulk," "The Avengers," "Die Another Day," "Armageddon," "Van Helsing," and "Blade: Trinity" on their opening weekends. All these movies sucked (though some more than others), promising greatness (or following greatness) and failing to deliver.

Life is a lot like that.

I have a hateful, grizzled, embittered Irish friend who recently observed that I was "a f**king cynical bastard." Granted that he recently got a girlfriend, so his world view has changed, but it was quite a shock coming from the most jaded person I've probably ever met (except for my crazy drugged-out uncle who claims he fought in Vietnam when he was really thrown out of the Army during basic training). It was something of a wake-up call, and I had to look a little bit at my life.

When did I change? Where did I go wrong? Why did this happen to me? Was it my upbringing? Growing up on the back stretch of nowhere? My choice of friends as an adolescent? The fact that I didn't start shaving until I was nineteen? A chemical imbalance? Moving to the big, big city? The deep dark secrets creeping around the lower levels of my twisted Frankensteinian psyche?

Maybe none of those things. Maybe all of them.

Years of disappointment and dashed expectations have caused my hope muscle to atrophy, little by little, until I became the empty shell of a man you see before you. I no longer think that maybe next summer will be different, that a silver lining is hiding on that cloud, that next Valentine's Day will not suck, that it's always darkest before the dawn, that January holds the promise of a Happy New Year.

This movie trailer thing is an easy parallel to life. Take "Batman Begins," for example. That movie MIGHT be great. I couple people I know are sure that it will be. But I can't accept that. I'm sure it will disappoint, just in different ways than the last Schumacher Bat-films did. "War of the Worlds" has the potential to be fantastic, what with Spielberg and Koepp in charge. But it probably won't be. "Fantastic Four" already sucks muskrat. And for "Star Wars: Episode III?" Whoa, I don't even want to get my hopes up. I'd much rather sit and complain about computer-generated characters and meaningless, clunky dialogue, than get excited about who will kill Mace Windu, what the Wookiees will sound like, the new themes John Williams might think up, and whether or not Kit Fisto will survive.

I was going to attempt a sort of positive spin on all this, but I can't quite manage it right now. Maybe I can continue this rant on a day when I'm not certain I'll die alone, unfulfilled, and soon.

Back in the almighty Eighties, cartoonist Gary Larson proposed that there are three kinds of people:
1) those who see the glass before them and proclaim it as half full;
2) those who see the glass before them and proclaim it as half empty;
and
3) those who see the glass before them and proclaim, "Hey! I ordered a cheeseburger!"

That joke sure seemed funnier on the other side of the comic strip.

Rish Outfield

What the devil is a blog?

I don't know how these online blog things are supposed to go. I never even heard of one until this year. Even then, it was a celebrity who had created that one, so I could at least begin to understand the appeal of reading it. But my own?

I'm not sure if they're like message boards or like a website or like a journal or like a poetry forum. How detailed and how personal do I go? Do I write about my day to day life? Am I supposed to write every day? Every week? Do I have to try and make it interesting for others to read? Entertaining? Or should I pretend that it's only for me and type what I'd type if it were my personal diary? Things like "Well, I finally killed Tom today. With a shovel. I really should've laid down plastic first."

If not, what is appropriate or entertaining for those who might stumble upon it? Certainly not junk like "I finally bought that treadmill, like it or not. It took forever to put it together, and when I finally got it running, it was so unpleasant, I may never use it again." Right?

I know a guy here at work who is madly in love with Jaclyn. It's really embarrassing. He likes to make lists, and earlier in the year, he decided to list what Jaclyn wore every day for a month, how she wore her hair, and how beautiful she was on a scale from 1 to 10. It produced entries such as:
"July 2nd; tight black sleeveless shirt with high neck, khaki capris; combed straight down; 9.4."
Now, whether I'm unhealthily obsessed with Jac--er, the person who did this is obsessed with Jaclyn or not, is this something appropriate to post as a blog? Wouldn't that make my, uh, friend look like a raving psycho?

And maybe I'm missing the point. Maybe blogs are something for children or teenagers, writing each day and sharing with their friends. Like they used to say, "If it's too loud, you're too old," maybe if I don't get it, I'm too old.

I really don't know, though. I like the idea of this online musings page. Maybe I'll try different things on different days. Maybe I'll try nothing.

Perhaps I should read a book instead.

What 2004 song are you?

I didn't find 2004 to be that great a musical year. Around December 31st every year, I make a list of the top 10 movies and top 10 songs of the past twelve months. Usually, it's an easy list to make (and this year's movies are no problem), but not this year. This year, I'm at a loss to think of five songs I loved and/or remember enough to type up.

Maybe I listened to too much Classic Rock and not enough of the new stuff. I was reminded of this by one of those stupid little time wasters where you answer a couple of questions and are told something misleadingly general about yourself. In this case, it was, "What 2004 Hit Song Are You?"

http://www.blogthings.com/2004hitquiz.html

It just takes a minute, and you regret it for the rest of your life!

After hitting Submit, they (and I know not who they are) claim that "This Love" by Maroon 5 is my song, or the song that most fits me, or the song that they oughtta play at my funeral, or something (I don't know, I wasn't paying attention) . Since I don't know the song (though the band name is definitely familiar), I'm wondering what other people got chosen, and how many songs are possible.

I don't subscribe to these silly things that can guess who your soulmate should be or how old you'll be when you die by answering a bunch of random questions like "What is your favourite colour?" "What month makes you happiest?" and "When did you last crap the bed?" But I've got to change my life (for the better), so I'm willing to take this on faith. As soon as I get home, I will track down this song, give it a listen, and see if it really does fit me. If it does, maybe I can be a bit more believing, a bit more positive about popular music, and optimistic in the new year.

If not, I'll probably take a nap.

Rish Outfield

To Secret Santa or not to Secret Santa

Since growing old and bitter, Christmas hasn't been as big a deal for me as it used to be. As a child, wow, it was probably the second greatest day of the year (after Halloween, which CONTINUES to be the greatest day of the year), and later on, during my religious phase, it was pretty sweet to me then.

Even now that the storm clouds have come, I'm still pretty Christmas-centric. My favourite book is A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. I love It's A Wonderful Life. I still pick up gifts for my family and come home every December (even though it can sometimes be torturous to visit the Outfield clan), and I haven't stolen presents from the Whos in ages.

Here at the office, they do a Secret Santa extravaganza every year. To those of you who worship Shabiba, the jackal-headed goddess of apathy and Carpal-Tunnel Syndrome, the Secret Santa ritual is where you draw a name at random and then must give an anonymous gift to that person. Here in the office, it's five gifts over five days, starting on Monday, then a major gift on Friday (wherein you get to reveal yourself to your victim--er, giftee). And that sounds like fun, right?

Well, just like asking a girl to the prom in my high school escalated to a Sisyphusian ordeal to outdo the competition (I could write a treatise on that sometime soon), here at work, everyone struggles to be the most creative, the most outlandish, the most complicated, the most sneaky. And more so than last year.

Two years ago, I participated, trying to be cute and clever. Last year, I participated again, trying hard to trump myself. But this year . . . ? I just wasn't sure.

And I wasn't alone. A lot of folks at the office were hesitant to participate in Secret Santa this time around. Some of them plead poverty, some of them claim they don't have the time, some of them have a funny notion that Jews shouldn't participate in Christmas activities. But mostly, it's just too hard.

One complaint I heard time and time again this year was that people weren't going to do Secret Santa because, in the past, they had given much better than they got. Yeah, I guess I can see the disappointment with that, but mine was an upbringing with the crazy notion that Christmas was about giving, not getting.

Hell of a lot of balm for those who received a half bag of Doritos, bloodstained coathangers, or a Cutthroat Island lunchbox, though, isn't it?

Well, I thought a lot about it in the days leading up to the sign-up deadline, and as much toil, expense, and mental anguish as it requires, I felt that the regret I'd feel if I DIDN'T do it would outweigh the inconvenience of doing it. And since I have neither girlfriend nor drug habit to keep me occupied this year, I chose to rise to the Secret Santa ritual challenge. I drew a name and concocted a scheme to pretend my giftee was a secret agent and his special mission was to rescue Santa Claus, who had been kidnaped by terrorists. Each day another mission briefing would come and each day was more difficult. When all the dust settled, I was glad I had elected to participate.

And yes, I am the world's greatest Secret Santa.

After Hanukkah Harry, that is.

Rish Outfield

children's names

First things first: I have no children.

The way things are going, I'm never going to.

But pretty much everyone else does. It's the law where I come from, and apparently, it's built into the psyche and genetic structure of women everywhere.

But what also seems to be built into people is the need to name their children something odd, something distinctive, something no other kid in their grade will be named (of course there are exceptions; I've heard people say that a friend of theirs named their kid Teleste or Anferny or Obsidia, and they just HAVE to name their spawn that too).

I understand that you want your child to be unique, but what you don't seem to be considering is that he or she has to live the next eighteen to ninety years with that moniker.

This is on my mind, I suppose, because Julia Roberts got the world all abuzz by naming her twins Hazel and Phinneus Moder a week or so back. It got me thinking about all the awful names people come up with to be special or offbeat, from the Zappa family to the Phoenix family to people I know.

My best pal named his daughter after a month of the year, and his son after a character in his favourite book. Weird, but it could have been weirder.

I often tell anyone who will listen the drunken tale of my sister deciding what to name her baby. One day, she told me, "I like the name Travis. I think I'll name it Travis if it's a boy. If it's a girl, what do you think of Travisty?" No joke.

Of course, she didn't name the child travesty, but she did purposely misspell the name she did choose, just in case there was another kid with the same name somewhere down the line. We'll get used to it, in time.

My pal's brother, a big Star Wars fan, decided, in 1999 or 2000, to name his baby son Anakin, after the cute little Aryan boy in The Phantom Menace. From what I've heard, he was not even close to alone.

Still, how will it be growing up, for that youth to be named after the burned, cybernetic man who tortured his own daughter, cut off his own son's hand, wiped out the best and brightest the galaxy had to offer, and ruined Return of the Jedi by smirking while being digitally inserted into the ending? It's not even a surprise that Anakin goes bad; why didn't he think about the name before he gave it to his kid?

At least he didn't name the kid Smeagol.

Oh, and what is this insanity of naming your children all with the same letter? It's enough to make Dr. Seuss vomit. Or worse, giving them rhyming names, like Brian and Ryan, Carol and Cheryl, Jan and Dan and Spam? That's only cute in a fairy tale or a preadolescent girl's head, isn't it?

My pal Merrill did the first letter thing, and when he broke the vicious cycle by naming his third child with a different letter than the first two, he was chided for it by his--surely insane--in-laws. Shouldn't he have been complimented? Lauded?

I can guess what you're thinking: How is this any of your business, Rish? How does it hurt you? They're my children, I can do what I want.

And you're right, I guess, it is none of my concern. So name your kid Apple Paltrow if you want to. Name your kid Talullah Belle Willis. Name your kid Pilot Detektor Lee. Name your kid Ezekial Vengeance Is Mine Sayeth The Lord And I Will Repay Bowman for all I care. It's just something I've noticed lately. I guess people get tired of mutilating their bodies with tattoos and decide to start in on their children.

I am not wholly innocent in this, though. If I had my way, I'd name my daughters after a Harrison Ford character and Spider-man's dead girlfriend.

But I should suffer for my thoughtlessness and conceit, not my child. Right?

Rish Outfield