I Am Curious (George)

I had a hair stylist named Tamara. She was a bit kooky, but she could sure cut hair. She left a couple of years ago for Indianapolis and I (along with Nancy) was left to find a replacement.

For a while, I started going to the Fantastic Sam's just down the block: close and cheap. But you do get what you pay for. While they do a great job with David's hair, they never quite cut my hair the way I wanted it. I imagine it has something to do with the distance between my own sensibilities and the current style of the day. A few years back, somewhere around 1989, while living in Portland, I remember sitting in the chair and realizing that even though the woman cutting my hair was trained and talented, something about her suggested that she might think Richard Marx had a nice style going. And that would be a problem.

After a few unsatisfactory cuts from the Fantastic Sam's (and a couple of really unpleasant experiences at the Master Cuts in the mall, where the women cutting my hair were downright hostile), Nancy suggested that I try a barber. There's a barber just down Wabash and so I walked in one day and asked for a cut.

I was somewhere between a David Lynch film and a David Cronenberg film in there. The guy cutting my hair seemed like he'd seen something long ago that shook him to the core. He had a way of speaking that suggested heavy meds, and the pictures on the wall looked like they came from a different family -- one that had stopped existing in about 1964. While I was there, two older men came in, sat down, and talked to each other and the barber about health issues -- my presence went unacknowledged outside of the snip of the scissors close to my ear. One of the men dragged an oxygen tank with him and had no socks on his feet -- which were threatening to burst the sides of his worn out sneakers. The other man didn't button his shirt, which allowed me to get a good long look at the scar that ran up his substantial and slightly discolored belly. He suffered from a throat ailment that made his voice a raspy whisper.

The cut was terrible and the company was creepy, so I paid and got out of there, vowing never to return. Fantastic Sam's was like Shangri-La by comparison.

And then Nancy went to see the woman who replaced Tamara. She returned looking lovely and raving about what a fun person Deborah was. Ever hopeful, I made an appointment. She was fun alright. Peppy as all get out. I don't think she really cared much about what I said I wanted. She just cut it the way she felt like cutting it, telling me how "hot" I was going to look. I am not now, nor have I ever been, hot. Frankly, it was all a bit much, and I left feeling ambivalent at best about my hair. "What's it going take to get a decent, simple haircut?" I thought.

I told Nancy I was just going to go in and say, "Give me the Curious George."

A few months later, as my hair started showing signs of becoming unruly again, our friend Tim suggested that I try a different barber. This guy's downtown and he cuts a lot of the ISU professors' hair. Tim's an upstanding fellow with a pretty good haircut, and so I walked by the shop a few days later to take a look. It was nice and clean from what I could tell, and the barber looked sane, so I made an appointment for Monday.

Monday arrived and I went downtown. The barber was waiting for me, and he wasted no time getting going. He never said, "So what are we doing today?" while running his fingers through my hair, the way Tamara would. He just said, "Trim it up." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

He had lots of sports memorabilia on the walls, along with some posters of the Indianapolis Colts cheerleaders,
and I noticed a pile of Sports Illustrated on the table by the front window. So we talked sports. At one point, during a lull in the conversation, I looked to my right, toward the back of the shop and noticed a second table, this one by the farthest chair. It was covered with Playboy. "Huh," I thought. "Never seen that in Fantastic Sam's." No, in Fantastic Sam's and Tamara/Deborah's place you just get a mixture of hair style portfolios and upscale urban niche market magazines like Indianapolis or Popular Kitchen Designs. Not a lot for the non-metrosexual man.

But here was a man's world.

He wrapped a piece of tissue paper around my neck before placing the cape on me and snapping it in place. He used clippers primarily, and then brought out the scissors only for the fine work. He cut my hair short, so short it hurt in places. He used a straight razor on the back of my neck, and got rid of those hipster sideburns I've been sporting for 18 years now.

And then, when he seemed to be done, and had removed the cape form my shoulders and brushed the hair form the back of my neck, he did something I didn't expect. He pulled out what appeared to be a hand-held belt sander. He plugged it in, flipped the switch and proceeded to give me a vibrating back and shoulder massage. I watched in the mirror as he moved the machine around my back with striking ease and skill. I was impressed and confused at the same time. Is this standard? How long would this go on? Was I supposed to tell him when to stop? Would it be awkward of me to tell him to stop now? Would it be more awkward to just let him keep going?

It was a strange mixture of intimacy and mechanical efficiency. I glanced over at the stacks of Playboy and suddenly felt ill at ease. I was out of my element.

After several minutes, the massage came to an end. I thanked him for the cut, paid, and left. I told him I'd make another appointment. But I probably won't.

You know, I think I just miss Tamara.

I Love That Dirty Water

My dinner time job is doing the dishes. I used to complain about it a lot, but then we got a dishwasher and a garbage disposal and my life became infinitely easier. Of course, I never quite trust the appliances to do their job as well as I could, so each evening I rinse the dishes thoroughly before putting them in the dishwasher, and I'm prone to double-checking the disposal even when the sound of it tells me that all is clear.

Last night as I was loading the dishwasher and the kids were busy painting with watercolors at the kitchen table, my rinse water started backing up from the disposal. This is a pretty common occurrence since the food I'm rinsing off necessarily gathers in the disposal, which needs to be cleared occasionally. And so, as I do frequently, I reached under the sink and flipped the switch for the disposal.

But the water didn't clear; it just bubbled up and got murkier, filled with little bits. And the disposal sounded all wrong. The familiar grinding that turns quickly into a clean whir and hum was replaced by a kind of troubled buzzing, indicating that, while the motor was working, the blades weren't doing much of anything.

I shut it off, used a wooden spoon to turn the blades manually (hoping to clear anything that might be jamming them), and tried it again.

Lately I've been aware of all the less-than-savory puddles that surround us on a daily basis:

The inevitable bathtub spillover -- a mixture of tap water, soap, and errant hair -- that manifests whenever one of us turns our back on either child for more than 10 seconds during bath time.

The surprising little ponds found at the bottoms of various bins that hold soggy bathtub toys.

The puddle with little footprints leading away from it that states all too euphemistically: "Mommy! Daddy! I had an accident!"

The birdbath that goes green if not refreshed regularly.

The huge square lake that forms underneath the compromised gutter at the back of the house every time it rains, and that drives the kids to remove all their clothing and roll around in it.

The wagon, the metal tub, the wheelbarrow, and the canvas chair in the backyard...every time it rains.

The nastiness that gathers at the back edge of the bathroom sink and in the bottom of the toothbrush cup -- ironically, the results of everyday hygiene.

It's not unusual to get surprised by a puddle of... something...during even the most innocent stroll through our little house.

When I turned the disposal on again, the sound hadn't changed. I let it run for a few extra seconds thinking whatever it is might get jarred loose. In a way, I was right. The extra effort exerted by the disposal overwhelmed the connection between the appliance and the plumbing. The white piece of PVC burst away from the gasket and the fetid water in the sink began to flow downward, full force, into the disposal and then out into the cabinet and onto the floor. Gallons of the stuff, complete with bits of potato peel and egg shells (the two culprits it turned out).

There was yelling, and mopping, and inquiries into exactly how many potatoes were peeled. Pipes were removed, vile odors were commented upon, buckets were filled. Curious kids were held at bay, their questions met with a series of responses like: "Please, not right now," and "Yes, I can fix it, but I need you to back up."

In the end, the shock of wet garbage spewing from underneath my sink gave way to a clear sense of what had to be done. The whole thing lasted no more than 30 minutes, and when all was said and done, you would never know that anything happened. We were puddle-free.

And then David knocked over Trin's cup of paint water.

Message In A Bottle

After so much time away, I was hoping to come back with something truly special: the kind of story that makes you feel good inside. But while the events of this story did make me feel better in the short term, I have to say that my dignity has been compromised. So, at the risk of demeaning myself irreparably to people whom I hold in high regard, I give you the following.

ACT I: Let's Get Out of This Country



I left for the ICA convention in Chicago on Thursday afternoon. The car was clean, and I had several CDs of good new music. The sky was blue and my head was clear. I was feeling confident, more ready for a conference presentation than I had ever been. The paper I was presenting is a chapter in a forthcoming book edited by my good friend, Amanda, and being published by Routledge. The other members of my panel were all well-established scholars, and I had a meeting scheduled with an editor at Routledge to talk about possible book projects. I was starting to feel better about my career (which, while going very well, often leaves me with a little bit of existential angst and competitive jealousy born mostly of guilt that I haven't been as productive as I could be). What's more, lots of good friends were scheduled to be in Chicago, where good food and good beer abound.

Heading up I-65, I felt as good as I've felt in months.

I stopped in Lafayette to get a cup of coffee and a cookie. Lafayette turned out to be a little more crowded, and traffic a little more tangled, than I had anticipated. But, still, I got my coffee and my cookie, used the Starbucks restroom, and was off.

ACT II: A Little More Time



Perhaps it was the caffeine and sugar combination, but my relative calm turned into a unnamable and jittery unease somewhere about 20 miles outside of Lafayette. My sense of confidence started to slide away and I found myself nervous about...something. I tried to think back to the interview with John Doe that Terri Gross had done for Fresh Air this week. Doe had been talking about a song that he had written called "A Little More Time" about missing loved ones. He talked about how thinking too much about the future or the past stops us from being here now and experiencing the present for everything it's worth. He wasn't advocating for a kind of "live for today" selfishness. Instead, he was talking about just making the most out of the time we have. I tried to dial up the feeling that had accompanied me to Lafayette, but it wasn't any use. I could feel myself blocking contentment.

I continued that way all the way to Merrillville, where I stopped at another Starbucks to use their restroom and get a bottle of water. I asked a young hipster behind the counter if he thought I would be better off taking the toll road (Interstate 90) through Gary or getting on 80/94 and risking the south Chicago suburban traffic. "You should be fine on 80/94. I was on it this morning and it was no problem." I thanked him, took my water and got back on the road.

About a mile away from the exit for 80/94, traffic was crawling, coming to a halt. The exit was backed up -- stupid hipster --- and I decided to risk the toll road. Plus, I actually like driving through Gary. I feel like too many people avoid it. And the traffic was fantastic. Clear sailing the entire way. I sipped water and listened to the Mountain Goats and was starting to feel better. 90 turned to the north and I headed along Lake Michigan toward the merger with 94 just south of downtown Chicago.

Then I saw brake lights.

ACT III: People Got A Lotta Nerve




To say that traffic was heavy on the Dan Ryan would be a gross understatement. It was obese. My speedometer never climbed above 5 mph. We sat. We lurched. We stopped. We sat some more. The exit signs promised relief, but the exits never came. They hovered in the distance like cement mirages.

And I started to feel like I had to pee. Nothing major, certainly nothing that couldn't wait until I got to the hotel, which would surely be in the next half hour, once the traffic let up and we got moving again. But still we sat, and lurched, and stopped, and sat some more. All the lurching made my situation a little worse than I had anticipated. Perhaps I could get off at the next exit and find a gas station. But where is the exit? The signs keep telling me about an exit, but it never seems to materialize.

I started thinking more about how much I needed to pee. I had to hold out. But the more I thought about it, the more dire the situation became. I longed for a "Stadium Pal." I had to do something. Could I pull off on the shoulder, open the front and back passenger doors for cover and pretend I was doing something else? That seemed unlikely. Could I pee in my water bottle while I was driving/sitting here? I held it down to my crotch to see what the angle would be. No way; not with the steering wheel in the way. First, I can only imagine what other drivers might see. Also, most likely, I'd get into an accident and wind up exposed and covered in urine trying to explain myself to the police.

"What were you doing, Mr. Nichols-Pe...Pet..."
"Pethick"
"Mr. Pethick. What were you doing?"

I tried to put it out of my mind. No good. I shifted in my seat, I tapped my foot, I screamed at traffic. Nothing worked.

Finally, I saw my one and only chance: the exit for Canalport Ave. I took my shot.

An angel must have been riding shotgun with me because, while there were no gas stations on the horizon, I found a small, unpopulated side street just two blocks off the freeway with a vacant lot on one side and a giant windowless wall of a warehouse on the other side. There was a tour bus in the vacant lot (though no people in sight) so I parked next to the warehouse and got out of the car with my water bottle. I walked over to the passenger side, opened the door, pushed the seat as far back as it would go, and poured out the water in my bottle onto the street. I squeezed myself into a low kneeling position on the passenger side floor and peed in that bottle.

I have never been more in the moment.

EPILOGUE:

To be honest, I feel a bit diminished by the whole affair, and I hope none of you think less of me. Of course, I disposed of the bottle and its contents before arriving at the hotel, where I knew I would be using valet parking, and it WAS a desperate time. But, still, for someone feeling so good about the way things were going, it seemed an ironic (or maybe fitting) way to end up: crouched uncomfortably in the passenger seat of a Toyota Camry, in a horrible big city neighborhood, peeing secretly into a bottle with one word emblazoned on the side: Ethos.

Where Have All the Good TImes Gone?

Dear neglected readers,

As the semester draws to a close, and my sabbatical inches nearer and nearer, I find myself with a renewed energy for this space. Like General MacArthur (well maybe not JUST like him), I shall return...soon. Stay tuned.

Jonathan