my entire existence here is dependent upon my corporate id (a crazy mix six of random letters and numbers) and a password. the id never changes, the password expires every couple months.

my brain ran out of ROM long ago, so i alternate between two passwords. one of the passwords i like and actually enjoy using. the second, i hate. it trips up my fingers like a game of keyboard twister.

the good one just expired, 2 months of misery ahead. it sounds like a small thing but it affects every aspect of my being and how my future forms in front of me. nothing good will happen.

i am a simple man with simple hair. set the blade guard to a 2 and let 'er rip tater chip. when feeling special, and wanting something that that has a little style to it, a 4 on top and a 2 on the sides will do. even then there is no need for a hoity-toity stylist, a good ol' boy barber is all i need.

my last paid for hair cut was years ago in royal oak (a burb of detroit). i saw the store front and took a chance.

before the door had closed behind me, i was turning to walk back out. the flee instinct was triggered by weeks worth of hair swept into mounds against the wall. i heard the hum of the clippers stop and the barbers phlegm hindered voice.

"have a seat, your next!" against my better judgement i sat down.

the lights were dim and the room long and narrow. so dim, it was hard to discern anything but shapes against the back wall. it resembled a cave with hair stalagmites growing upward from the floor. duct tape affixed a calendar (3 years expired) yellowed from time and cigarette smoke to the wall. duct tape was a big player in the shop, it also patched the holes in the seats, and held an end table together. the oldest television i ever saw displayed a color distorted image of cnn, the volume was maxed out.

soon, it was my turn and i climbed into the barber chair.

he asked me what type of cut i wanted. a normal question from a barber but usually one asked before the electric clippers have carved a path halfway up the back of your head.

"um what ever you are doing is fine, i guess." i replied.

the quick blade motion of well maintained electric clippers creates a even steady high pitched buzz. the sound created by the electric clippers roving my scalp made a wavering low pitched buzz that would occasionally sputter when burdened with cutting my hair. his solution when the clippers bogged down was to press the clippers harder into my head. occasionally he himself would stall out and withdrawal the clippers to watch cnn for a few minutes before returning to the task of mutilating my head.

he told me many dirty jokes that didn't make much sense. the punch line always revolved around hillary clinton's genitalia. i was afraid not to laugh, so i giggled politely. i was very careful, i feared the slightest movement of my head may result in a severed ear.

as the last hair fluttered to the floor, he crouched in front of me, face to face. his eyes darted around my head admiring his work. suddenly and without warning his hand holding the electric clippers was moving to my face. before i could retract my head he was done. zorro the barber had trimmed a few misguided hairs peeking from my nostrils. the speed, accuracy and skill of the nostril attack was incredible considering the lack of skills demonstrated up to this point. it was kind of an idiot savant like action, done without thinking. feeling a little violated, i pinched my nose shut between my thumb and pointer finger. startled i starred at him incredulously.

thinking it was over, i began to unhook the bib when i felt the cold wet slap of his hand on my freshly shorn scalp. he then proceeded to massage the elixir into my head. i don't really know what it was, but i suddenly smelled like old man head.

"eight dollars" he said.

i gave him ten and ran very fast and very far.

reader beware, the following post contains fart humor (or at least an attempt at fart humor). at 36 years old, farts are still funny (especially farts that rise in tone upon completion, as if they are posing a question). any way, consider yourself warned, this is the last chance for the high minded reader to bail out. what follows is a true story that i am not proud of (well maybe just a little bit) but may become essential to FBI profilers in the future.

the urge to make stinky came suddenly. normally i would suppress the urge in the enclosed space of my car, but i was alone and feeling a bit adventurous. i figured i could always forgo the air conditioning and open a window if necessary.

it was almost inaudible, just a tired little sigh from down below.

at fist nothing, perhaps a misfire, devoid of odor. after a few seconds the odor subtly made itself known. incredibly it was not a bad odor, in fact the smell was very familiar.

a double bacon cheeseburger from burger king.

the odor produced was an exact replica, but purely coincidental. the odor quality would lead you to believe it was a talent i had developed like rich little doing celebrity voices or a gecko's ability to mimic it's environment.

i nailed it so well, the odor created a craving for the real thing. such a craving, i stopped at bk an purchased a double bacon cheeseburger. it was delicious.

i used to play a lot of basketball. in college i played at least a couple hours almost every day. it affected my dreaming.

i would dream every day activities but all of the sudden a basketball game would break out. eating in a restaurant, then the bus boys and waiters would become defenders and my plate was a ball. goals at each end of the restaurant would crop up. i would always rule the court, scoring at will.

in the best basketball dream ever, i was a tourist walking on a long pier in china. it was overcrowded with small chinese people. suddenly the goals popped up at each end of the pier. the small chinese people tried to keep me from scoring but could not. i towered over them. i had my game on, i was in the "zone".

once in a while the ball would bounce out of bounds, off the pier and into the water. no worries, every time it was retrieved by a tiny chinese guy who would run and jump off the pier doing crazy flips into the water.

6 to 8 weeks for delivery warned the advertisement. i started checking the mailbox the day after i sent the money order. eight weeks later an envelope from johnson smith company arrived. surely this was not shipment of the product. a simple envelope would not provide the proper protection for the space age technology, precision calibrated, x-ray specs i had ordered.

immediate disappointment of the highest order upon opening the envelope. tiny rivets barely held the cheap black plastic frames together. the lenses were cardboard with a hole in the center of each no larger than a pencil point. some type of red material covered the holes.

worse yet, each cardboard lenses had a red and white hypnotic swirl and the words "x-ray specs" printed on the outwardly facing side. what's the point of having x-ray specs if everyone knows you are wearing them? that simple design flaw instantly destroyed my plan see what mrs. brown (my 3rd grade teacher) looked like under her frumpy dress. once she saw the specs she would confiscate them. they would have a new home in her lower left hand desk drawer with all the other 3rd grade contraband (squirt guns, pea shooters, playing cards, and comic books).

oh well, so many other things to view; my cats skeleton, my sister's secret activities through the bedroom wall, and what the neighbor kept in his mysterious tool shed.

in the privacy of my bedroom i tried the specs on for the first time. every thing was blurry and red. the first test was my hand. i held it up to the light, sure enough i could see the bones in my hand, or at least a denser red where my bones should be. i then held up a pencil. the pencil had a bone also. the cat had one single bone, a large cat bone from head to toe. turns out, everything has a bone. socks, pillows, rope, etc.

a week or so later, i decided to give the johnson smith company another chance. i was sure the sea monkeys would make perfect pets.

i realized this morning i am not an astronaut.

as a kid, when asked what i was going to be when i grew up, i always claimed astronaut (except for a week when i was five and i really wanted to be a milk man).

anyway, never once did i say graphic designer. where did i get off track and how come i didn't notice i was off track till now? when did i settle for all this mediocrity. all the sudden i am flooded with childhood memories of incomplete plans i was making for adulthood.

i don't have a house with a drawbridge and moat.

i don't eat twinkies for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

i don't have a fireman's pole in my house.

i don't have a retractable moon roof above my bed.

i don't wear a yellow jump suit with lots of pockets.

i didn't marry i dream of jeannie.

i don't have a secret hole in my backyard that leads to china.

i don't have a chocolate cow producing chocolate milk.

i don't don't have a smoking pet monkey wearing a fez hat on his hea... er, forget that one.

so, where did my life go so terribly wrong? perhaps i am not too far off track, i do have an astronauts hair cut. know where i can get a good deal on a used space suit?

i am a great fan of the redcricket camtoon. he taunts and teases us with promise of a new episode but nothing comes of it. i figure it is time to fight fire with fire.

we demand more camtoons from the red cricket, dammit!

i have a brand new blue sharpie marker and you don't.

another case of perfectly good humor wasted on a humorless person.

i am a saltoholic, whenever i am in mcdonalds, i alway grab a few extra salt packets to put in the glovebox of my car. the other day i placed my order and pulled forward to the burger king drive thru window.

bk guy: "here you go, (hands me the bag) need any salt, pepper, or catsup?"
me: "um,... i have mcdonalds salt, is that compatible with your fries?...do i need some type of retrofit kit?"

long pause, no hint of even a smile.

bk guy: "pepper, catsup?"

we adopted a 2nd cat. now we will go through the name game again. my plan is to keep adopting cats till we can finally name one ah-pook (the destroyer).

actually this is all part of my master plan, these are the first steps.

when i am really old, i will have a house with a huge wooden porch. i will sit in a rocking chair on my porch with a thousand cats. cats will sit on my shoulders, weave in and out between my legs, and one will wag her tail under the runner of the rocking chair with perfect timing so never to get pinched.

i will smell like tuna fish and wear a white t shirt stained with yesterdays lunch, sweat, and bicycle grease.

i will sit on the porch all day waiting for small children to retrieve a ball or to step on my yard. then i will yell, "hey, you rotten kids stay offa my yard!" as i shake a long bony finger at them.

to the neighborhood kids, i will be known as "mean old man griff".

today I was ambushed by friends that claim to care about me. i think the technique is called an intervention.

i have not paid for a haircut in years. i shave my head, then grow it till i need a comb. then i shave it again. this has been a bimonthly cycle for 15 or so years. my so called friends seem to think i have a problem. they claim i should stop. they claim my head is ugly and i should grow the hair out to hide it. they claim it is for my own good.

i say, what does it matter i'm not hurting anyone but myself. they claim my grotesquely large, misshaped, freak show head is barely this side of christopher merrick. small children are horrified by the sight of it, and soon michael jackson will want to purchase my skull.

i ask, why was i not told earlier? but suddenly i am flooded with memories of my wife, my kids, my parents, friends making comments in passing. things like "big headed freak", "hey melon boy", and "tater head". if only i had listened.

they say the first step to recovery is recognizing you have a problem.

my name is griff and my head resembles a cratered planetoid. i am sorry to all of those that i have caused pain and suffering.

the other night i was searching through the attic with a flash light when i found my jello.

this has got me thinking. thinking that caused a brain lock. bill nye, please help me.

when shining my flashlight through the jello, the light is changed. light coming out of the other side of the jello is a different color.

now for my dumb science question. is the light coming out of the jello moving slightly slower than the speed of light? was the light slowed at all as slogged through the jello?

obviously light can be stopped my shining my flashlight at a brick wall, but can it be slowed? is the speed of light not a constant?

should i know the answer to this? am i dumb?

where do you want to go to dinner?

hooters.

yea, right, where else?

no, really, let's go to hooters.

i don't feel good about the way women are treated there.

hey, they choose to work there!

an argument i'm sure many couples have had. the difference being my wife suggested hooters, and i was taking the moral high ground. she loves the wings, but the primary driver is that kids eat free on saturdays. those two factors quickly over rode the moral and righteous upbringing we had planned on providing our 2 boys.

she assured me the boys are still too young to notice the scantly clad waitresses. i would like to believe this, but as a child, my fascination with boobs was my primary motivation for learning to walk (enabling me to search, ogle and chase them).

people often wonder what is the cost of raising a child with no morals compass. wonder no more, it is the price of a kids meal, $2.95.

neighbor kid: "why did you get a cat? my dad said it's just gonna die one day."
my kid: "yea, so are you."
neighbor kid: "huh?!?"

it is good to see cynicism, skepticism, and being a smart ass is genetic.

a few days ago i found myself reminiscing about cycling. in my teens and early twenties i was heavily into bicycling, both racing and touring. i had not thought about cycling in quite some time.

2 days ago i found myself searching for old italian colnago racing bikes on ebay. no intent to buy, just kind of curious.

yesterday i found myself web shopping campagnolo bicycle components (the finest italian old skool outragously expensive components) with the jug head plan of rebuilding a racing bike.

i stopped myself and wondered what triggered this sudden re-intrest in a hobby abandoned 10 years ago. sudden realization. my inner psychologist (not board certified, but cheap) suggested perhaps i am looking back to the most care free and simple time of my life. yearning to ride away from reliving the events of 9-11. i think psychologists are full of crap, but he might just have something there.

odd how the unconscious mind works.

The 8 year old boy made funny faces at the 2 year old boy. the younger boy giggled and pointed back at the older. the boys were having fun passing time in the customs line of the toronto airport.

The older boy looked to be east indian. His skin was golden brown, and his black hair was straight. his clothes and bags made it obvious he came from wealth.

the 2 year old was black. his nappy hair went in many different directions. his clothes looked to be hand-me-downs.

the boys could not look any more different from each other.

the parents of both boys ignored the children's actions and refused to acknowledge each others existence. watching the boys interact, i am once again reminded that hatred does not exist without teachers of hate.

washing your towels is unnecessary. the second you step out of the shower, you are the cleanest you will be all day. the towel you use is only whisking clean water from your body. the towel never gets dirty.

extrapolating this thought further helped me reach another conclusion.

you can eat off your toilet seat.

stepping out of the shower, my butt cheeks are the cleanest they will be all day. i immediately slip into my freshly laundered crossbreed boxer/brief underwear. instantly my cheeks are protected from germs looking for a place to land or random globs of flying peanut butter.

i then put on clean pants, a second layer to protect my pristine cheeks from any failure my underwear my have. if i tuck in my shirt, a third layer of protection is gained. behind these protective sheaths, the cheeks are safe. rarely handled and never exposed to the light of day.

so, when the time to poo arrives, contact with the toilet seat is really the first contact my cheeks have had since the bar of soap and wire scrub brush in the shower. if anything, my ass is polishing the seat.

it seems most people at the office also wear things to cover their ass. by lunchtime, that seat has been buffed by dozens of fresh clean butt cheeks. i know where i am eating my lunch tomorrow!

today, son 1 asked me why the cat is smarter than he is.

i told him not to worry, he's still smarter than his brother.

hey, everyone needs to know their place in the world.

we have adopted a kitten, now we must name it.

my top five
- ah pook (the destroyer)
- kandinsky
- twelve
- seka
- cuddles kovinsky

the wife's top five
- tinkerbell
- magic
- petal
- precious
- snowball

the boy's top five
- batman
- nose spot
- blight
- kitty
- prance

she's a cat from france, we think her name is prance.

over heard from a woman walking the toronto streets speaking very loudly into her cell phone;

"so now that we are married, he thinks he can f**k me up the a**."

hmmm, i don't remember anything like that in my vows.

my wife returned from florida today, she brought me a severed animal head.

i am not really sure why she did, and i am not really sure i feel good about it. the gator head stares ahead with black marble eyes and open jaw. the back side is apholstered with the finest of black felt. did my wife just support and encourage the severed gator head industry?

i must admit it looks rather snazzy on the shelf next to my shellacked mexican frogs. my den is beginning to resemble that chinatown shop where mogwai/gremlins can be purchased.

i can't claim moral highground over her actions, i am guilty of purchasing large quantities of shellacked frogs posed in various traditionally human activities (standing at a bar, playing basketball, reading, etc.). very small nails ensure the frogs are securely attached to a wooden base.

i am going to toronto wednesday on business, perhaps i shall bring her back some thing. i wonder what animals those crazy canadians shellac.