HAIRCUTS AND SUCH.

Dunno ‘bout all y’all’s hair, (head-hair, he said hurriedly), but, my hair behaves quite oddly in the aftermath of a haircut. Wait, that’s not accurate. I had more than one hair cut...Hairs cut? Sounds odd, but I’m going to go with...wait...hair cutting? Let’s try it. My hair behaves oddly in the immediate aftermath of a hair cutting – yep, ‘cuz, y’know, process; or, more accurately, in the aftermath of the post-tonsorial ablutions.  Hairs that had meekly stayed in their assigned places as I left the barber’s are, asserting their independence. Hairs that had defied the rabble rousing vortices in the back seat of a homeward auto rickshaw are, post-shower, deciding to strike out on their own; refusing direction and distribution. Hitherto unseen cowlicks making their haphazard presence annoyingly known; not unlike the fellow in the row in front who stands up and has a leisurely stretch and look around while a crucial moment on the playing field passes unseen.

Bad hair cutting, I hear you say. No, I assert. My barber is a gentleman of skill and art. His cutting of my hair has been honed by more than a decade’s worth of familiarity with my requirements. His work cannot be faulted. No, the fault lies elsewhere, and, having pondered the matter I believe I have understood the issue.

Adolescence, that’s what it is. Adolescence, that time of discovery and exploration, that yearning for a glimpse over the horizon, that search for identity, that’s what has the cowlicks defying my stylist instructions. Can’t be blamed, really, Imean, it’s a phase, innit? Imean, we’ve all been through it, haven’t we? Growing from a subcutaneous bud into the heady freedoms of early maturity only to be held in place by the weight of older tradition and order, we’ve all been there.

Then one day, a sharp and sudden liberation from the weight that has been pressing down, and...cowlick.

I now no longer try to tame my cow licks. Time, and aging will kill that spirit soon enough.

A Horny Dilemma

So, here’s me, dealing with yet another horny dilemma.

To shave or not to shave, that is the question.

That is to say, do I shave the beard I have grown? Or do I endure the niggling snipping and snapping necessary for a neat beard and occasioned by a wholly unwarrantable desire to appear well-groomed?

In the one hand, a well trimmed, mostly salt beard, although, I’m told, with enough of a serving of pepper to make things interesting. Whatever that means (told, but not explained); a presentable marker of my age, experience, and wisdom (putative).

In the other, a clean shaven mien that, I’ve been told, belies my chronological age, which, according to researched reports, is a good thing, bordering on an Official Good Thing.

In the third hand, the memory of behavior of mine, behavior, I’m convinced, that has its origins in the mistaken belief that youthful appearance allows for youthful licence. And that, that, makes me want to get away from my skin, from the inside. Knowledge of actions and behaviors; knowing that I gave in to impulses that read inelegant in anyone let alone in a man of my age and experiences, well-travelled and adequately scarred experiences, makes that particular handful somewhat slimy to the touch.

And therein the horny dilemma, the beard, for all its flavourful connotations, is a daily, quite often startling, reminder that I am not a young man. And that for all its charms wit, and/or wisdom, cannot substitute for youth and prospects. But, a well-trimmed, not to say manicured, face-lawn does, and has, facilitated exceedingly pleasant interactions (of the cerebral kind) India’s talented, bright, enticingly intelligent, single, – operative word heads-up – young,  women. [Side bar – Bengaluru’s beer, bullshit, and bonhomie, scene does not seem to include single women appropriate to my age.] A clean shaven misapprehension of youth and presumed vigor, jeez, that feels so, y’know, Trump-like.

Ah well, a long Sunday brunch, in a convivial caravanserai, exploring ideas and emotions with a woman who smells of spring evenings and whose laughter sounds like temple bells in the mist, can last for hours. What are we looking at with the other? 7, 10 minutes, tops, and that’s if I can remember my multiplication tables.

I guess this is why god made the incognito windows.

"That Ar****le in the White House"

Found myself thinking about words and how they are used and affects and such.

“Don’t be such a dick” we admonish each other; “that chutiya...” we say dismissively; “that asshole in the White House” we say, as though we are blameless.

Body parts, essential, fiercely protected, often times cherished, body parts, used to denigrate and degrade; that makes no sense.

Take my dick -- dear heavens, I’m channelling Henny Youngman and will now stop – as an example. I am, needless to say, quite attached to him. Our life long association has proven to be of mutual benefit and the occasional benediction. Oh, there have been moments of conflict, the odd involuntary spasm in our relationship, even the blessedly rare moment of incontinence, but, and I say this with some feeling, my dick and I have been happy with each other and have had no irreconcilable conflicts with the public at large.

Which is why I feel guilty when, giving into social norms and usage, I denigrate the behavior of a loutish Other as dickish. Dickish behavior, in a bottom line sort of way, is more descriptive of the release of internal pressures, the controlled release of Nature mandated imperatives; vide: bathrooms, courtship rituals, et.al; more to be applauded than reviled. To ignore that aspect of my dick is to do him and his brothers, (and sisters, of course, it’s just that I can’t be quite as authoritative...ah you know what I mean), a disservice and I shall watch myself closely.

“What a pussy” I’ve heard said, in describing timidly behavior. And that just ain’t right. Pussy, and this is a data based conclusion, is anything but timid. Shy and retiring perhaps, but that is not be misconstrued as timidity. When aroused, pussy can be a transfixing power that demands, in the most wonderfully pinkish kind of way, one’s rigid attention. An attention that can be enforced by her should she choose to, vide, Kegel.

Asshole as a pejorative makes even less sense. My personal asshole, whose name is none of your business, is a cooperative orifice, in close touch with an essential service to my internal systems and society as a wh..., as an entity. Does that sound like Donald Trump to you?

“Why are you not dating?” The Statuesque Young Woman (SYW), imperious in body and language, wanted to know.
“Ummm...” replied Uncle Old Guy (UOG), “The spirit is willing but...” his voice trailing off as he contemplated the end of that aphorism and its implications. He needn’t have bothered. SYM was not listening.
She was scanning him, silvered head to well shod, if a touch weary, toes. Her brow delicately furrowed, but imperial for all of that. Her gaze evaluating and...”You present well” she said. “We...that is to say, I, fail to comprehend why W...I, never see you in the company of an Other” SYM’s commitment to gender equality and choice unmarked by the momentary pronoun slip.
“I”, SYW said, firmly taking control of her hoi polloi mingling persona, “find you an interesting person. You are, by all accounts, well travelled and adequately educated. I’m given to understand you speak more than one language. Further, your presence in this place and time suggests a degree of discretionary income which in addition to your lack of encumbrances such as family or spouse should, in and ordered and rational universe, which, I assure you it will be when I...but...that’s the not the point. Why are you alone?” Her tone suggesting that if the reports she had received were somehow inaccurate, heads would, if not roll, at the very least they’d rock. The tangential implication that the fault is intrinsic with UOG remained unsaid but loud in the arch of the imperial eyebrow.
“I...” UOG started to reply.
He needn’t have bothered.
“Such must not be allowed to endure”, SYW said, her look pinning UOG to the barroom floor, “I saw you in the company of some chick, if I have the phrase right, earlier. Go and find her and see to it.”
The Statuesque Young Woman turned away from UOG to lend her attention to the presence of another courtier, not unkindly, but definitely.
UOG sagged with relief, his incompetence at ‘seeing to it’ a well established truth and the royal attention being notoriously, ummm, peripatetic.

Eavesdropping on a conversation, a fairly tense conversation, on my FB feed, got me thinking.

The point of contention was an article written to highlight the undeniable truth that women, particularly young women face issues that men, of any age, fail to see as problems. Among them, the writer, with justifiable anger and anguish, referred to the issue of adult men “...hitting on 15 year old check-out girls.”

A respondent (male), while agreeing to the general tenor of the article, took exception (mild) to what he termed ageism as a counter to sexism. Ignoring, perhaps subsuming, the implications of paedophilia in his, to quote Bob Seeger, “...what to leave in, what to leave (I’ve always thought that ought to be ‘take’) out”, critique, the respondent ran into the buzz-saw of a co-respondent. It needs to be noted that the respondent is a gentleman of my acquaintance and is, to my certain knowledge, a man of impeccable ethics and responsibility, at least insofar as Lolita-esque issues are concerned. She, the co-respondent, was, and quite vehemently so, unwilling to allow to the issue of 15 year old girls being H. Humbert-ed to be minimized. The episode ended – Buzz-Saw – 1; Respondent; 0 with Respondent retiring from the field with grace (a degree of).

Which, as mentioned, got me to thinking; as a father (daughter) and grandfather (grand-daughter) I examined my own behavior towards the various check-out girls I have encountered through my consumerist life. I got to wondering if my service-worker friendliness could be misinterpreted. I must admit that it could be, and for that I apologize, retrospectively and prospectively, no offense and/or aggression intended. Rather, the ‘flirting’, if one wants to call it that is predicated on appreciation rather than acquisition. I am sorry that you, young server, have had to live a life in which friendliness is viewed as sexual aggression. If I could I’d change that. Not all references to your mien and demeanour are with the intention of denuding you. Sometimes, you remind me of my daughter at your age and that which you are interpreting as a come-on is no more than a pleased appreciation of your entry into the adult world.

None of this is to say that creepy old men aren’t trying to get into 15 year old pants. Just to point out that that is not all of us. Some, most, of us are just enjoying, without touching, the Spring.

A photograph of a tiger with her young adolescent cubs doing the I-love-you-Ma-when-do-we-eat-full-body-leg-rub thing; evocative and all but the tag line, which included the words unbreakable bond, got me thinking.

First though, that unbreakable bond thing? Yeah, well, not so much. Maternal bonds, especially in the more predatory specie, tend to weaken, if not actually dissolve, as the cub matures; gender, mating rights, threat perception, hunting range and rights, sorts of issues help in that dissolution process. We humans, (and I use the term loosely given the amount of sapience we display in the stewardship of our lives), have sublimated those ‘animal’ tendencies according to our cultural norms. There is not, however, a parent(sane) alive who has not emitted a soul sigh of relief at the adulthood of an offspring and the ensuing easing of parental R word, responsibility; bond weakened, boom.

None of which is to detract from the photograph; nor the resonances with the I-miss-my-slightly-less-predatory-mom places in my soul. As a work of art, it did its job and touched me. The tag line, however, was a touch painting the lily and gilding gold-ish. Not, as the Seinfeld Krew might be tempted to say, that there is anything wrong with that. I also understand, I think, the need of the writer of that tag line to hug his/her mom and ask her if dinner was ready, expressed in the only means available. Hell, I might have done the same on a different day.

With an assurance of apologies for inadvertent offense and disrespect and having, one hopes, soothed the sensibilities of the author of the tag line - over statement, emotional need, wtf am I complaining about?

See, the overstatement of an emotional need, is, as even a cursory glance at the history of governance will show, a method of communication between, no, actually, from, the ruler to the ruled. It is, after all, an efficient way to recruit the great unwashed and unsophisticated into the  cannon fodder needed to man the front lines while the heavy thinking is happening in  ivory towers. Bonds cemented by emotion are not susceptible to reason. One of the reasons why Religion got into the business of governance and that, as we can all see, has worked out so well. Reason is a necessary component in the governance of a putative democracy.And when we, as more washed, although not necessarily more sophisticated, society accept that overstatement as the lingua franca, well, Trump, RSS, Daesh, Nazis, militant Buddhists(!) et.al, happen. Accepting florid displays of emotional need into the patterns of political, which is to say public, speech is handing the reins of democracy over to those who eschew the sense in the words unbreakable bonds in favour of the emotion triggered and generally leads to snarling, and lunging, and blood, and pain; a real possibility in the life cycle of the pictured trio.

NLP is a thing folks, like it or not.

Irritated& Shamed Indian

A question raised on Quora



What are the most irritating and shameful things in India?

I stand shamed when I'm reminded that the inclusive, open hearted philosophy of hinduism is institutionalized into the exclusionary rule ridden Religion of Hinduism replete with uniforms and hierarchies. That just ain't right.
I hang my head when a culture and philosophy that spawned Gandhi finds it so easy to justify killing in the name of Religion.
My skin crawls when a culture that Officially venerates Woman, finds it difficult to codify and control institutionalized violence against women. Do the khap panchayat rulings ring a bell? So very Talibanesque of them, no? But, please, don't tell 'em I said that. (see #2) And yes, Khap Panchayats are as much a religion, rituals, rules, repression, and all, as any of the other Official ones.
Shamed, I am, when jingoism and its fellow traveler racism is being woven into the fabric of the nation; when the Other is demonized and when politically necessary, reviled.
I cringe when I see unimaginable amounts of money are spent on monuments and temples to Mammon, while children go unfed, unclothed, uneducated, uncared for.
I get most irritated that India, YoMo'In (young modern India), aam admi, good (for a given value) people, accept this as the way things, in all their lal-bathied, self promoting VVIP (uppercase by decree)ways are. I shouldn't have said most, 'cuz, I get even more irritated that you, YoMo'In, with your abysmal voting percentages, allow this to happen.
Oh, and the incessant honking is maddening.

Impeach Trump

Impeach Donald Trump. That had, and still has, a resonance to it that used to trigger my approach/avoidance conflict syndrome, which, as is well understood is not good for a soul already beset by the election of the Agent Orange President. 

‘Cuz, y’know, impeach Trump and Pence slides into the chair, which effectively removes a whole bunch of bricks from that oh-so-necessary wall between Church and State. Do that and there would be no point to the United States of America. Freedom from Religion, (not to be confused with religion, aka faith), was the reason for being of the Mayflower bunch. Religion, the upper case type, is, as far as one can tell, a codification of morality and self-serving mores (mo-ray, I don’t know how to do that accent mark thing)...and I’ve just noticed that the pronunciation of that does suggest a lethal eel-like quality, a sort of not recommended for children under 10, use with caution sense...but, I digress. Codified morality and self-serving mores, which work on fears and retribution, got it.

Pence in the Oval Office, I used to think, would turn the US into the antithesis of democracy and dignity of man, aka, theocratic governance.

Then I noticed the 51-50 votes in the senate.

Then I realized that with the now Big Pee in the Oval Office the deadlock breaking VP vote would be considerably weakened.

Oh sure, another VP would be picked from the storm trooper brigade, but, the events surrounding Flynn and the whole Russia thing seems to be giving some of that brigade a spine, and Insha’Allah, some badly needed neural connections to the brain, bypassing their lizard brain responses, and resulting in some actual governance.

So, hells yes, impeach that graceless waste of skin, Trump.

Discerning the Dark

To monitors of net content. - the following is an allegory. there is not any intention to incite violence and/or assassination. just an attempt to teach my kid how to interpret shadow. I do so swear on the deity of your choice.
*****************************************

“We are staring too fixedly at the dark.”
He jumps up from behind his desk and starts pacing.
“You say things like that just to annoy me, don’t you?” She is sprawled inelegantly across the large comfortable couch that is under a wall mounted video screen .
“Hmmm?”
He has stopped his pacing and has picked a wicked looking assault weapon from a table littered with what looks like a psychopath’s collection of killing tools, and is turning it over in his hands.
“What does that mean? That thing about the dark, what does that mean?”
She sounds petulant when she speaks; may even be playing with a strand of her hair, for all I know.
Manipulating a remote, the assault weapon dangling from one hand, He activates the video screen and an urban warfare depiction is illuminated, sort of, dark, somber desolation, flat light and fear, muted sights and sounds of laser weaponry in use, all of which Her doesn’t even deign to acknowledge involved as she is with her split ends. (yep, definitely playing with her hair)
He, gesturing towards the screen – “Watch and learn child.”
Her’s annoyance at being referred to as a child is evident, and strangely illustrative, in her body language as she flounces off one couch and on to another. She is able to watch the video screen and He at the same time.
The scene on the screen darkens into stygian hues of black, backlit by the sporadic laser fire in the distance. He is standing stock still except for his eyes that are rapidly scanning the now almost impenetrable blackness on the video screen, the weapon still dangling from his grip. Suddenly, in a smooth professional movement He brings the weapon to bear and in a series of rapid shots destroys a number of hitherto unseen enemies. He freezes the game.
He – “See?”
She – “No.”
He – “That’s because you are staring at the dark. The trick is to scan the dark; only way to spot the anomalies. Grab your keys, you drive.”
She, scrambling – “Where are we going?”
He – “We’ll figure it out on the way.”
FADE

Curmudgeonly Caviling

Subjects I think I could be writing about, that is up until I actually start writing about them.

1. Beckon call – Which is how it should be written. Beck and call? Seriously? What on earth is a beck? And how does it aid in the process of calling?

2. Liberal outrage on Nancy Pelosi’s reticence on calling for Trump’s impeachment. Could it be that she is concerned about who would take his place. That would be POTUS Pence; a concept that almost guarantees the demolition of that Church/State wall.

3. I’m thinking we, liberals that is, ought to quit dissing Trump. Rather we should treat him the way we might treat a tantrum throwing infant by placating him. Y’know, refer to how cute and clever he is while keeping all sharp objects out of his reach, sort of thing.

4. Senior citizen horniness and how discreet we have to be about it.

5. Unrequited love silver lining – protection from morning breath.

6. Folks who take pride in not speaking local languages. This one is rife with potential but I’ll be damned if I can put my ire into any semblance of coherence. I tend to splutter when confronted with  this

7. The education kids receive, have received, and probably will continue to receive; namely, being taught what rather than how to think.

8. Living life by habit and how very much that is antithetical to appreciating the fullness of the now.

9. Religion – &&*&*&(999!!!!!SOB%##& and so on

10. Cigarettes and my addiction. Why am I so entranced by putting round objects in my mouth and sucking on them? What is the real me trying to say and I wish it would shut up. Exploring the implications makes me a chicken hawk. Not a pretty picture.

Just Sayin'

“Donald J. Trump

✔

@realDonaldTrump

When a country is no longer able to say who can, and who cannot , come in & out, especially for reasons of safety &.security - big trouble!

6:29 PM - 4 Feb 2017 “

See, the thing, the salient thing, is that you, DonnieJ Teabag, Stevie boy, Mike the Christ, and the coterie of deluded megalomaniacs that make up your Versailles, do not constitute a country.

Well, actually, you could be, but, that would mean that you’d have to renounce your present citizenship and relocate (y’know, visa restrictions and such) to somewhere else. Starbuck Island, waaaay out there in the Western (I know how important west with all its white connotations is to you and your crew) Pacific. I looked it up for you, Uninhabited, small enough to have a cost effective wall around it.

The rest us, y’know, America, the folks who didn’t vote for you in the millions, the ones appalled by your behaviour and ethics, the ones whose protest marchers outnumbered your inauguration, - I’m thinking that should be renamed – Coronation? Yeah that works. Coronation by the oh so ironically yclept Republican House of Lords – the ones who, in fact, constitute the Country would be more than willing, I’m sure, to crowd fund that wall. See how well that works out for you?  You get your own real estate where you can play whatever games you want to without having US, (see what I did there, Donnie? Cool yeah?), make snide comments about soaked mattresses and the like. At least, you wouldn’t have to hear them if you cut all communication with all us, the rest of the world. You know like North Korea. You could have your private comm. network and, y’know, live, uh, stream, to each other.

And, just to ease any fears you might have about, y’know, servants and the like, I’m certain that you will find any number mercenaries willing to sell their souls in return for pelf and join you in your exclusivity. Yes, we’d let you keep your money, just like we did for Baby Doc Duvalier, the last man-child despot the People exiled.

Just sayin’.

Yo'Mo'In & rss vO - Young Modern India &Returned Son of the Soil, version Old and cotton mouth.

Young Modern India (Yo’Mo’In) paused in mid-saunter. No point in wasting a good saunter, a considered saunter, when the place was empty. Well, not empty, per, as it is said, se. There was a returned son of the soil, version Old, (rss vO) in earnest converse with an attentive bartender. Loathe to draw attention to himself, Yo’Mo’In scanned the bar for any other server capable of helping alleviate what was turning into an epic case of cotton mouth. Experience, that bitter, not to mention censorious, teacher, had taught Yo’Mo’In that the rss vO breed needed to be engaged, if at all, with caution, garrulous opining being only one of the dangers, most particularly when one is baked.

The place was empty in the sense that there was nobody from Yo’Mo’In’s demographic, which is to say, employed, disposable income and not living with Ma and Pa. Nobody, in a word, worthwhile.

One of the hazards of arriving too early to the party; lesson learned.

Yo’Mo’In, shrugged, and striding rather more purposefully, stationed himself a few barstools away from the duo. The bartender didn’t notice, his face turned away from Yo’Mo’In, his attention concentrated on what seemed to be a detailed, not to say persnickety, instruction on the architecture of the drink rss vO was ordering.

“Boss” said Yo’Mo’In, his tone a well considered mixture of authority, courtesy, and impatience; a tone well schooled in the methodology of reminding the serving classes of their place in the scheme of things.

Rss(vO) stopped in his instruction and gestured the bartender into complying.

“Whiskey, ‘fiddich, large, no ice, iced soda chaser “said Yo’Mo’In, his speech clipped and precise.

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t get you” the bartender said, the ‘my bad’ etched into the silhouette of his servitude.

Yo’Mo’In took a deep breath, the Thar desert like condition of his mouth making it difficult to talk.

“I believe the gentleman would like a large Glenfiddich with iced soda on the side.” Rss said.

A crisp head bob and the bartender transformed from obsequious to efficient; the efficiency somewhat compromised by his inability to find the Glenfiddich.

Yo’Mo’In sighed and switching to the vernacular and pointed.

“Alli” he said, “ah red label batli pakka dalli” – There, right next to the bottle with the red label.

Speech, authoritative speech, Yo’Mo’In realized, required a fair degree of moisture, very much in short supply in the mouth. His mouth needed moisture, as in, now. Perhaps he should have led with a request for a glass of water.

The bartender interrupted his hunt for the Glenfiddich and started looking for a red label which, it must be said, is easier to pronounce, and spell. Things were not going well. Any red labels extant seemed to be hidden in the multi-hued, seductively shaped bottles of high end spirits management had seen fit to store on the topmost shelf. The bartender wished he could ease the crick he was starting to get in his neck.

Yo’Mo’In wished he hadn’t thought about water, a glass of which was visible to his peripheral vision; just sitting there, unattended, unconsidered, a slap in the faces of all gods of all oases everywhere, beads of condensation making their sensuous ways done the glass, ice cubes that would no doubt tinkle when the glass was raised, as it should be, not just left there, while a veritable sirocco of sand storm...

The glass was moving closer to Yo’Mo’In and it took a moment for him to realise that rss vO was sliding it towards him.

“Water” rss vO was saying, “soaks that cotton up to much greater effect than does scotch or any other alcohol for that matter. Trust me on this”

 I knew it, Yo’Mo’In thought, trying not to spill any of water as he raised the glass, garrulous opinions.

Sex in India...cont. (Wherein further conclusions are reached)

Previously...

                Conclusion 1 – First time sex requires an appropriate amount of sidle and when it happens must appear almost accidental. The direct approach, irrespective of reciprocity of interest, will be met with affront and a fair degree of thoo in the body language.

                There are, I’m sure, a myriad reasons, just as I am sure that they all boil down to the notion that post menopausal women ought not to get horny unless, of course, they are those kinds of women, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.’

Conclusion 2 – The door to the room in which the successful sidle is being celebrated must be closed and if latches can be locked, make it so. Caveat – It is the responsibility of the sidle-r to make the locking, qua lock, as natural as possible while ensuring the sidle-e awareness of the fastness; an accident, if you will. Failure to pay attention to this detail can lead to, (you should pardon the expression), hard won rigidities and rhythms, interrupted, sometimes irretrievably, while she goes and double checks.

                I believe this to be an artefact of the tradition of a multigenerational, large family, single dwelling culture. The fact that I am a single man living in a secure apartment with no one in the place ‘cept you’n’me, baby, seems to be of no relevance.

Conclusion 3 – Nope, have to stop here. Much too depressing...and, actually, I'm not at all sure my conclusions are all that valid. After all, it could be that I've been looking for love in the wrong places.

Back to research.