this sordid tale begins at the bottom, as all good tales should...
So i gave myself the crappiest haircut imaginable, trying to beat out the Mullet for stupidity. Then I went out to find love in a cruel world. Check what happened over one rough week and drop me a line to tell me what you think.
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these entries are blog style, start at the bottom and work your way back up.
I am thankful for the video store experience. If it hadn't come along then I would certainly be in big trouble right now. I would be headed for the auto dealerships, tracking cheap thrills.
Shopping around for a hot car would have been a breeze with my Mo-hunk. I could have test driven anything, collateral free. With my ass length hair of 3 months ago I would have been unceremoniously shown the door to put it lightly. But a pathetic sap looking like myself would be welcomed with open arms at a Ferrari dealership. There I would be understood. I would be looked at for what my wallet can do. And for a lot of money, I would be told that I am, most definitely, the coolest guy on the planet. Untouchable. Irresistible. With my shiny Mo-hunk I could cruise the finest automobile without question. At a fast car dealership they would understand that I am hopeless without a fancy car. And they would help me.
But, fortunately, it didn't have to come to that. The Mo-hunkus Days are over my friend.
Yes, it is official. I just clipped off the final follicle of my fabulous Mo-hunk. I'm sorry to see it go actually, for it garnered me quite a lot of attention. And that is all I want, a little bit of attention. I took my time taking it down, cutting a few zany patterns in my head as I went. I was going to take some more pictures for y'all but, you know what? Yeah, I knew that you did.
You see there was no purpose in continuing the drama played out herein. We all want it to end, and the sooner the better at this point. The Mo-hunkus Days are over my friend, the mission complete, the scissors down. And besides, we all now know full well that:
Nothing can beat a Mo-hunk. Yeah baby!
Paydirt. REEL Video, Berkeley, CA: The parking lot is packed. The store is packed; I can see that from the car. I look at myself in the rear view; I've been here before. I really want to keep my hat on but I can't. It is because I want to that I can't. But the place is packed.
So I take one last glance at myself, a deep breath, and step out into the cool night air. As I enter the store, I immediately notice that the fluorescents are a bit brighter than usual. It is warm in here too. I can feel all eyes. My presence rolls through the store like lumbering ocean wave. Everyone is aware. Hell, it's Berkeley where everyone has an antenna attached to his noggin.
I make my way over to the DVD section and immediately confront two beautiful brown girls. They notice my Mo-hunk instantly (how could they not - see the shitty rotating gif) and almost bust out laughing. They have to turn their backs on me.
I press on. I peruse. I crouch to check out the bottom row and a crowd forms above me. I am getting a lot of attention. I can feel the eyeballs on me, burning into the backside of my head. I try to keep cool. Yeah, cool hand Luke, that's me. I find 2 movies that I haven't seen pretty quickly. I feel sweat starting to form on my bald spot so I make my way to checkout.
2 lines, 9 deep each. Ouch. This is going to be a camper. I choose the line with the punk / Goth attendant at the front. A cute short girl with orange hair, she would certainly understand. So I wait. And I wait. I scan both lines and am thankful that there is only one male present and he has hair down to his ass. The brown girls are in the other line. I make eye contact with them again and pop the question…
"What do you think?"
They bust out and turn their backs to me again. I know they are enticed. When another register opens up and people shift lines, they move right behind me. My blood bubbles, then boils. I finally make it to the front of the line, still feeling all eyes, it is driving me insane (can't you tell). The register girl takes one look at me and blurts-
"Did you do that on purpose to your head? It looks like you just had surgery."
Finally! Somebody tells me what she thinks. Somebody tells me I look ridiculous. All in that instant I have gratification. Phew. Somebody is alive on this planet! I am so taken aback by her question that I can't respond. I mumble something about an experiment at the lab gone awry and hurry her through our transaction.
I leave the store, not looking back because I'm afraid of what I'll see. There are beautiful women back there and I can't face them. Not now, maybe next time when I don't look so stupid. I feel satisfied… like it must feel after sex, but, then, how would I know?
I feel like I can finally put this bad idea to rest and feel good about having given it my all. I'm sure there is more trouble to be mined here… maybe with tomorrow's final post. But for the night I feel invigorated. I drive through the streets with my hat off and the top down, feeling the wind whip across my beautiful bald spot.
I spend the majority of this 5th Day of the Mo-hunk passed out on the floor of Max's pad. It is January One, 2001 - New Year's Day and I couldn't move if I wanted to. A little too much vino and a late evening turned morning are the cause.
When I am finally able to gather myself and head home to Berkeley around 8, I have no ability to think of my appearance at all. Finally I'm not self-conscious. Sucks that it takes a monster hangover to get there. I get home and barely have the strength to order pizza delivery. The Pizza Guy shows up and drops off my pie, the only pie of the week so far. Ha Ha. He didn't respond to my mo-hunk. I figure he was waiting for a tip so he had his poker face on.
That's about all I can say about a day on the floor and out of the public eye. We'll try again tomorrow.
I began to think that if I was really looking for raw, hard data, I'd have to start a use'n my formidable noggin'. I thought about where I could find lots of sexy women with comparatively few angry men. My first thought, of course of course, was the local 24 HR Vomitorium. I've secretly coveted a membership there for years but sit here still, getting fatter. The 24 HR Vomitorium certainly fulfilled the part for hottie women, but it was sure to be full of muscley men as well, some of them balding I am certain. And I would have to go to the shower with the men and not the women. That would not do.
Then I got to thinking about my local Whole Foods Market, purveyor of non-GM foods for a healthy, happy and naturally shiny lifestyle. I shop here regularly because the place is a hotbed of sexual energy, especially around the salad section. And on any given afternoon you can cruise the Organic Herbal Ointment aisle for hours, bumping into all manner of fine fleshy female. But wait, usually there are men there as well, sharking the aisles and looking for long-legged chum. Not as many muchachos as at the gym but hey… wait another second.
Timing is everything, right?
If I hit Whole Foods Market on a Sunday morning, right around 10 am, then I would be sure to maximize my womanly intake and minimize my psychotic balding man intake, right?
For one, all the fat, pre-mature balding dot-commies would still be at their desks on Sunday morning, hammering away on their latest copycat plan to revolutionize the p-2-WAP space or something like that. And they most definitely wouldn't be buying food at the Whole Foods Market if they needed to take something orally. They would be at the nearest 7-11 on a Sunday morning, putting cheese sauce on some meaty bi-product, guzzling Coca-cola and purchasing American Spirit Yellows: remedy for a hard night of swallowing e's and chugging Red Bull.
Hell, I don't know and I am supposed to be one of them.
And what about the furious balding gay community you ask? Aren't they a Minor Threat? Well on Sunday morning they would most certainly be nursing their ether hangovers and wouldn't be much of a threat, even if you did happen to run into any of them. They need a few double-decaf-caps before being able to do me much in the way of harm. In and Out by 11:30 am and I would be safe. But, again, how would I know?
And finally, I figured that God would kick in and soak up all the remaining angry, you owe me something, balding type of guys that would be potential threats to my well being, giving them a pew to sit on and another place to be quietly humiliated besides their home. These are the type that would certainly not hesitate to do me damage on their way to hell and back. Chugging along the course of their daily, pathetic, redundant lives. Ticking inside. . . tick. tick. tick.
So the market is it, sometime around 10 am it must be. I made my way from my peaceful home in the hills toward what I hoped would be ground zero in my search for enlightenment. The road was paved in a thick San Francisco fog. Which was strange, because I live in Berkeley, where the fog doesn't usually sit. It made me uneasy to the core.
It should have because boy was I wrong. The market was not filled with today's selection of fine cheesecake as I had hoped. It was actually bursting at the seams with angry, whimpy middle-aged men at 10 am on this Sunday morning. Once I'd worked through the shock of a bad plan gone more horribly wrong, I collected myself and pushed through the pain. I cruised the aisles as quickly as I dared, trying not to draw any excess attention for I was already making quite a stir. These dudes were not happy with me. I imagined that these sots must have finally given up on their Norman Rockwell families today; having put up with them as long as they possibly could, they had finally escaped their home for a secret, soothing cigarette on a trip to the store for "milk."
What they are really looking for, like myself, is the young, blood boiling type of "milk" from the market. You can find it in the parking lot and in the checkout line. Whether married or unmarried, it struts the aisles of the supermarket, checking the quality of the honeydews to my udder delight, making my blood boil. Jeeze, you know I just want to see some fleshy milk maid buying heavy cream from a low cooler. Is that perverted? Is it too much to ask?
I guess it is.
Because I didn't find the throngs of pretty women I was looking for, and either did the other "sharks" swimming the aisles this morning. What they found today was me. What I found today was them. How phucking pathetic. How phucking appropriate. I am such a loser.
Success in this, my latest endeavor, is ever more doubtful my friends.
It's been 3 days and I'm beginning to get hella worried. I'm thinking that some semi-disturbed balding guy may punch me in the face soon. Hell, look at me, that lame rotating gif over there. I look like an idiot. Jesus, I wouldn't blame somebody for taking one look at me and thinking to his self,
"You know what brain? I think that feller over there is fixin' to be making a fun of me. Whats you think I should do about it? Why, punch the bastard right in the face you should." Or something VERY close to that sentiment.
Damn. The thing is that I also know for damn sure that what you ask for, and thus project, is what you get in life, usually pretty quickly if I'm not mistaken. So, basically, I am expecting to get punched in the face soon. This prospect is not very exciting to me. At all.
I'm phucked as I see it. For you see, I know that the only way to combat this inevitability is to NOT think about it, hence, not projecting it. This is an impossibility. I mean, look at me. I look like an idiot and I know it. What the hell am I doing to myself here?
Ok, focus. I need to project something positive. Shit, you see, living in denial (yup yup yo, yup yup yo, everything's great) will leave me hella vulnerable to some sick S.O.B. copping a cheap shot and smacking me right in the head. I can't win. And now I am making myself paranoid, and we all know that being paranoid is no way to be. I'm rambling.
I've got to do something about this.
Ever feel like you are going in circles? No. I don't. Never. Uh uh. No Way. Not me. Uh uh. Not me.
Aub Zam Zam (bar on upper Haight Street, SF, CA): I stepped out into the night around 1 am to check out the scene on Haight Street, home to freaks, weirdoes, whacks, quacks and crazies. My people :-)
I figured that I could get away with anything out here on Haight Street. Hell, I used to step out to the corner market in my pajamas just 'round the corner and nobody would look sideways at me. Tonight the streets are relatively quiet though. Gentrification has brought an uneasy peace to the streets where true peace was once born. Everyone seems to be at home, having a lavender soak and resting up for New Year's Eve, just a few nights away now.
Well anywho, Aub Zam Zam is a swanky little martini bar that recently found itself under new management. It is just over yonder from my friend Max's place so it's a logical place for me to ply my trade. Max, Lizzie and I cruise in and take seats at the half-moon bar, ordering something entertainingly toxic. The barmaid returns with our order, she doesn't look at me twice. Things don't look so good.
We swill a few; somebody comments about the telemark logo on my shirt, a rotund smirky woman looks at me and smirks. That is about it until we get tossed out on our ears at 2am. Then the street comes abuzzz with the power of the Mo-hunk.
That is what it has been rebranded as now :: the Mo-hunk ::
You see I live in the Bay Area, ground-zero for the New Economy where any piece of cheap crap or bad idea can be instantly rebranded, called something that it is not and rehawked on a stupefied, unquestioning, joe-Q public. We do it here every day.
The Mo-hunk. Much better than the monk-hawk wouldn't you say? But still, a drunks' girlfriend says it sucks. The drunk says it rules. I say I'm drunk and we all head back to Max's to eat potato salad and crash out. I seem to be getting a better response from the fellers than the ladies. Not good, not good at all...
Trials are still going poorly but we all agree that the new name is Mo' better - the Mo-hunk sexual aggregator / stud booster. Get it
Friends: This shit always seems to happen when I get desperate for material. I come up with some insane idea and then can't get it out of my head until I do something drastic about it. This almost always involves challenging my perceptions and preconceived notions about reality / society and what we are taught in life. It is when I think of something that I do not want to do / I am afraid to do / I think is stupid or something phucked up like that that I must act out. I have to confront my fears.
Because living in fear is no way to live.
Today I decided to make myself look ridiculous. And then I decided to see if I could change people's perceptions of how I looked by being positive in my attitude and looking for some good sex, which is positive. I suppose I decided to challenge my perception, hell, society's perception of what is beautiful. Could I give myself an obviously manufactured case of Male Pattern Balding Syndrome and still find love in this cruel world? Let's see.
I break out the razor and chop away, leaving my head with a cool new bald spot that gleams in the light like a neon sign on a taco stand. Oh my God, what AM I doing? I steal out into the night and head into the city to rendezvous with some friends from my rancorous college days. They would understand if anybody would, wouldn't they? I don't know but I do know that I have to get away from myself for a bit, and the city always welcomes…
The city welcomed as always but they didn't. They questioned my lucidity. They weren't shocked to stupidity like I apparently am; they have survived many of my ridiculous stunts in the past but this one made them uneasy. They had difficulty looking me in the eye. It was my third eye and I am sure that it was crazed. But that is why I came to them first and, regardless of their reaction, I must press on with this crusade.
This latest rabbit, pulled from my costume Fez, they said they couldn't understand, but somehow deep down I knew they could. It was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma with little more than a question to lead us on. They would uncode the decoder. What can I say? Sometimes I don't understand myself and this just might be one of them.
Sometimes you have to put life on autopilot and have faith in an unknown result. Don't think so much and just do. Stop asking why, start asking
Asking why not. For what it is worth, that is where I am at these days.
So I began by calling it the "Monk-hawk," a sexy hybrid of the mohawk and a monk's enlightened bald spot. I decided to patent the process. It would be the next big thing. The next Mullet. And I was there first (you see how crazed I am). I knew I needed to do market research if I wanted to be able to bill it as a stud-booster, sexual aggregator… which is how I ended up out in the wild, looking beautiful women straight in the eye and asking them, "What do you think? Would you go to bed with a sap like me?"
All I can say is the trials went poorly.