A Close Shave

I like having a nice clean-shaven look. I tried having a goatee for a year in college, and while I thought I rocked the goat at the time, in retrospect I looked pretty stupid. It never grew in very thick, so in most pictures from that time, I appear to have a ring of brown dirt around my mouth and chin. I don't think my face lends itself well to a beard either. Much as I'd love to sport the Commander Riker or the Rasputin look, I think smooth is the way to go.

However, shaving regularly means that I have to endure the daily trials and tribulations of the process, and that's starting to piss me off.

I keep getting this damned rash of red bumps on the center of my neck, and no matter what I try, they won't go away. I use the traditional troika of shaving cream, razor, and aftershave gel. I scoured the internet looking for tips and tricks for a better shave, and half of the information contradicts the other half. Some "experts" argue that applying foam liberally over the face before a shave is key. The others say that a light oil is all that is necessary and that the foam actually hinders the shave. Half of internet shavers say that you should stretch the skin with your fingers as you run the razor over your face to get the best shave. The other half claims that you should never stretch the skin because it causes irritation. Some say I should be shaving every day to get my skin used to the shaving process. Still others argue that shaving every day irritates the skin. And all of this doesn't even scratch the surface of the debate between electric versus traditional razors. And in movies, everyone always uses those insane straight razors despite the fact that one false move with one of those death sticks could slice an artery.

How the hell have men been shaving their faces for centuries and not been able to come up with a consensus on how to do it!? Why is it so hard to find reliable information?

There are some tips that everyone agrees on. Alcohol-based aftershaves are apparently terrible for the skin (and yet they're sold everywhere and used as the basis for that shaving scene in Home Alone). After a hot shower is the best time to shave. Replacing your razor blades at least once a week reduces skin irritation. And cleansing the skin before shaving is critical. I've incorporated the first three tips into my shaving regimen, but I haven't yet purchased an actual skin cleanser to use before I shave, so that may be the next step in my quest for an effective shave.

I tried some new ideas, and they failed spectacularly. I bought this special shaving cream that you spread very thinly over your face. The claim was that the cream would cause the hairs to stand up straighter allowing the razor to cut them more effectively. I guess it's like a hair-Viagra. That lasted all of one day. I looked like a lawnmower had just eaten my face for breakfast after shaving with that stuff. I also tried a special aftershave moisturizer, but it left my neck feeling gooey the whole day, and it didn't really do anything for the rash. It'd be nice if products would come with disclaimers like "This substance sucks balls! Do not buy!"

I know it's probably unmanly to bitch about shaving techniques and irritated skin, but god dammit, I have to do it every day! The whole idea behind shaving is to make me look better, so if it's not working right, I want to fix it. If any of you faithful readers out there have had the same problem and found a successful solution, I would love to hear it. My neck will thank you.

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"Two heads are better than one."
"Who said that?"
"I think it was a man who sold hats."

Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar

I'm so hot that I'm smokin'!

I really abhor smoking. There's nothing worse to me than a poorly ventilated bar with a large group of assholes filling the place with billows of smoke. I always leave the place smelling like an ashtray. I've gone into many a bar freezing my ass off simply because I don't want to have to wash my coat every time I want a drink. Naturally, the recent Pennsylvania law that curtails smoking in most bars and restaurants helped quite a bit, but establishments that make more than 80% of their profits from alcohol sales are exempt from the state-wide smoking ban. This is a ridiculous law that hurts everyone. Now the bars that permit smoking attract all the most obsessive chain smokers, and the air in these places has become almost oppressive. If they'd simply make the ban universal, like they did in many other states, the smokers will eventually come back. Nobody wants to sit at home drinking alone... and if they do, they're probably not the most fun people to have in a bar.

Needless to say, I loathe cigarettes. There's no greater turn-off to me than if a woman smokes. It's a repulsive habit, and many many people agree with me. Nevertheless, there seems to be a bit more permissiveness and acceptance for cigars. There are people who would never touch a cigarette who jump at the chance to wrap their lips around a big brown stogie.

None of my friends in Kittanning smoke, but at Joe's wedding, we celebrated the new marriage by drinking beer and smoking cigars while our wedding party pictures were taken... at the cemetary. Apparently, someone really wanted to make sure that the whole "til death do us part" thing was thoroughly emphasized. I think the cigar has a certain history attached to it that gives it more nobility and class than it probably deserves. A few of my friends claim that they have a rich and delicious flavor, but I really don't get it. I've smoked precisely three cigars in my lifetime (all in the past year incidentally), and I really don't like them that much. They taste like shit, but I do like the way I look with one. I feel like Groucho Marx... if he were six and a half feet tall and got rid of his fake mustache and eyebrows.

Let me slip out of these wet things and into a dry martini.

Remarkably, these pictures of me with the cigar are some of the best pictures of me that I've ever seen. I guess there's something about holding a large brown phallus in my hand that just brings a genuine smile to my face. Though my reaction wasn't nearly as extraordinary my friend Kevin's declaration upon lighting up his first cigar at Joe's bachelor party, "This may be the greatest thing I've ever had!!! Where have these BEEN all my life?" He declared this with renewed vigor about once every fifteen minutes. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but for some people, it may be something else entirely:

They may have misspelled Freud, but you get the idea.

So once again, it's proven that I can't participate in any traditionally masculine activity without inserting subtle homoerotic overtones into the scenario.

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9 out of 10 manly men only suck on the largest, plumpest, and firmest stogies that money can buy.

Something's Been Bugging Me

From a very early age, I have had an unwavering hatred and fear of large insects. And even though arachnophiles may find fault with the technical definition, I'm lumping spiders into that group too. For accuracy's sake, let's just say I have a crippling fear of arthropods.

Large insects aren't my only phobia, but they creep me out the most. I haven't had enough experience with snakes to rule them out, so I'm not going to make a final judgment just yet. Mice make me jump around in a girlish manner, but it's not nearly the same sort of discomfort. But a creepy crawly with an exoskeleton and a penchant for traveling in a swarm is enough to make me want to live in a plastic bubble.

There are some insects that don't bother me much even if I'd prefer they don't exist. Little ones like flies, ladybugs, and some other friendlies are acceptable. Dragonflies give me pause because of their bizarre ability hover in the air like a hummingbird, but they're otherwise okay. I'm even understanding toward bees. Bees want nothing to do with people. If a bee wants to fuck up your day, it's only because YOU are the one who stumbled into his hive. Wasps are kind of the same way even though they hurt a lot more. Stinging insects tend to keep to themselves, and their behavior makes sense. If they get into your house, it's usually by accident, and they eagerly hover near a window wanting to get out.

Bigger bugs like spiders and cockroaches, on the other hand, are the deadbeat uncles of the arthropod family. They wander into your house, pick a damp corner, never leave, and mooch off of your food. (This is probably how Batmite's relatives currently view him.) Daddy-long-legs spiders are acceptable because they're about as harmless as a sprig of hair. But those big black hairy motherfuckers who love to scurry around the floor in the middle of the night when you're tired and on your way to take a leak need to be exterminated from the face of the planet. It's not that I'm afraid of getting bitten; they just freak me out! Cockroaches are the same way. They come out right when you don't want to deal with them. I never see a cockroach or a big spider when I'm wearing work gloves, a big pair of boots, and hanging out with someone else. I'm always alone, barefoot, and in my underwear.

No nightmare will keep me from a good night's sleep quite like a dream about dozens of spiders in my room. I once had a disturbingly realistic nightmare about dozens of spiders crawling all over me in my bed. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. Actually having a big bug in my room results in me brandishing a flyswatter or large broom like a katana blade while yelling at the bug as I try to work up the nerve to go kill it. You should see my victory dance after I've actually squashed one of the bastards. You would think I'd just taken down a cougar with a pen knife.

And this is how I deal with the relatively tame insects that are around Western Pennsylvania. I've heard tales from other parts of the country, and I swear to your fictional God, I'm never moving to the South!! I'd never be able to fall asleep.

On three separate occasions, people informed me of giant flying hissing cockroaches that have a love for landing in people's hair. They're common in Texas, Louisiana, and some other Southern states. The existence of this creature is proof enough of natural selection. No loving god would create such a organism. I mean, c'mon!! It's hisses AND flies... into your hair!!

Another guy I know rented a house in Arizona that had been unoccupied for a few months. Apparently, in Arizona one must fumigate frequently, and this house wasn't fumigated while it was vacant. The guy watched from outside as the exterminators fumigated the house, and SHEETS of cockroaches poured out of the house. It was RAINING cockroaches!!!

NO. Just.... no!

How about this little number from Japan:
I know I said that bees don't bother me, but I'd make an exception for our friend the Japanese Giant Hornet (aptly named). I also wouldn't mind if I never run into a swarm of killer bees in my lifetime. If I have to explain why I want to avoid KILLER BEES, then you clearly aren't understanding why the words "lethal" and "swarm" should sound so menacing when used together.

And while I'm covering the grotesquely giant critters:
Behold the Goliath Spider (again, appropriately named). It can eat a bird. Need I say more?

Seriously, I think I'd have a psychotic break if I ever encountered that thing in real life.

But these are not likely to be a part of my life anytime soon. I can barely handle the concept of having to deal with creepy crawlies getting into my house and confronting them by myself. What if I get a cockroach infestation when I'm living on my own? Am I just going to have a heart attack and die while the roaches feast on my carcass? Insects outnumber mankind by a wide margin. If they ever rise up to conquer us, I'm just swallowing a cyanide capsule and taking the coward's way out.

Say what you will about the bitter cold winters. At least they keep the bugs from growing to outrageous dimensions. You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they have to go through the exotic bug cave? I'd never make it through. I'd rather have my still-beating heart ripped out by the religious zealot.

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Cracked.com: Providing pictures of giant insects that haunt my dreams since 2007.

The Manly Everyman

A few days ago, this issue of Popular Mechanics appeared on our dining room table. The big subtitle for this issue: "100 Skills Every Man Should Know." I don't know why I opened it. I knew what would be there: a list consisting of 50 things I don't know how to do, 25 things I'm afraid to do, and probably 20 things I would rather hire someone to do. I figured I could do five of the things on the list. After all, I do have a penis.

I could do more of the things on their list than I thought I could. It turns out that real men should be able to tape drywall, set up a ladder, build a fire in the woods, iron a shirt, operate some basic power tools, change a diaper, drive a stick shift, tie a necktie, hitch up a trailer, parallel park, change a tire, fix a toilet-tank flapper, shovel (I don't see how anyone could screw this up), mix concrete, prune bushes and small trees, ride a bike (again, this is a challenge?), jump start a car, and fold the American flag. These are all things that I can do reasonably well.

But just about everything else on this list is meant to make me feel like an effeminate sissy, but I think the list has some pretty harsh demands. You'd have to be Paul Fucking Bunyan to be able to do everything on this list. Most of it is the typical heteronormative outdoorsy crap that I was expecting: split firewood, fell a tree, throw a spiral pass with a football, shoot a gun straight, cast a fishing line, replacing several different car parts, etc. But some of it is just goofy. Number 48 is "Conquer an off-road obstacle." Is this really a big issue for every man in the country? My Ford Escort can barely make it over a speed bump let alone the craggy peak that they show this Expedition crossing. Number 59 is "Home-brew beer." That's right penis-packers! Every man should know how to brew his own goddamn beer. It's not like it takes over a month and requires hard-to-find ingredients. In number 64, they expect you to "run rapids in a canoe." Fuck that. Just... fuck that. Number 73 is "skipper a boat." First of all, how often does one use the word "skipper" as a verb. Second, doesn't skippering a boat first require HAVING a boat. Guess real men are rolling in the greenbacks.

My personal favorite is number 66: "Escape a sinking car." It's not that this is not an important thing to know, but this seems to be a difficult thing to test. The idea of waiting for the water to fill the interior of the car until the pressure is equalized enough for you to open the door is not a particularly difficult concept. However, not panicking, not pissing your pants, and not having your lungs fill with water as you're screaming like a little girl aren't really covered in the magazine. When you're cozy on dry land, it's easy to say you'd keep your cool, but when your ass is sinking into a river, we'll see how collected you stay.

I'm not surprised that I don't measure up to any standard of masculinity. I don't have a hard-on for sports. I don't like to hunt. I refuse to touch a fish unless it's batter-dipped and deep fried. I don't know shit about cars beyond jumping the battery and checking the fluids and tire pressure. Even the nerdy realms of masculinity are foreign to me. I don't really play violent video games. I don't know jack about computers. And even though Wikipedia, cartoons, and Batmite have taught me more about the Marvel and DC universes than anyone should know, I don't read comic books. Granted, Star Trek fans are mostly male, but that's not really something to brag about. I didn't see "Know the Difference Between Romulans and Cardassians" on the skills list.

The sports apathy is always the big one. I came across this quote from David Sedaris recently:
"I had no interest in football or basketball but had learned it was best to pretend otherwise. If a boy didn't care for barbecued chicken or potato chips, people would accept it as a matter of personal taste, saying, 'Oh well, I guess it takes all kinds.' You could turn up your nose at the president or Coke or even God, but there were names for boys who didn't like sports. When the subject came up, I found it best to ask which team my questioner preferred. Then I'd say, 'Really? Me too!'"

Of course, David Sedaris is proudly and flamingly gay, so he doesn't really help my cause.

I had a long conversation with one of my professors last year about "Queer Theory" because I thought it sounded rather offensive. It seemed like it involved searching for gay stereotypes in the strangest of places. After quite a bit of our usual difficult banter (the professor and I both thought the other was an asshole), I finally got the idea that a "queering of the moment" was simply a point where a character did something that wasn't "heteronormative." Meaning, when someone does something that doesn't fit into the socially-accepted gender roles, it's a queering of the moment. I didn't like this at all. It means that most of the moments in my life have been queered, and that's not the kind of information that's going to help me score points with women.

This list of 100 manly skills effectively epitomises what is generally accepted to be the "manly" man, and the magazine's position is that EVERY man should know how to do these things. The implication, of course, is that if you can't do these things, you're not a real man. I never understood this posturing macho shit. If you genuinely like to hunt, fish, watch sports, or whatever, that's great! But if you need a goddamn list to tell you if you're being manly enough, well then you've got some insecurity issues.

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The Man Test: Not graded on a curve.

The Great Indoors

I don't think I'll ever fully understand the allure of roughing it. I enjoy viewing and appreciating nature, but when it comes to interacting with nature, I'll take a pass.

Yesterday, I went camping... like real camping... in a tent out in Crooked Creek park. I haven't been camping in over seven years. Sure, I've gone to my friend's cabin in Cook's Forest a few times, but that's really more like living just below the poverty line than actually existing in the outdoors. You're essentially living in a small house without air conditioning. I can deal with that for a few days, but actually camping out in a tent is a whole different beast.

Believe it or not (and you should since I've mentioned it before), I'm an Eagle Scout. That means that I've spent countless hours camping in a tent while I was growing up. To be honest, I'm not sure how I made it through the Boy Scouts. I've always been a man of the modern age. I have no interest in cooking over a campfire, sleeping on the dirt, or swatting mosquitoes off of my arms and legs all night. This is why people invented things. Someone was living that existence and said, "This is shit! I'm inventing a stove and a goddamn mattress!"

The weather was not particularly pleasant last night, so when it started to rain, my camping compatriots and I scrambled into the already sweltering tent. The rain added our friend humidity to the mix. And then I had bug spray all over my arms and legs because I had no desire to get the fucking West Nile Virus from the rampaging hoards of mosquitoes that infest the outdoors at dusk. My arms were sticky, the tent was like a sauna, and there I was flat on the ground because my puny human brain didn't think to bring sufficient padding for me to sleep on.

Lest you think I didn't enjoy myself, the trip on the whole was actually pretty fun. It was just the sleepless night spent in the torture chamber of my own devising that was unpleasant. During the day, we went down to the "beach" along Crooked Creek Lake. After applying SPF 50 sunscreen to my pasty body, I enjoyed the white trash equivalent of a day at the beach. I say this because the beach had an honor policy for guests to pay a fee of one dollar for using the beach. My honorable friends and I ignored said policy. There were no lifeguards or park personnel to enforce the rule, and as any good cynic knows, it's only a rule if you get caught. I think one of my friends did pay though. Way to make the rest of us look bad, asshole!

After a healthy lunch of kielbasa and sweet sausage, Joe's parents picked us up on their boat, and we went fishing on the Allegheny River. This brings me to the other outdoor activity for which I have no love: fishing.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. 95% of the time spent fishing is very enjoyable, because if you're with a good group, you spend hours getting drunk and shooting the shit and maybe five minutes actually dealing with the fish. It's fish time that I hate. Fish are fucking disgusting. I don't want anything to do with a fish unless it's battered, deep fried, served with tartar sauce, and possibly injected with some form of cheddar-jack cheese. Fish in their natural form look like something out of a bad episode of Star Trek.
The sad part is that I caught three small catfish while out on the boat yesterday, and like the true epitome of manliness that I am, I had someone else dispose of my fishy friends. I felt like a huge pansy until Joe yelled to Fryar, "Watch out! Its tail fin can sting you!" So not only are fish slimy and riddled with mercury, but they also sting! Fryar almost got bitch slapped by the tail of one fish. I've heard some of them even bite. I'll leave the capturing of animals for food to the experts, thank you very much. Bring Admiral Ackbar to me when he's garnished with lemon and parsley.

And for those keeping score, I don't like to hunt either.

By now you're probably thinking, "Wow! They must just give those Eagle Scout awards away for nothing!" That's only partially true (at least in the Mormon-run scout troop that I was in). I have the skills to deal with the outdoors. I can start a fire, set up a tent, and identify the leaves of poisonous stuff (though I wouldn't bet your life on my memory). I just don't like to do it. I still can't figure out why I stayed with the Boy Scouts for so long. I guess I was a glutton for punishment from way back. It was like a trial run for grad school.

I like the outdoors... just let me handle it with all sorts of creature comforts at my disposal. Let other people appreciate the great outdoors. I'll appreciate my nice soft mattress and air conditioning - and the blog that lets me bitch about all of it.

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The Boy Scouts of America: Implementing a new policy of rescinding Eagle Awards for the undeserving since 2008.