Display by Label: Weird

It was a barnstorm of a weekend in San Francisco, where we flew for the wedding of a close friend ... C's first wedding as a "groomsperson," and she was dang cute in her suit and tie. Friday was a 26-hour day that began in the dark hours of morning at Newark Airport and ended at a North Beach strip club. The devil built Columbus and Broadway out of discarded bottles of original sin, brother. And he called it good. Believe.

And I woke up Saturday morning at a time that was afternoon back home, and read some news about a little hurricane named Ike that had bore down relentlessly on a town called Galveston. And thought about how, at the same time, 2,000 miles northwest, the g-stringed pelvis of a little stripper named Mia had bore down relentlessly upon the struggling remnants of a soon-to-be-married bachelor's soon-to-be-arrested libido. Flooding streets. Flooding veins.

And the soundtrack was Telephone Call from Istanbul, man.

Sunday ceremony out at Stern Grove by the Golden Gate. A wedding officiated by a pirate. Drove home via the 280, recovering from an 11:30 am Bushmills buzz, with the fog sticking to the trees like cotton on broccoli spears, carrying my love for this city on its back.


A red-eyed flight back to the Garden State to pick up a hoarse Honey at the PetSmart. Thinking about our next transcontinental wedding trip in May (these things can be habit forming). This one in LA, where my college roommate will be hitched. And this time I'll be the groomsman, and the lap dances will be ordered somewhere on the Las Vegas strip, and sleep will be put on hold for a more convenient time.



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There's a new physical "feature" on my body. And I've been noticing it lately whenever I happen to be completely naked and looking down at myself or in a full-length mirror. And that tends to occur at least once a day. Some days it's more frequent, though. Like this weekend, for instance. For reasons I don't fully understand, there happened to be a slightly higher occurrence of nakedness than other days. And that's weird because we were in DC all weekend with a pretty packed schedule of meeting with friends and family, watching anime at the KC, and replacing sink faucets at our condo. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I found myself needing to change clothes a lot.

Anyway, I've been noticing this thing, but haven't been able to put my finger on what it was. All I knew was that something was different. Then, this past Sunday, when I was taking a shower in our hotel room at the Washington Plaza Hotel on Thomas Circle, it finally hit me. I was developing a bald spot, smack dab in the middle of my ... left thigh. (You thought I was heading someplace else with that?) Still ... left thigh? What's up with that shit? For real. What could it mean? I thought all my bodily changes were supposed to have occurred years ago.

The spot is about the size of a tennis ball. And the placement—so neat and precise. It's like coming across a corporeal Stonehenge or something. It sort of leaves you marveling. How did it get there? And when?

To truly appreciate this, you have to understand that there is a lot of hair on my legs. I'm fifty-percent Italian, okay? It comes naturally. Don't let my fair complexion fool you. It may be lightly-colored hair, but it's hair nonetheless, and there's a lot of it. I mean, back when I was a swimmer and would do a full-body shave before big meets, I'd have to take a freakin' beard trimmer to my arm and leg hair just to get it to a point where it could be shaved with a razor. And after that, it took two men, a push-broom, and some hefty bags to clean up.

It's weird, though. Because despite the veritable rug covering my lower extremities, I've always had a disappointing amount of hair on my chest. Well, it's disappointing for me. C doesn't really dig the chest-hair thing, so I guess it worked out well in that regard. What's funny, though, is she actually tells people I do have a "hairy chest" just because I have some random hairs sprouting here and there, mainly around my nipples. (I know, I know, ladies, stop swooning.) Obviously C never watched an episode of Magnum P.I. Because that there is what real chest hair looks like. Actually, if I'm going to tell you the full truth here (and why shouldn't I?) C has actually threatened to divorce me if the hair ever spreads to my back in any unruly manner. Cruel, isn't she? She says she never signed up for hair of that magnitude. And technically, she's right. There was some garbage about "sickness and health," but I don't remember anything about hair. So it's either divorce or the hot wax. Lucky for her, I'm a masochist.

It's crossing my mind that, quite possibly, I'm telling you a little more than you want to hear.

Anyway, I didn't really acquire the chest-hair gene, but I definitely got the rest of 'em, including the one that gives me the ability to grow a fairly respectable beard when I'm so-inclined. Though I have to say, my mountain-man beard is nothing like j's. I'm extremely jealous of his rock-star beard and he knows it. I think if I could grow a beard like j's I would join a Harley gang and roam the earth spreading enlightenment to the less-fortunate, hairless masses. People listen to you when you have facial hair. Jesus knew it. Believe.

Anyway, back to the bald spot. I've seen stuff like this happen to guys who wear long socks. They wind up with leg hair that starts at their mid-shin. Which is kind of humorous, really. But what was up with the thigh? After some head-scratching, I finally figured it out. I wear my wallet in my front-left pocket. Combine that with the fact that I tend to wear jeans with deep, low pockets—you know, cuz my wallet's fat, ya'll—and you can start to put two and two together. So, to test out my theory, I slid my jeans on and compared the positioning of my wallet to the positioning of the bald spot and, yep, that was it. Mystery solved! And so it got me thinking—maybe I should put this new-found hair removal device to work someplace where a little bald spot would be more welcome. Time to start wearing my wallet in my rear pockets again. Oh, wait, that won't work.

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I'm fascinated by coincidences like this one.

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A lot of people I talk to were scared by things they saw on Sesame Street. I wonder why we all watched it anyway? The video included in the post above is another thing that scares me (for real). Thanks Jeff.

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