A Bald-Faced Truth

Would it surprise you to know that I am considering hair restoration? Yes, I have become quite follicly-challenged these days.

I think we can all agree that, in general, women are the vainer sex. But when it comes to hair, on the head, at least, men are very sensitive. It's difficult for a man to loose his hair. He feels less attractive, less confident, less of a man. Those infomercials from Hair Club for Men don't help. In the "Before" scene, they show a photo of a dour-looking bald man that resembles a mug shot because this man is obviously guilty of extreme ugliness. Then, in the "After" scene, they show the same man with a full head of hair being "attacked" by a gorgeous woman. That sends a powerful message.

My dad is bald. Geneticists are quick to remind us that one does not inherit balding from one's father but rather from ones' maternal grandfather. My maternal grandfather died somewhat prematurely when I was nine years old so I don't really remember his status in this regard. My grandmother assured me that he had a full head of hair, so I thought I was safe. As a result of this, and lacking proper respect for my elders, I would tease my Dad about his baldness. I even wrote a poem about it. I was quite the "versiologist" back then. Here's what I wrote:

This Dad of mine,
his head doth shine,
because he has no hair.
And I don't mind,
as long as mine,
stays completely there.

Of course, my Dad is having the last laugh. I remember the day I first noticed I was loosing my hair. My judicious wife had observed this already and did her best to shield me from the truth, but one photo got through. It was the end of my innocence. (Much to my chagrin, I also took note at this time that my body seemed to be making up for the lack of hair on top by growing it abundantly in other places such as my ears, eyebrows, and nostrils - places I certainly did not want any extra).

Naturally, my hunt for a cure began. I did the Rogaine thing for a while. Lot's of smelly ointment for relatively little increased hairiness. The Internet was a rich source of information. It's amazing what lengths men will go to for great locks. I got a kick out of the following home remedies and historical cures for baldness:

Boil 1 cup mustard oil with 4 tablespoons of henna leaves.
Filter and bottle. Massage bald patches regularly.

Scrub the bald area with an onion until it becomes red. Follow up by applying honey over patch.

Rub on the scalp with 1 teaspoon oil in which raw mangoes have been preserved for over one year. Repeat frequently.

From ancient times:

Aristotle used a topical application of goat's urine to try and cure his own baldness. ( I guess great intelligence only takes you so far).

Hippocrates preferred treating his balding patients with pigeon droppings and the ancient Egyptians used rancid Hippo fat.

Yikes! I thought the idea was to attract gorgeous women, not repel them!

Finally, I read the best article ever! The research showed that the reason men loose their hair is an overabundance of testosterone. I realized, with a shiver of joy, that maybe loosing my hair wasn't such a bad thing after all. Maybe it was confirming what my wife has known for a long time - I'm loosing my hair because I am a total stud!

I guess I don't need hair restoration after all.

What I learned in Traffic School

I was tempted to leave this blank.

I won't say I didn't learn anything in Traffic School . . . but nearly. I was expecting more. As many of you less-than-saintly people know, Traffic School is the way to get a traffic ticket removed from your insurance record - a very worthwhile goal. Since I had to be there anyway, I thought, "Here's a chance to really be reminded of all those important rules of the road and to be inspired to be a more noble driver." It was more like detention. I will grudgingly admit that I did learn a few little tiny lessons and I will share those with you in a moment. First, let's go to the beginning of the whole sordid story.

You have to understand that I have never had a moving violation in my nearly 30 years of driving. Earlier this year, I arrived at the Orange County airport along with my wife to pick up my parents for a weekend visit. I had just hopped out of my car to help my parents load their bags when I found myself surrounded by two very serious police officers, hands on their guns. I had no idea what was going on. One officer fended off my wife who was attempting to come to me. My crime? Driving at about 2 mph through a red light at a pedestrian crosswalk. You have to hand it to those vigilant O.C. crime fighters. They know how to keep dangerous criminals in check! After the usual rigmarole I found myself the proud possessor of a $200 ticket. Of course, if one is trying to impress the parents, this is not the way to do it.

I arrived at Traffic School shortly after 7 AM on a Saturday morning (ugh!) to find hundreds of other delinquents like myself lining up to go through an airport-style security check at the local court house. This took a long time. We were then split into groups of about 100 law-breakers each and crammed into the tightly packed galleries of the court rooms. We then literally spent the first hour of the class just filling out some inane form. This is because in any large group there are quite a few people who ... what shall we say? ... lack brain power and they must be walked through every jot and tittle on the page. Excruciating! After that, the teacher, who was really trying hard to be nice, regaled us with numerous personal stories, including his time with the Peace Corps in Kenya. I'm a better driver for it, I'm sure. There was also a very important short film staring Goofy. At this point I did learn an important lesson: one should not put one's giant cartoon foot out into a busy road because speeding cars will leave tire marks on your foot.

OK, seriously, "What did I learn at Traffic School?" I did learn 3 things.

First, your seat belt may save your life but it is also quite dangerous. In high speed accidents, people have been decapitated by their seat belts. The lap belt should be worn as low down as possible around the hips (not the waist) and it would be good to have a fuzzy pad on the shoulder belt up around the neck area. It should lay flat and snug against the body.

Second, I learned why people drive too fast on the freeway. Can you guess? According to NTSA, 20% drive fast because it's fun. 20% drive too fast because they are in a hurry. However, a majority, 60%, drive too fast because they are simply "going with the flow." So, next time you're pulled over just explain that you were forced to speed because of peer pressure! I am sure the officer will understand.

Thirdly, I learned the all-important rules for a school bus. As you may have noticed, those yellow monstrosities have these flashing lights and automated stop signs that swing out when the bus is dropping off it's precious cargo. Obviously, if you are right behind or next to a bus you must stop until the sign folds back in. However, did you know that you are also required to stop if you are going in the opposite direction on the other side of the road? It's true, except ... I hope you are paying attention ... if there are more than two lanes in each direction or a median strip in-between. You can now proceed with renewed confidence that you are not endangering the lives of future generations.

So, there it is: the sum total of what I learned in 7-8 hours of Traffic School. I'm sure the government considers this a good use of my time. In the fight against crime, there are those who believe that criminals should be rehabilitated. And then there those who believe they should really suffer for their indiscretions. Traffic School attempts to accomplish both at the same time. You can take my word for it.

The Higher Standard

A number of years ago, items bearing the initials WWJD started showing up. Of course, this stands for "What Would Jesus Do?" and is meant to be a tool for deciding the right thing to do in a situation. Generally, it's a helpful question although I'm not sure Jesus had to struggle with driving the speed limit or looking at naughty pages on the Internet, so it has its limits.

Speaking of standards, I've discovered the highest standard of all - W.W. I.M.M.T.D. It doesn't really roll off the tongue like WWJD but when it comes to our household chores, this is the highest standard possible. It stands for "What Would I Make My Teenager Do?". The power of this phrase hit me one evening like a soaking wet sponge.

As in many households, we have an agreement that the person who doesn't cook does the dishes. I do a lot of dishes. And I must say that cleaning the kitchen is not my favorite activity but I like eating so I have to do dishes. But this is a very onerous task to me and I cut corners whenever possible. So, this other evening following dinner, I was just about to assess how little I could get away with when, like a voice from heaven, this thought came to me - "What would I make my teenager do if she was cleaning the kitchen?" Well, if I was making my teenage daughter clean the kitchen, not only would every dish be spotless, dried, and in the cupboard, but every surface would be bright and shiny, the floor swept, the trash emptied, and a lovely bouquet of hand-picked flowers from our garden would grace our dining room table! In other words, if she does a chore, I expect perfection. When I do a chore, well, you have to understand that I work hard and I'm tired at the end of the day, and I do a lot of other things around the house, and I'm the Dad, usually a position of respect and privilege in many cultures, and, well, I just don't like doing all those fiddly extra things that jobs often require! But that night, I chided myself, "Why am I so tough when I'm the 'Big Bad Disciplining Dad' and yet so easy on myself?!?" OK! I had to admit it. I was a hypocrite! I was cut to the core and I pledged that night that I would always attain to the higher standard.

So, now, as the last dish is in the rack, I look around the kitchen and I ask, "What would I make my teenager do?", and I do it myself. Now, of course, the kitchen sparkles. I'm sure it's what Jesus would do.

Beige World

I live in Beige World.

I moved to Orange County five years ago and I was surprised to discover that nearly every building here is beige. It's true! Oh, there is some variation. There's light beige, medium beige, dark beige and everything in-between but really it's all beige. They try to give them fancy names like "Chaparral", "Sand Dune", or "Coffee" but they are still all beige. They can't fool me. Needless to say, it's very boring. I am tempted to paint the town red.

Speaking of painting, it just so happens that we are re-doing the interior of our house. We are painting it ... you guessed it ... beige. You can call it "Sandcastle" if it makes you feel better. The outside is, of course, already beige, the same color as every building in my association. Beige is very safe.

Even the general landscape is beige. Parts of the coast here can be beautiful but, think about it, even there the sand is beige. The natural areas of Orange County are, in general, beige. The areas that don't have beige buildings on them feature scrubby beige hills. Oh, sometimes, if we get a little rain, there is a green tinge to the beige or a little yellow from mustard plants but that's about it. Not the stuff of watercolors. Of course, our ubiquitous smog is ... you guessed it ... beige. Very monotonous. I used to live in Seattle which is green but definitely not with envy.

The other day I was filling out a form. It was asking various questions about my background. One of the questions was about race. I was reminded what an artificial human construct race is! Whites aren't really white. Blacks aren't really black. Why are any of these distinctions helpful? So, instead of checking "white" I checked "other" and then took a close look at my skin. What color am I really? With a little shiver of disgust I realized ... you guessed it ... I'm beige! Oh, the humiliation!

I have worms

I have worms -thousands of 'em! Thankfully they are not infesting my body but rather are quietly sitting on my patio eating my leftovers and producing rich fertilizer for my yard. That's pretty special. Actually, they are very special worms called "red wrigglers" who are known for their voracious appetite and equally prodigious ... ah, what shall we call it ... "casting" production. Another less solid by-product is "worm tea." This is collected by a tray at the bottom and all I have to do is turn a small spigot and help myself to a generous libation of worm tea. My flowers love it but humans should refrain.

Alan, the worm man, got me started with a tower of stacked black trays and a bunch of worm-rich dirt which he put in the bottom tray and partially in the next tray up. This was followed up a few days later by a small damp bag supposedly containing one pound of premium red wrigglers, hand-picked, no doubt, for the great privilege of being the starter colony for my personal worm bin. I am not sure why they then spent the next week trying to escape the wonderful home I had provided for them. I'd come out in the morning and find dozens of them spread out in all directions all over my patio seeking their freedom. I decided to banish these miscreants to "purgatory" which is, in fact, a very inferior plastic bin full of weeds, leftover potting soil, and other garden debris. There they will eek out a bare existence cursing the day they decided to leave the generous luxury of my main worm bin. I later read that it is quite normal for worms to be a bit skittish about a new home and, indeed, they seem to have now settled down quite nicely with no new escapees for a while.

Worms are not picky eaters but they do have some standards. I generally feed them leftover veggies, fruit, rice, bread, etc. They shouldn't eat citrus peels and are not fond of salad dressing and other sauces. They can eat meat but this tends to attract other vermin who are not welcome in my home, so I avoid that. I am told it's important to occasionally give them egg shells which is meant to help the PH balance, whatever that is. These I carefully dry and then grind to a powder using a mortar and pestle and sprinkle liberally throughout their next offering. They don't jump up and down and wag their tails but I also understand they really like coffee grounds. At first I collected the leftover grounds from my office but my co-workers only drink Costco-brand decaf, and I really thought my worms deserved better. Now they enjoy a rich, fully-caffeinated blend from Starbucks, free for the asking at my local gourmet coffee joint. I wonder if it keeps them up at night?

Alan also explained the worm hierarchy to me. The top layer, where I add food, is where they eat. He explained that the fastidious worms then plunge down to the bottom layer to "poop." The middle layer is where they ... ah, what shall we call it ... mate. So then, this is the sum total of the life of a worm: eating, pooping, mating. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it!?!

So, the next time you're over, we'll sit on my sunny patio, surrounded by my surprisingly vibrant flowers, and we'll raise our cups of red wriggler tea and promise never to again disparage "the lowly worm." Cheers!

Nelson Mandela

I've decided that I really like biographies and autobiographies. My sister gave me two for Christmas and one was the autobiography of Nelson Mandela ("A Long Walk to Freedom"). I thoroughly enjoy it. Mandela has had a compelling life and is not a bad writer either. This great South African Freedom Fighter dedicated his total life to the emancipation of minorities in his country. I think I read somewhere that South Africa was the only country to transition power in such a way without civil war. Yes, there was sporadic violence but not widespread bloodshed. Governmental transitions are rarely so smooth. A lot of credit for that goes to Mandela. For most of his career he advocated non-violence but later he felt that sabotage (of infrastructure, not people) would put the needed pressure on the white government for change. Of course, he later served as President of South Africa.

I have three rather selective observations about his life.

First, He endured 27 years in prison. It is a testament to his spirit and those of his companions that they were able to face the great hardships and brutality with such indomitable perseverance. Certainly it is the loss of hope that truly condemns a person in prison to a kind of living death. Mandela and his companions were innovative and tireless in the different ways they coped, communicated, or fought for greater privileges. He began writing his autobiography during this time.

Second, an amusing story. Prior to his incarceration, and during the time he ran the ANC's military wing (sabotage) he was on the run, hiding in many different places and situations. An odd African habit nearly got him caught. Evidently, some Africans like sour milk, also called amasi. This is essentially unpasterized milk left in the sun to curdle. Mandela was hiding in a comrade's apartment in a white neighborhood. He left a glass bottle of milk on a sunny window sill to curdle and become creamy. He later overheard two Zulu workers comment that it was strange to see milk on the window sill because whites don't drink amasi. It was a close call and he learned to be more careful.

Finally, Mandela sacrificed his marriages for service to his country. I did not know previously that Mandela was twice married and divorced. He admits in his autobiography that he was "married" to his country rather than to his families but this was a sacrifice he was willing to make. He worked constantly and tirelessly for freedom, but could he have done it with out ignoring his family? That's a tough question. Many "great" men have wrestled with that one.

3 Secrets of Dieting ... if I followed them.

No one in my family is particularly overweight but we talk a lot about food and dieting. When a friend is on a new diet, I question them quite closely about the short term and long term success. Over the years I have gleaned three secrets of dieting.

Secret #1: We eat more than we should for emotional reasons.

Let's face it. Food is comforting. (Some more than others, of course. For example, I don't find humus to be a very comforting food, nor tofu or brussel sprouts. I am thankful for potato chips, chocolate, and ice cream). It's natural that when we are emotionally hurting to use food to try and fill that hole or to comfort that hurt. I notice that I eat when I feel lonely. Since life can be difficult, there are many opportunities to learn this unhealthy response. And, of course, it ultimately is a false way to meet this need. The key here is to address the underlying issues. That's not easy but it's the key to not eating for emotional reasons.

Secret #2: We eat more than we should out of habit.

How many of you were told growing up to eat everything on your plate? I think we get used to eating a certain amount of food without thinking and thus we unconsciously eat more than we should. Restaurant portions don't help. The first time my wife and I ate at Claim Jumpers we shared one Senior dinner plus one side dish. It was plenty for the two of us! I think we even brought some home. Perhaps when we eat out we feel compelled to get our money's worth. For these reasons and others, we zoom right past that "full" point and, out of habit, eat more than we should. In this case, the key is to be more conscious of our eating, to notice when we are really full or when we are not. In my family we have a new saying that helps us here: "It's OK to waste". One habit many of us have is to not waste anything. When survival is on the line that's a good policy but nowadays we eat way to much (at least in the US) and so it's actually a good thing to waste. Leave food on your plate. (Actually, I now do worm composting so the worms get the extra!)

Secret #3: It is easier to add exercise than to cut calories.

This is probably the most controversial statement of my three secrets and there is quite a bit of disagreement about it. Cutting calories and increasing exercise are both effective and take discipline but in my experience resisting calories is the greater challenge, at least in the long term. A fascinating study reported in Health Magazine confirmed as much. Three groups of people who wanted to loose weight were given three different strategies: Diet only, Exercise only, and a combination of diet and exercise. All were fairly successful for one year but only the Exercise only folks kept off the weight for two years. The other groups, the calorie cutters, all eventually gained the weight back.

Conclusion:

Knowing these there secrets doesn't mean it's easy to loose weight. I've known them for some time and yet I have not lost much weight. Still, they are a great starting point and I'd be working on them right now but this has been a difficult time for me and so if you'll excuse me, I need to go pig out.

Fake

I hate to see fake women. I'm to the point where I get turned off by obviously "enhanced" ladies. They might look nice by some societal standard but I am so conscious that they are not real. To me, it's a turn-off. To me, it's like cheating.

Let's say that a young lady gets a lot of plastic surgery - nose job, bust augmentation, maybe a tummy tuck or a butt lift. She attracts a guy. They get married and have kids. Will her daughter inherit that attractiveness? No way! It's like false advertising.

Further, I am against the forces in our society that encourage women to focus on the outside. Why is it that so many women only feel "pretty", womanly, or valued if she conforms to some unrealistic "Hollywood" image? Actually, I just saw a TV show in which a psychologist said that women who have surgery do have greater self-esteem. Is that because they feel valued because the conform to that phantom image?

I'm all for plastic surgery for those with deformities. It can make the difference between someone being an outcast and useless to society and being a productive member of their community. This is not a case of vanity.

Now, despite my negative attitude, I'm not against make up. Someone could argue that that make up is an enhancement. Why am I not against that? Also, as you can see in my photo, I am losing my hair. I hate this. I feel unattractive, less manly, and older. I've often said that if I had the money I would buy "hair". Why is it OK for me to buy hair and a woman not to buy a big bust? Am I a hypocrite? Is there a difference between make-up, hair extensions, plastic nails, girdles, shaving, perms, and that ordinary kind of stuff and major surgery like nose jobs, breast augmentation, liposuction, teeth-whitening and the like? I think so.

What do you think?

A real alien

I was recently attending a festival in my town here in Southern California. Being a family friendly event they restricted beer sales to one relatively small section. I don't drink but the band sounded really good and they were playing my kind of music - Doobie Brothers, Stones, Santana, Super Tramp, etc - so I got in a short line to enter in. At the restricted entrance were some official looking guys who seemed to be checking people and giving them wrist bands. It didn't seem to me like you had to pay. They weren't collecting money. There were about 4-5 people in front of me. There were two young ladies, then an older Mexican couple. They seemed to be in their 50's. He was dressed in a nice dark blue shirt with one of those Mexican "ties" with the clip and the string hanging down. He had a nice looking black cowboy hat. (The festival had a western theme). Most people just seemed to be getting wrist bands. But then one of the official guys asked one of the young ladies for her I.D. As soon as this happened, the older Mexican guy quickly ducked out of line. I wasn't sure what was going on. I stepped forward, held out my hand, not sure what to expect. They official guys started wrapping a wrist band on me. Meanwhile, I heard the older Mexican guy come back and in very broken English he asked, "Why ID? Why ID?" or something like that. At first the official guys were confused or didn't understand what he was asking. Then it hit them. "Oh, " they said, "It's for the beer! Cerveza!" I was through the line by this time and did not see what happened.

I'm a little slow about these things but I began to interpret what I had observed and it made me strangely sad. I am now sure this handsome old Mexican guy was an illegal alien here in the US. Now the official guys only asked for ID's from people who looked under age for drinking. You see, the wrist bands were a way to screen people (i.e. "These people are OK to buy beer!"). So, they had to make sure that everyone who went in was the proper age. But when the old guy saw them asking for IDs, he reacted immediately because, like many illegals, they have no ID.

My heart went out to him. On paper, I'm against illegal aliens. They sap our social services and (some say) take jobs from Americans and many crimes are committed by illegals. But here I saw a guy who lived in fear. He was not a free and easy man. Each day he needed to be careful and watch out lest he be deported out of the country. When he saw the IDs being asked for, alarms went off. For that moment, illegals were not a theoretical segment of our society to me. Here was a real one, just trying to have a nice time at a local festival, having to struggle with the precarious nature of his existence here in this country. He's probably just trying to earn some money to send to his family back in Mexico or wherever he comes from.

I don't know what the short term or long term solutions to these deep issues are but I know I feel for the guy. He is not a free man. By all comparison, I am a free man. I walk around with relatively few worries and concerns. For this I am thankful. But my heart went out to the old guy in the blue shirt. I hope he got his beer.