When I was a child a story I heard over and over again involved one of our country's most historical of vessels coming to a horrible end. Often this story, or reference to the story, would be brought up by my father against my mother during arguments. I'll back up...
You see, when I was very very young (actually, I may not have even been born yet) my father had at least one manly hobby that he doesn't practice today. Specifically, he built model ships. Or, at least I imagine he did. It is difficult to say as I cannot remember events before my conception. Then again, considering the number of model ships displayed about the house in my youth (that number being zero), some would conjecture that there was only ever one ship. To the best of my deductive reasoning I can say with some certainty that there was a model ship, that model was of the USS Constitution, and that model was never finished. To hear my father tell of it, he worked diligently piecing together that grand vessel. A labor of love, he devoted hours, days, weeks! Months! YEARS of his time to bring that model to a fully assembled glory! To hear my mother tell of it, there was a box with some plastic parts in the basement that she never saw him do anything with, and after several years of inactivity she cleaned the basement and threw it out. . .
As you can imagine, this was seen as a breach of trust and a violation of personal property. I literally could not begin to guess how many times the USS Constitution, "My Model Ship!" was brought up as verbal cannon fodder in various arguments. Eventually, the mention of the model ship became a joke unto itself and was brought up when the argument was as humorous as it was likely to be and still considered an argument. The ship was lost, never to be recovered, and never again would my father devote time to that grand vessel.
Until I became a man of professional employ. When I am able, I always like to get my Dad something spiffy for Christmas. Doesn't have to be spectacular, but I at least try to put thought into it when I can. You can only give so many Bass Pro-Shops gift cards before the concept is stale. One holiday season was particularly successful. I had asked my father at Thanksgiving what he wanted for Christmas. To this he replied with a smile, "A good smoke and a piece of ass!" I still remember him opening the box on Christmas to find a few nice cigars and a plush Eeyore toy. The joy that spread across his face as he put two and two together still makes me smile. Eeyore is still Velcro-taped to the dash of his pick-up truck.
The next year, I recalled the USS Constitution and thought to myself. "Wouldn't it be grand if I could find another of that model and give it to him for Christmas?" I thought he would be thrilled at the prospect of tackling that project all over again. For my part, the search took months. I did hours upon hours of research online, found old modelling forums, and eventually located one on Ebay. The model was in perfect condition, from the year before I was born and matching my father's description perfectly. For a reasonable sum I bid and won that model kit, checked all the parts on arrival for completeness and carefully wrapped the box months before the chosen holiday.
Fast forward to Christmas morning, we were all seated around the living room opening gifts. I passed my father a rather large, but light, flat box. He eagerly opened it and for several minutes his face was bound in confusion. At last he asked me what this was.
"It's your model, the USS Constitution!" I said
"Uh, what model?" he replied
"The one Mom threw away so many years ago!" I exclaimed, "It's a copy of the one you described, I thought you would like to try again."
". . . "
"This isn't my model."
Fuck, at least I also gave him the gift card.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
On the Trials and Tribulations of Cologne Selection:
There is something which some men never learn, and that is that your cologne is not being worn for you but for her. I learned this after a longish bout with singledom. I have always been one to do the more hedonistic thing, the complete thing, the old school because it works better thing. Case in point: I use old fashioned double sided razor blades in a Merkur handle based on the Gillette 1912 Safety Razor. I do all the fancy shit too; puck of soap, shaving brush to work up a lather, buy my blades from some guy in Germany (or is it Japan?). Anyway, the short story long here is that if I take an extra 10 minutes to give myself a really good shave after a shower I may not have to shave again for 3 days. It's just that smooth and close to the skin. Now, granted, at the end of that three days I'll look scruffy, but I can at least avoid the 5 o'clock shadow on the day of the shave by using all my gear.
Now, here's the thing about shaving with a real razor or an open blade, all the accoutrements associated with the process make you feel more manly and they make you (think that you) smell good. The products I use all seem to be some variation on Menthol or Bay Rum. Bay Rum as an AWESOME smell, to me at least. It originates in the Caribbean/West Indies and when first invented was literally rum from the island that had been infused with spices, specifically the berries of the West Indian Bay Tree. It's an old, rugged, spicey, rummy, and all around awesome scent. Those who knew me 3 to 5 years ago are probably familiar with the scent whether you like it or not. I was awash with it, many varieties, daily, sometimes even hourly.
Now it may come to no surprise that the scents that you like may not be so hot with someone else, they may be downright repulsive. Also, your nose should become accustomed to what you're wearing so that you don't ever really smell it after the first couple minutes. So, if you find yourself in a situation where (for example) you apply a new sample of cologne and you can still smell it strongly and easily on your person 12 hours later, rest assured that the entire room can smell you and has been smelling you since you stepped through the door. Have you ever crossed paths with that stereotypical gold necklace-wearing track suit-bedecked hirsute gentleman at the bar/gym/gas station. Did you imagine you could see the looney-tunes animated wafts of aroma trailing behind him like Pepe Le Pew? All too often, that has been you, and me, and every man who splashed on a little extra whether to hide the need for a shower or just because they thought is smelled extra good.
In short, we all need to cut our dosage. We also need to throw away anything our fathers or grandfathers would have worn. My first clue I was going down a dark road should have been years upon years ago at the ripe age of 25, smoking a pipe at the bar. I would have strange women walk up and sniff me, often remarking how much I reminded them of their Dad, or worse their Grandfather. Right now, go to your medicine cabinet. Do you have any Old Spice? Chuck it. Tabac? Chuck that, too. Bay Rum? Chu- . . Actually, ask your partner if she likes it. (seriously, it hurt to throw those all away)
Now, next time you want to do something for your lady-friend a little unexpected ask her to accompany you to the store to pick out cologne. She is the one who has to smell you and if she doesn't like how you smell you're just not helping yourself. Not to say that you can't find something you like, too. Just try to discover what's available that makes both of your noses smile. I have found after a while you will be able to somewhat predict what your partner's nose goes for. Look up her approved scents on fragrantica.com or other fragrance forum (yes, there are surprisingly many). Find the base-notes, mid-notes, and top-notes of the ones she likes and look for others with similar profiles. Now, go to Ebay. Find those colognes, EDTs and so on and buy a sample vial for a couple bucks. Try it on, let her smell you at the beginning, middle and end of the day. Once you're sure you have a winner you'll feel okay dropping 60 bucks on a bottle (or more for some of these high end flavors). And if she doesn't like it (or you hate it) you're only out a couple of bucks.
(damn, this one wasn't funny either. Maybe I'm only funny in person?)
There is something which some men never learn, and that is that your cologne is not being worn for you but for her. I learned this after a longish bout with singledom. I have always been one to do the more hedonistic thing, the complete thing, the old school because it works better thing. Case in point: I use old fashioned double sided razor blades in a Merkur handle based on the Gillette 1912 Safety Razor. I do all the fancy shit too; puck of soap, shaving brush to work up a lather, buy my blades from some guy in Germany (or is it Japan?). Anyway, the short story long here is that if I take an extra 10 minutes to give myself a really good shave after a shower I may not have to shave again for 3 days. It's just that smooth and close to the skin. Now, granted, at the end of that three days I'll look scruffy, but I can at least avoid the 5 o'clock shadow on the day of the shave by using all my gear.
Now, here's the thing about shaving with a real razor or an open blade, all the accoutrements associated with the process make you feel more manly and they make you (think that you) smell good. The products I use all seem to be some variation on Menthol or Bay Rum. Bay Rum as an AWESOME smell, to me at least. It originates in the Caribbean/West Indies and when first invented was literally rum from the island that had been infused with spices, specifically the berries of the West Indian Bay Tree. It's an old, rugged, spicey, rummy, and all around awesome scent. Those who knew me 3 to 5 years ago are probably familiar with the scent whether you like it or not. I was awash with it, many varieties, daily, sometimes even hourly.
Now it may come to no surprise that the scents that you like may not be so hot with someone else, they may be downright repulsive. Also, your nose should become accustomed to what you're wearing so that you don't ever really smell it after the first couple minutes. So, if you find yourself in a situation where (for example) you apply a new sample of cologne and you can still smell it strongly and easily on your person 12 hours later, rest assured that the entire room can smell you and has been smelling you since you stepped through the door. Have you ever crossed paths with that stereotypical gold necklace-wearing track suit-bedecked hirsute gentleman at the bar/gym/gas station. Did you imagine you could see the looney-tunes animated wafts of aroma trailing behind him like Pepe Le Pew? All too often, that has been you, and me, and every man who splashed on a little extra whether to hide the need for a shower or just because they thought is smelled extra good.
In short, we all need to cut our dosage. We also need to throw away anything our fathers or grandfathers would have worn. My first clue I was going down a dark road should have been years upon years ago at the ripe age of 25, smoking a pipe at the bar. I would have strange women walk up and sniff me, often remarking how much I reminded them of their Dad, or worse their Grandfather. Right now, go to your medicine cabinet. Do you have any Old Spice? Chuck it. Tabac? Chuck that, too. Bay Rum? Chu- . . Actually, ask your partner if she likes it. (seriously, it hurt to throw those all away)
Now, next time you want to do something for your lady-friend a little unexpected ask her to accompany you to the store to pick out cologne. She is the one who has to smell you and if she doesn't like how you smell you're just not helping yourself. Not to say that you can't find something you like, too. Just try to discover what's available that makes both of your noses smile. I have found after a while you will be able to somewhat predict what your partner's nose goes for. Look up her approved scents on fragrantica.com or other fragrance forum (yes, there are surprisingly many). Find the base-notes, mid-notes, and top-notes of the ones she likes and look for others with similar profiles. Now, go to Ebay. Find those colognes, EDTs and so on and buy a sample vial for a couple bucks. Try it on, let her smell you at the beginning, middle and end of the day. Once you're sure you have a winner you'll feel okay dropping 60 bucks on a bottle (or more for some of these high end flavors). And if she doesn't like it (or you hate it) you're only out a couple of bucks.
(damn, this one wasn't funny either. Maybe I'm only funny in person?)
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
How does one start a blog without sounding like a egotistical prick? Or for that matter, how do I put thought to paper on a regular (semi-regular) basis without it all turning into the "me" show? I keeping thinking of the Demotivational poster hanging in my office:
But if I were to write under the assumption I were pissing into the abyss I might as well get a LiveJournal account. (or reactivate my old one...) So, fukkit, I'm going to do as I have been urged and just write as though this is something people would want to read. If nobody does, than, really, it doesn't matter that I threw-up all over this first paragraph.
So what would be entertaining to read? My recipe for "passed-over" soup using the ingredients from the Seder Plate? Embellishing my already fucked-up dreams into something more filmable? Unenlightened insights to my day-to-day misadventures? Perhaps I should just start typing and see what happens, flow of consciousness style. . and. . .wait, am I in front of a computer?! Maybe I'll just stick what what I know and go from there.
This weekend (okay, Monday, but I was off work so, weekend) I fixed my car. I had the windshield replaced and I installed a new rear wheel hub assembly. Parts and labor all together was about $400.00. The wheel hub bearing has been humming loudly for months and months; I just got my income tax refund if it's not apparent. I estimate by putting on the hub assembly myself I saved at least another three hundred in labor. After buying tools as I broke the shitty old ones I have and busting a lot of knuckles between said tools and my car, and beating the shit out of the old rusted hub with a hammer, I put a several punches onto my Man-Card. There are a lot of people who can't or won't do their own car repair, not even change their own oil. There's nothing wrong with that, we each have our own talents and strengths, but I want to make a point that just because I can do this sort of thing doesn't mean I'm special or talented in that department. I have no formal training, I just feel confident that I have a chance of success. I like to think that any technical or mechanical task set before me I can absolutely do, so long as I give myself enough time to do research about it. I've built computers from scratch with no formal training and so far, beyond oil, I have changed headlights, brakes all around, a new brake caliper and now the wheel hub (same wheel, it's a pain). All in all, I'm guesstimating (especially since I have repeated called for quotes from the dealer) that I have saved myself at least fifteen hundred bucks by doing it myself just in the last year. All that money, armed only with YouTube and whatever mechanical aptitude was passed to me by my father.
I think this confidence, in a way, makes my father sad. He is a diesel mechanic and has been since before I was born. First it was farm implements, then radiator repair and odd-jobs, and the last couple decades has been as in-house mechanic for two different county road maintenance shops. When I was growing up I was not. . . how do I say this, smart with cars. I was either living in a demo-derby or just not putting water in the radiator until the engine seized. I even had a tire just fall off at one point (though that was not entirely my fault), crashed in the Utah desert, and left steaming wrecks on the side of the road in Wyoming. So, it is safe to say that being a lifelong professional my father was always my go to guy for any reversal of vehicular misfortune. One thing though, no matter what the problem was, or even just basic upkeep like an oil changes, I was always allowed (or forced) to come with and "help". Helping was mostly staying the fuck out of the way or fetching tools, but I did get to watch a lot. But while I watched I picked up some stuff and put it in mental storage. Even after I left for college I would always come home for oil changes and tune-ups. (this was a common occurrence given my tendency to drive hearses [that's a later post]) So, while I've always been rather independent, you can imagine that my desire for vehicular life-support helped my dad feel appreciated. (even if he grumbled all the way to the shop to get his tools)
Keeping that in mind, I put on my own replacement starter motor once. I was a freshman in college, an hour's drive from home with my first Cadillac (not a hearse) and had to fix the problem or the car no start no mo'. I could hear the pride in my father's voice when I called him and told him that I had done it all myself and the car actually started afterward. But there was a certain undertone to his voice that has only grown stronger in recent years. When I bought my new car nearly 6 years ago I brought it home to show off my good fortune my dad was obviously proud. Except, upon looking under the hood at this compact Japanese fuel injected block of metal and plastic he could only say, "Well, you're on your own now!" He was my master of carburetors, but this was, without a computer and some training, beyond him. In the intervening years I have taken some windfalls and spend time unemployed, but I kept up my payments and kept the car. And because of a lot of things, not just vehicular maintenance, I made a lot fewer trips at home.
So, sometime this week, I will call my father (or more likely he will call me) and we will discuss my car and the repairs I have made to it. He will be very proud, this is a project on par with any of the other difficult things I have fixed in the past. But under that pride will still be my Dad, knowing that but for my confidence and ability to try new things this was another opportunity to spend some time with his Son that he didn't have. So when I have that conversation I will also be proud of my achievement, but in hearing the undertone to his voice and knowing what it means will also make me sad.
I'm going to make damned sure we go fishing this summer. We can talk about how many cars I killed previously while we drown some worms.
(Huh, that was kind of a downer. . . I swear the next one will be funnier.)
But if I were to write under the assumption I were pissing into the abyss I might as well get a LiveJournal account. (or reactivate my old one...) So, fukkit, I'm going to do as I have been urged and just write as though this is something people would want to read. If nobody does, than, really, it doesn't matter that I threw-up all over this first paragraph.
So what would be entertaining to read? My recipe for "passed-over" soup using the ingredients from the Seder Plate? Embellishing my already fucked-up dreams into something more filmable? Unenlightened insights to my day-to-day misadventures? Perhaps I should just start typing and see what happens, flow of consciousness style. . and. . .wait, am I in front of a computer?! Maybe I'll just stick what what I know and go from there.
This weekend (okay, Monday, but I was off work so, weekend) I fixed my car. I had the windshield replaced and I installed a new rear wheel hub assembly. Parts and labor all together was about $400.00. The wheel hub bearing has been humming loudly for months and months; I just got my income tax refund if it's not apparent. I estimate by putting on the hub assembly myself I saved at least another three hundred in labor. After buying tools as I broke the shitty old ones I have and busting a lot of knuckles between said tools and my car, and beating the shit out of the old rusted hub with a hammer, I put a several punches onto my Man-Card. There are a lot of people who can't or won't do their own car repair, not even change their own oil. There's nothing wrong with that, we each have our own talents and strengths, but I want to make a point that just because I can do this sort of thing doesn't mean I'm special or talented in that department. I have no formal training, I just feel confident that I have a chance of success. I like to think that any technical or mechanical task set before me I can absolutely do, so long as I give myself enough time to do research about it. I've built computers from scratch with no formal training and so far, beyond oil, I have changed headlights, brakes all around, a new brake caliper and now the wheel hub (same wheel, it's a pain). All in all, I'm guesstimating (especially since I have repeated called for quotes from the dealer) that I have saved myself at least fifteen hundred bucks by doing it myself just in the last year. All that money, armed only with YouTube and whatever mechanical aptitude was passed to me by my father.
I think this confidence, in a way, makes my father sad. He is a diesel mechanic and has been since before I was born. First it was farm implements, then radiator repair and odd-jobs, and the last couple decades has been as in-house mechanic for two different county road maintenance shops. When I was growing up I was not. . . how do I say this, smart with cars. I was either living in a demo-derby or just not putting water in the radiator until the engine seized. I even had a tire just fall off at one point (though that was not entirely my fault), crashed in the Utah desert, and left steaming wrecks on the side of the road in Wyoming. So, it is safe to say that being a lifelong professional my father was always my go to guy for any reversal of vehicular misfortune. One thing though, no matter what the problem was, or even just basic upkeep like an oil changes, I was always allowed (or forced) to come with and "help". Helping was mostly staying the fuck out of the way or fetching tools, but I did get to watch a lot. But while I watched I picked up some stuff and put it in mental storage. Even after I left for college I would always come home for oil changes and tune-ups. (this was a common occurrence given my tendency to drive hearses [that's a later post]) So, while I've always been rather independent, you can imagine that my desire for vehicular life-support helped my dad feel appreciated. (even if he grumbled all the way to the shop to get his tools)
Keeping that in mind, I put on my own replacement starter motor once. I was a freshman in college, an hour's drive from home with my first Cadillac (not a hearse) and had to fix the problem or the car no start no mo'. I could hear the pride in my father's voice when I called him and told him that I had done it all myself and the car actually started afterward. But there was a certain undertone to his voice that has only grown stronger in recent years. When I bought my new car nearly 6 years ago I brought it home to show off my good fortune my dad was obviously proud. Except, upon looking under the hood at this compact Japanese fuel injected block of metal and plastic he could only say, "Well, you're on your own now!" He was my master of carburetors, but this was, without a computer and some training, beyond him. In the intervening years I have taken some windfalls and spend time unemployed, but I kept up my payments and kept the car. And because of a lot of things, not just vehicular maintenance, I made a lot fewer trips at home.
So, sometime this week, I will call my father (or more likely he will call me) and we will discuss my car and the repairs I have made to it. He will be very proud, this is a project on par with any of the other difficult things I have fixed in the past. But under that pride will still be my Dad, knowing that but for my confidence and ability to try new things this was another opportunity to spend some time with his Son that he didn't have. So when I have that conversation I will also be proud of my achievement, but in hearing the undertone to his voice and knowing what it means will also make me sad.
I'm going to make damned sure we go fishing this summer. We can talk about how many cars I killed previously while we drown some worms.
(Huh, that was kind of a downer. . . I swear the next one will be funnier.)
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