So, wanting to do something meaningful in this space for once, I started to do some research on how much the federal government spends on all that “National Hot Dog Day” type of jackassery the government loves to spend your money on by signing Proclamations.
Somehow I figure there has to be a dollar figure associated with that because there are bureaucrats who approve this kind of thing. There is also probably a grant or something the government hands out to help people promote “Frog Jumping Week” or some other nonsense.
Here’s the really scary thing about this – five minutes ago I thought I just made up “Frog Jumping Week” trying to be clever. Then I thought…maybe… and I went to Google and typed in Frog Jumping. It turns out I was wrong but only in as much as frog jumping doesn’t get a whole week. May 13 is National Frog Jumping Day. (and National Leprechaun Day and National Blame Someone Else Day which is really convenient if your frog finishes last and you don’t find a Leprechaun. And why we have a day for an entirely fanciful Irish hobgoblin is beyond me.) But there it is - they all exist.
Naturally, on my way to commit journalistic acts of public service, I was thwarted by myself and started looking up all these goofy days and observances. There are too many to count. Of all the sites I visited, however, probably the most easy to use was from, of all people, the Hallmark Channel. You can find them at: www.theultimateholidaysite.com
If you’re at all interested, today is National Bunsen Burner Day. Now, according to the ever-practical Wikipedia, most of the observances listed above are not, strictly speaking, observances as accorded by the President or Congress. That particular list is not nearly as much fun to read, but takes just as long.
Keep in mind, the following are observances that in some way you’ve paid for through the salaries of federal employees who have to approve these and keep the lists and etc.
Apparently, there is a ‘children’s day’ - it’s the first Monday in June.
Mothers and Fathers as you know, each have their own day, but there is also a Parent’s Day the last Sunday in July. Back in ’94 President Clinton took time out of his busy games of ‘hide the cigar’ to sign an actual Congressional Resolution (36 U.S.C. 135 if you’re interested) for “recognizing, uplifting, and supporting the role of parents in the rearing of children," which is almost ironic.
Full disclosure forces me to include that the bill was introduced by a Republican, and Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg of the Supreme Court said, “Replacing Mother's Day and Father's Day with a Parents' Day should be considered, as an observance more consistent with a policy of minimizing traditional sex-based differences in parental roles."
Oh, those horrible ‘sex based differences’ like only women can conceive and bear children and breast feed and stuff like that and only men can get up at 2 a.m. during the third trimester to drive 15 miles in a snowstorm to a 24-hour Cumberland Farms to buy an $8 pint of Ben & Jerrys Chunky Monkey – to bring home to their poor wife, who upon his return is sound asleep – as all she really wanted was him out of the bed in the first place so her over-heating body could throw off the covers and she could be comfortable, but because it was 6 degrees outside and he wasn’t heavy with child, he wanted the covers on. Now he’s home, she’s asleep and he’s watching Cinemax in the living room with two blankets, an afghan, and a pint of Ben and Jerrys Chunky Monkey. I think Ruth should maybe just shut the hell up.
Loyalty Day is May 1. It’s “set aside for the reaffirmation of loyalty to the United States and for the recognition of the heritage of American freedom.” Which sounds sort of Soviet-ish to me.
Gold Star Mothers get a day of observance the last Sunday in September. If you don’t know the term, Gold Star Mother is the mother of a service member killed in action. Today driving around the country you might see small flags hanging in windows – mostly with blue stars – one for each serving son or daughter in the military. A gold star represents a son or daughter who has been killed in the line of duty. This is a non-political organization that has been around for about 83 years. If you’ve ever seen Saving Private Ryan, you’ll notice Pvt Ryan’s mother had such a flag in her window when she was notified of the deaths of two of her sons. There are also Gold Star Wives and Gold Star Siblings. Oddly, there is no such group for fathers or husbands. Although husbands of Gold Star Mothers may become ‘associate members’ who can’t vote and don’t pay dues. Must be part of that ‘sex based difference’ ole’ Ruth was talking about.
As you’ve probably figured out, the list of observances is long in an ungainly fashion. Others include National Airborne Day (as in Army guys who jump out of perfectly good planes); Lief Erikson Day (Oct. 9); Gen Pulaski Memorial Day (Oct. 11) as every elementary school graduate knows, Gen Pulaski was a Revolutionary War hero.
You didn’t know? Now you do. See, you learned something here. Of all places.
Of course, over the lifespan of human events, some observances stop being followed. You’d think the list would be as long as the current observances. You’d be so very wrong. Baltic Freedom Day which had a glorious 10 year run from 1982-1992 is no longer with us; the reasoning, I suppose, is that the Baltics having their freedom, are now free to get their own days; and National Catfish Day, which had a singular year in 1987 – the spike of interest I suppose being that stupid singing fish plaque that appeared around that time.
In the interest of equal time for those of us who fall under the ‘sex based difference’ file, I also checked out some other observances I thought particularly applicable to my job-imposed quasi-bachelorhood. You can find a complete list here: http://www.menstuff.org/calendar/workshops/awareness.html
July 15 - Anti-Boredom Day. This year will mark the 15th annual one. Apparently there is an actual “Boring Institute” which I believe is in the front closet of BOB.
July 31 – National Abstain from Sex Day. This will be my second consecutive year taking part in this particular festivity. I think I’m getting a T-shirt in the mail. If I can do it next year too, they said they’ll make me the National Chairman as it’s never been done three times in a row. This is a day, and I only wish I were making this up, “set aside to prove to those who think men can’t abstain from sex for even one day, to prove them wrong.”
Let me not be the first to say: They’re not wrong.
Men can do it if we have to do it. (see exhibit A: me) No man would do it by choice. (Ibid) Those magazines at the grocery story – the women’s magazines – that say 50 Things to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed – those are the dumbest things ever. If you want to get a man into bed, just ask politely – or not – whether he’d like to have sex. You could just come in from mucking out the cow barn - it won’t matter.
I’m going to say without fear of contradiction that even those men whose doctors have told them that sexual activity may indeed cause their heart to explode in their chests, will roll the dice.
Ladies, ask your husbands or boyfriends – I dare you to prove me wrong. You won’t.
Men…you’re welcome.
May 1-7 is Cartoon Art Appreciation Week. You can’t go wrong with a week of Calvin and Hobbes.
May 8-13 is National Etiquette Week. To help you get over the previous seven days of indulging in cartoon art.
Sept. 5 - Be Late for Something Day. I’d like to be late for Abstain From Sex Day please.
July 2 - This is perhaps my favorite one of all. I Forgot Day. A day to make up for all the holidays and birthdays/anniversaries etc you forgot throughout the year. Perfect.
July 10-16 is Nude Recreation Week. Before you get too excited about this, keep in mind that in your community it’s probably being held at the outdoor living section of WalMart.
September - Shameless Promotion month. I think this is a great idea and I’d like to get started a little early by asking that you link this blog to your FaceBook page. First follower who says they signed up because of a link you posted will be given a free pass from Abstain From Sex Day 2012. I'll be the president of the committee then. I'll sign a Proclamation.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Why are boys different than girls and what good are breasts?
So, Wednesday, the 16th of this month is my son’s 9th birthday and I’m sitting here in Texas wondering what the hell I’m doing in Texas when it’s my son’s 9th birthday and thinking of how big he’s getting and how grown up he’s getting.
Then Shadow says to me, “he asked me the other day why we’re here. You know, what’s the meaning of life?”
Holy crap! Really? He skipped right over “why are boys different than girls?” and “what good are breasts?” and went straight to the meaning of life? Damn.
Now, this cuts both ways. First, I’m mighty proud to be the dad to such a smart and thoughtful young man. Second, I’m a little bothered that he skipped over “why are boys different than girls?” and “what good are breasts?” Because those are the questions I was really banking on and I’ve been practicing on those two questions thinking I’d shunt off the heavy-philosophical stuff to the Shadow.
And here’s the problem with being in Texas: So, I asked Shadow, what did you tell him when he asked?
(Laughing) I told him to ask you.
Nice. Thanks. From 2000 miles away I’m getting totally jobbed by my own wife. So, now I have to think of an answer to this highly thought-provoking and serious question. I’m lucky in the sense that he’s not asking this at that weird teen age when they start dressing all in black and taking a serious interest in anything that might remotely piss me off. So, all in all, I figure this is an opportunity to set him on a path that won’t lead to me having to learn anything about Goths or vampires or non-visible body piercings or home-made henna tattoos from some brownie-ed up hippy with a ’77 Gremlin with a sun floor.
This is my opportunity to … to…. Make some shit up, I guess.
Oh, come on! Did you really think I was going to be able to pass this particular muster? Really?
Have we met? Asking me the meaning of life is like asking Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan to be your kids’ godparents. The best you’re likely to get out of this is 20 minutes of Monty Python starting with Mr. Creosote in the restaurant scene followed by a couple choruses of “every sperm is sacred.”
I don’t even know why I’m in Texas much less why life has evolved on a singular planet amidst a galaxy with, as a conservative estimate, 500,000 planets that might potentially hold some life as we know it. I joined the Air Force because of free pizza for goodness sake. If you don’t believe me, ask my high school friends or my family. My recruiter’s name was Kermit. As God is my witness that’s true. I was offered pizza by a guy named Kermit and here I am 24+ years later trying to give a reasonable answer as to the meaning of life to a child who is still young enough to think I’m smart.
I suppose I could try the pseudo-science approach and say, “water.” We are here because of water. It allows us to live and this is the only planet with liquid water. But I can’t carry that through to its logical conclusion because I suck at science … and he doesn’t.
I could try the religious approach but if I follow that road it could lead someone to the conclusion that we are here to impose our religious beliefs on those who don’t hold them no matter what means we use to do it. The Jews, the Christians, the Muslims - they have all done it or are doing it now. Not a great message there. Certainly, “to kill each other” while plenty ironic, isn’t an acceptable answer to ‘why are we here?’
So, I have to answer the question for myself first and I’m a little annoyed because I’ve not really given any thought to it for decades now.
The reason I’ll probably end up giving him will likely be something like this: This is a question you can’t answer thinking forward – only looking backward. Why you are here is something you’ll have to figure out for yourself as you live your life and make your choices. Will you do something that makes a difference to you or someone else? Will you do something that makes where you are a better place? If you find yourself doing something like that, then you’ll probably find the answer to your question. But it’s a different answer for each person. The fact that we are here, however, gives us the opportunity to make a conscious choice to be here for a reason. What that reason turns out to be for each of us, will define us as individuals. What those choices are as individuals will define us as a people. How we got here doesn’t really matter. Knowing or not knowing, we’re still left with a life to live. What we choose to do with that life: the friends we make, the impressions we leave on others, the commitments we make ... In the end we’ll look back on our life and point to something and say, that is why I was here. The real question is, when you say it, will it be an answer you're proud of? Yeah, it will probably be something like that.
But what I’ll really be thinking will be: the meaning of life is what happens when you figure out what makes boys different than girls and why breasts on women are good, but on men, not so much.
Then Shadow says to me, “he asked me the other day why we’re here. You know, what’s the meaning of life?”
Holy crap! Really? He skipped right over “why are boys different than girls?” and “what good are breasts?” and went straight to the meaning of life? Damn.
Now, this cuts both ways. First, I’m mighty proud to be the dad to such a smart and thoughtful young man. Second, I’m a little bothered that he skipped over “why are boys different than girls?” and “what good are breasts?” Because those are the questions I was really banking on and I’ve been practicing on those two questions thinking I’d shunt off the heavy-philosophical stuff to the Shadow.
And here’s the problem with being in Texas: So, I asked Shadow, what did you tell him when he asked?
(Laughing) I told him to ask you.
Nice. Thanks. From 2000 miles away I’m getting totally jobbed by my own wife. So, now I have to think of an answer to this highly thought-provoking and serious question. I’m lucky in the sense that he’s not asking this at that weird teen age when they start dressing all in black and taking a serious interest in anything that might remotely piss me off. So, all in all, I figure this is an opportunity to set him on a path that won’t lead to me having to learn anything about Goths or vampires or non-visible body piercings or home-made henna tattoos from some brownie-ed up hippy with a ’77 Gremlin with a sun floor.
This is my opportunity to … to…. Make some shit up, I guess.
Oh, come on! Did you really think I was going to be able to pass this particular muster? Really?
Have we met? Asking me the meaning of life is like asking Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan to be your kids’ godparents. The best you’re likely to get out of this is 20 minutes of Monty Python starting with Mr. Creosote in the restaurant scene followed by a couple choruses of “every sperm is sacred.”
I don’t even know why I’m in Texas much less why life has evolved on a singular planet amidst a galaxy with, as a conservative estimate, 500,000 planets that might potentially hold some life as we know it. I joined the Air Force because of free pizza for goodness sake. If you don’t believe me, ask my high school friends or my family. My recruiter’s name was Kermit. As God is my witness that’s true. I was offered pizza by a guy named Kermit and here I am 24+ years later trying to give a reasonable answer as to the meaning of life to a child who is still young enough to think I’m smart.
I suppose I could try the pseudo-science approach and say, “water.” We are here because of water. It allows us to live and this is the only planet with liquid water. But I can’t carry that through to its logical conclusion because I suck at science … and he doesn’t.
I could try the religious approach but if I follow that road it could lead someone to the conclusion that we are here to impose our religious beliefs on those who don’t hold them no matter what means we use to do it. The Jews, the Christians, the Muslims - they have all done it or are doing it now. Not a great message there. Certainly, “to kill each other” while plenty ironic, isn’t an acceptable answer to ‘why are we here?’
So, I have to answer the question for myself first and I’m a little annoyed because I’ve not really given any thought to it for decades now.
The reason I’ll probably end up giving him will likely be something like this: This is a question you can’t answer thinking forward – only looking backward. Why you are here is something you’ll have to figure out for yourself as you live your life and make your choices. Will you do something that makes a difference to you or someone else? Will you do something that makes where you are a better place? If you find yourself doing something like that, then you’ll probably find the answer to your question. But it’s a different answer for each person. The fact that we are here, however, gives us the opportunity to make a conscious choice to be here for a reason. What that reason turns out to be for each of us, will define us as individuals. What those choices are as individuals will define us as a people. How we got here doesn’t really matter. Knowing or not knowing, we’re still left with a life to live. What we choose to do with that life: the friends we make, the impressions we leave on others, the commitments we make ... In the end we’ll look back on our life and point to something and say, that is why I was here. The real question is, when you say it, will it be an answer you're proud of? Yeah, it will probably be something like that.
But what I’ll really be thinking will be: the meaning of life is what happens when you figure out what makes boys different than girls and why breasts on women are good, but on men, not so much.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Improving myself through hair color
The Shadow has a bit of a sadistic streak and this was proven to me this last weekend when she decided it was time for me to “improve myself” to help me in finding a job when I finally retire from the one I have in the next 8-12 months or whatever.
Improving myself, apparently involves cosmetics. Now the women who read this would scoff at calling what I’m about to describe as cosmetics in any description they’re familiar with, but ladies, this ain’t about you.
So after discussing with me in some detail my numerous and apparently glaring skin and hair-related issues, Shadow lovingly sent me packing to the store with a list of stuff to buy – and with that, an expectation to actually use it.
Before leaving, I decided to do a self-inspection just to see if there were any justification for her suggestions. Thankfully, I had fully cleaned my large bathroom mirror the day before and was therefore entranced to find that at 42 I do not have the silky smooth and handsomely tanned skin of my youth. In fact, you could say it was rugged. Not in the manly “mountains as seen from a distance” rugged, but more in the “over-confident weekend climb up the never-fricking’-ending state park scenic hike” rugged. In other words I had Hobbit ears and feet and for the most part looked like I should have finished molting some time ago.
So I’m driving to the store.
Remember a few months back when I bought reed diffusers and I likened it to the first time buying condoms or feminine hygiene products? This was like that except that I was hoping to find reed diffusers.
I first noticed the lack of chromosomes as I was laughing to myself that there were actually “tools” to assist in the removal of acne. Ironically, these tools were six inches from the fake fingernails so I had to assume someone had a sense of humor and that there was probably a hidden camera somewhere. Regardless, I grabbed a packet of tweezers, clippers, files, brushes and those cute little scissors with the rounded points that you can run around the house as much as you want with while singing the nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah song – and then I made my way around the corner.
The store apparently has an entire section devoted to apricot face scrub. Men, this is where your wives and girlfriends are. All of them. These aisles are the department store equivalent of the ladies restroom at a restaurant. The women hunt in packs and they are fiercely protective of their territory.
It was here, while I was staring befuddled at the array of face scrubs that I had that prickling sensation at the back of my neck and I slowly looked to my left. Four women immediately looked down at whatever they were holding. They had grouped together like herd animals determined to drive an invader off their territory and there was no hint of civility. To break the tension I started to ask the least skittish which she would recommend. When it looked like she might actually help me, the other three, whom I sure were not in any way acquaintances of her for more than 3 minutes, circled around her and moved her down the aisle, there to re-establish their collective glare.
In trying to find words to describe this I cannot place an adequate term within the sphere of cosmetetological reference so I have to borrow from dating parlance which isn't entirely accurate but, let's be honest, it's kind of funny … I was cock-blocked. By three strangers. All because I wanted to know the cleansing merits of a particular apricot facial scrub.
In the several seconds it took to process what had happened I quickly took whatever product it was I was holding and ran for cover only to find myself in…the hair color aisle.
Now, I hate to do this to you but I feel it necessary. There are, in fact, 12 human genes that control hair color. Now, I know as much about genetics as I do about hair care products and I’m not even sure what all these genes do (none of them actually), but if you are interested in this kind of thing, here they are:
ID Symbol Location
1638 DCT 13q32
2315 MLANA 9p24.1
4157 MC1R 16q24.3 (This regulates mammalian hair color)
4158 MC2R 18p11.2
4644 MY05A 15q21
4948 OCA2 15q
5367 PMCH 12q23.2
5443 POMC 2p23.3
6490 SILV 12q13-q14
7299 TYR 11q14-q21
7306 TYRP1 9p23
79083 MLPH 2q37.3
So, what does all this science gobbledeegook have to do with hair color? Well, according to some marketing geek somewhere, there are more than 40 different hair colors.
I’ve known people with black and brown hair, those are easy. Then there is gray like me, white like my dad and blue like the really old ladies and the punk rockers. There are red heads – and while there may be shades, it doesn’t really matter unless it’s fire-truck red but those people have a whole other set of problems. Then there are the blondes, the dirty blondes and the slutty blondes. So if we throw out the red and blue, we’re left with 8 distinguishable hair colors.
Interestingly there are about 7 basic colors. So we must throw out the white hair, which isn’t really a color but an absence of color (white hairs are actually clear but they look white as light reflects off them – or something like that) so we have seven distinguishable hair colors. Men work in these tight confines of science ladies. If you take a gallon of blue paint and throw in four drops of yellow, technically you have a different color – Early Morning Sunrise – or something equally barf-inducing … but what you really have is…BLUE. A million times out of a million, a guy will see blue (providing he’s not color blind and even if he is, he’s not losing a lot in the way of chromo-fidelity if you think about it).
So, just to see if I might be wrong, I did a little research (very little as none of you freeloaders are actually paying me to do this). Our friends at Clairol list the following: six shades of blond (slutty not among them oddly enough); 8 shades of brown; 1 shade of black; and 3 of red.
Nice ‘n’ Easy – 44 shades of colors.
But below is my favorite – from a website I’m not going to drive any more people to view, but whose authors obviously have more free time on their hands than I do. Below you will find, with helpful definitions – including dictionary definitions – 9 blonds, 4 reds, 8 browns, 3 blacks, 5 grays, and 2 whites. Everything in italics is exactly from the site with no meddling from me:
- Blond – ash
- Blond – bronze. Dictionary definition: 1. Any of various alloys of copper and tin, 2. A moderate yellowish to olive brown. By contrast, "brassy" means cheap, showy, and artificial.
- Blond – flaxen. Dictionary definition: Having the pale yellow color of flax fiber.
- Blond - ginger.
- Blond – golden
- Blond – honey
- Blond – platinum. Dictionary definition: A very light silver-blond hair color, esp. when artificially produced.
- Blond – tawny
- Blond – wheaten
- Red – auburn
- Red – copper
- Red – flaming
- Red – strawberry blond.
- Brown – ash
- Brown – ginger. See Blond - ginger.
- Brown – sandy. Dictionary definition: the color of sand; yellowish red.
- Brown – chestnut. Dictionary Definition: Of a grayish brown to moderate reddish brown. Again, forget the grayish part of the dictionary definition. Chestnut hair is a warm medium-brown with a hint of reddish or orange tones.
- Brown – russet. Dictionary Definition: 1. A moderate to strong brown. 2. A coarse reddish-brown to brown homespun cloth. 3. A winter apple with a rough reddish-brown skin. I've got to admit here at Obsidianbookshelf.com that I don't know what a "strong brown" is. I think of russet color as an attractive medium reddish-brown.
- Brown – russet. See Red - russet
- Brown – sable. Dictionary definition: 1. A carnivorous mammal … having soft dark fur, 2. The color black, esp. in heraldry. 3. A grayish yellowish brown.
- Brown – sorrel. Dictionary definition: 1. A brownish orange to light brown, 2. A sorrel-colored horse.
- Black – jet. Dictionary definition: 1. A dense black coal that takes a high polish and is used for jewelry. 2. A deep black. Jet black hair is a cliché. If you must use it, write it as "jet black" and not "jet."
- Black – raven. Raven hair is a cliché. A shiny true black with blue highlights.
- Black – sooty black. A soft true black like coal. Always describe it as "sooty black" rather than "sooty" so it's clear that you don't mean literally covered with soot.
- Gray – ash
- Gray – iron
- Gray – salt and pepper. This refers to an even mix of gray hair and dark hair. It can look very attractive.
- Gray – silver
- Gray – steel
- White – pearl. Always write it as "pearl white hair" rather than "pearl hair". This refers to white hair with a soft luminous glow like pearls.
- White – snow, snowy, snow-white. All clichés.
Now, despite this mesmerizing amount of hair paint, I couldn’t find anything to slightly darken my graying sides. Not one box of a male person wanting to make his move into or from ‘ash’.
But, I’m ok with that because now when I go for an interview and am filling out my application where it says hair color, I’ll just say, “Iron” or if I’m in a particularly good mood, “steel”.
I feel improved already.
Improving myself, apparently involves cosmetics. Now the women who read this would scoff at calling what I’m about to describe as cosmetics in any description they’re familiar with, but ladies, this ain’t about you.
So after discussing with me in some detail my numerous and apparently glaring skin and hair-related issues, Shadow lovingly sent me packing to the store with a list of stuff to buy – and with that, an expectation to actually use it.
Before leaving, I decided to do a self-inspection just to see if there were any justification for her suggestions. Thankfully, I had fully cleaned my large bathroom mirror the day before and was therefore entranced to find that at 42 I do not have the silky smooth and handsomely tanned skin of my youth. In fact, you could say it was rugged. Not in the manly “mountains as seen from a distance” rugged, but more in the “over-confident weekend climb up the never-fricking’-ending state park scenic hike” rugged. In other words I had Hobbit ears and feet and for the most part looked like I should have finished molting some time ago.
So I’m driving to the store.
Remember a few months back when I bought reed diffusers and I likened it to the first time buying condoms or feminine hygiene products? This was like that except that I was hoping to find reed diffusers.
I first noticed the lack of chromosomes as I was laughing to myself that there were actually “tools” to assist in the removal of acne. Ironically, these tools were six inches from the fake fingernails so I had to assume someone had a sense of humor and that there was probably a hidden camera somewhere. Regardless, I grabbed a packet of tweezers, clippers, files, brushes and those cute little scissors with the rounded points that you can run around the house as much as you want with while singing the nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah song – and then I made my way around the corner.
The store apparently has an entire section devoted to apricot face scrub. Men, this is where your wives and girlfriends are. All of them. These aisles are the department store equivalent of the ladies restroom at a restaurant. The women hunt in packs and they are fiercely protective of their territory.
It was here, while I was staring befuddled at the array of face scrubs that I had that prickling sensation at the back of my neck and I slowly looked to my left. Four women immediately looked down at whatever they were holding. They had grouped together like herd animals determined to drive an invader off their territory and there was no hint of civility. To break the tension I started to ask the least skittish which she would recommend. When it looked like she might actually help me, the other three, whom I sure were not in any way acquaintances of her for more than 3 minutes, circled around her and moved her down the aisle, there to re-establish their collective glare.
In trying to find words to describe this I cannot place an adequate term within the sphere of cosmetetological reference so I have to borrow from dating parlance which isn't entirely accurate but, let's be honest, it's kind of funny … I was cock-blocked. By three strangers. All because I wanted to know the cleansing merits of a particular apricot facial scrub.
In the several seconds it took to process what had happened I quickly took whatever product it was I was holding and ran for cover only to find myself in…the hair color aisle.
Now, I hate to do this to you but I feel it necessary. There are, in fact, 12 human genes that control hair color. Now, I know as much about genetics as I do about hair care products and I’m not even sure what all these genes do (none of them actually), but if you are interested in this kind of thing, here they are:
ID Symbol Location
1638 DCT 13q32
2315 MLANA 9p24.1
4157 MC1R 16q24.3 (This regulates mammalian hair color)
4158 MC2R 18p11.2
4644 MY05A 15q21
4948 OCA2 15q
5367 PMCH 12q23.2
5443 POMC 2p23.3
6490 SILV 12q13-q14
7299 TYR 11q14-q21
7306 TYRP1 9p23
79083 MLPH 2q37.3
So, what does all this science gobbledeegook have to do with hair color? Well, according to some marketing geek somewhere, there are more than 40 different hair colors.
I’ve known people with black and brown hair, those are easy. Then there is gray like me, white like my dad and blue like the really old ladies and the punk rockers. There are red heads – and while there may be shades, it doesn’t really matter unless it’s fire-truck red but those people have a whole other set of problems. Then there are the blondes, the dirty blondes and the slutty blondes. So if we throw out the red and blue, we’re left with 8 distinguishable hair colors.
Interestingly there are about 7 basic colors. So we must throw out the white hair, which isn’t really a color but an absence of color (white hairs are actually clear but they look white as light reflects off them – or something like that) so we have seven distinguishable hair colors. Men work in these tight confines of science ladies. If you take a gallon of blue paint and throw in four drops of yellow, technically you have a different color – Early Morning Sunrise – or something equally barf-inducing … but what you really have is…BLUE. A million times out of a million, a guy will see blue (providing he’s not color blind and even if he is, he’s not losing a lot in the way of chromo-fidelity if you think about it).
So, just to see if I might be wrong, I did a little research (very little as none of you freeloaders are actually paying me to do this). Our friends at Clairol list the following: six shades of blond (slutty not among them oddly enough); 8 shades of brown; 1 shade of black; and 3 of red.
Nice ‘n’ Easy – 44 shades of colors.
But below is my favorite – from a website I’m not going to drive any more people to view, but whose authors obviously have more free time on their hands than I do. Below you will find, with helpful definitions – including dictionary definitions – 9 blonds, 4 reds, 8 browns, 3 blacks, 5 grays, and 2 whites. Everything in italics is exactly from the site with no meddling from me:
- Blond – ash
- Blond – bronze. Dictionary definition: 1. Any of various alloys of copper and tin, 2. A moderate yellowish to olive brown. By contrast, "brassy" means cheap, showy, and artificial.
- Blond – flaxen. Dictionary definition: Having the pale yellow color of flax fiber.
- Blond - ginger.
- Blond – golden
- Blond – honey
- Blond – platinum. Dictionary definition: A very light silver-blond hair color, esp. when artificially produced.
- Blond – tawny
- Blond – wheaten
- Red – auburn
- Red – copper
- Red – flaming
- Red – strawberry blond.
- Brown – ash
- Brown – ginger. See Blond - ginger.
- Brown – sandy. Dictionary definition: the color of sand; yellowish red.
- Brown – chestnut. Dictionary Definition: Of a grayish brown to moderate reddish brown. Again, forget the grayish part of the dictionary definition. Chestnut hair is a warm medium-brown with a hint of reddish or orange tones.
- Brown – russet. Dictionary Definition: 1. A moderate to strong brown. 2. A coarse reddish-brown to brown homespun cloth. 3. A winter apple with a rough reddish-brown skin. I've got to admit here at Obsidianbookshelf.com that I don't know what a "strong brown" is. I think of russet color as an attractive medium reddish-brown.
- Brown – russet. See Red - russet
- Brown – sable. Dictionary definition: 1. A carnivorous mammal … having soft dark fur, 2. The color black, esp. in heraldry. 3. A grayish yellowish brown.
- Brown – sorrel. Dictionary definition: 1. A brownish orange to light brown, 2. A sorrel-colored horse.
- Black – jet. Dictionary definition: 1. A dense black coal that takes a high polish and is used for jewelry. 2. A deep black. Jet black hair is a cliché. If you must use it, write it as "jet black" and not "jet."
- Black – raven. Raven hair is a cliché. A shiny true black with blue highlights.
- Black – sooty black. A soft true black like coal. Always describe it as "sooty black" rather than "sooty" so it's clear that you don't mean literally covered with soot.
- Gray – ash
- Gray – iron
- Gray – salt and pepper. This refers to an even mix of gray hair and dark hair. It can look very attractive.
- Gray – silver
- Gray – steel
- White – pearl. Always write it as "pearl white hair" rather than "pearl hair". This refers to white hair with a soft luminous glow like pearls.
- White – snow, snowy, snow-white. All clichés.
Now, despite this mesmerizing amount of hair paint, I couldn’t find anything to slightly darken my graying sides. Not one box of a male person wanting to make his move into or from ‘ash’.
But, I’m ok with that because now when I go for an interview and am filling out my application where it says hair color, I’ll just say, “Iron” or if I’m in a particularly good mood, “steel”.
I feel improved already.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Desert Storm Plus 20 - Who eats this?
Part 3 of 3. (Aren't you glad it wasn't a longer war?)
A couple weeks after returning home from my ‘adventure’ watching TV at Little Rissington, Shadow and I were at home – it was Sunday. And the phone rang and it was my boss, Satan’s daughter.
I’m not a severely religious person but there must be a God because I worked for the Devil’s progeny. There’s no doubt in my mind. I mean, I can’t prove it, but all the signs were there – her head spun around in complete circles, Bibles spontaneously combusted near her. But that’s not the point and I don’t want to go down that particular rabbit trail, because there was work to be done in Turkey.
You see, when 500,000 coalition members made scrap metal out of most of Iraq’s army, thousands upon thousands of Kurdish-Iraqis ran into the hills of Northern Iraq. These weren’t peasants who didn’t understand – many were well-educated people. Doctors, accountants – people from all professional walks of life – even lawyers. And they did understand. They understood that Saddam Hussein had used poison gas on them several years back and he was not in a terribly good mood with just one pizza delivery place left standing in Baghdad. They had to get out of town.
And this is what they did. They drove. They literally drove north until their cars ran out of gas and then they got out and walked – into some really big mountains. It was the first week of April. They didn’t have food, much in the way of clothing or anything else.
It seems kind of odd to us looking at a seething mass of humanity walking into the wilderness like that, but at some point, fear and the recognition of who the really bad people are will drive everyone to the lowest rung of Maslow’s hierarchy. They needed to survive. A chance in the wilderness was better than fat chance in their homes and towns.
Here’s the kicker though – they were heading toward Turkey. If there is a population on this planet that dislikes the Kurds as much as Saddam Hussein, it’s the Turks.
First a little history/geography lesson. Kurdistan, historically, is made up of bits of northern Iraq and Syria and quite a good chunk of eastern/central Turkey. In fact, a little town called Diyarbakir was the capital of Kurdistan. At least this is what I was told by a British Ministry of Defence official I hung out with for a while as we were standing on the walled city of Diyarbakir overlooking a bridge built in 1065 that spans the Tigres and one of the four potential spots Biblical Scholars think the Garden of Eden may have been. It is a land of some contrast. But I digress.
So, about 2 days after this phone call, I’m in Turkey, near Ankara, watching one of my co-workers very slowly win several thousand dollars at roulette in the hotel’s basement casino. And my boss tells me to get on a helicopter because I’m heading east.
If you ever have a chance to fly on a Chinook helicopter – go get dental surgery or something. It’s really not comfortable – especially on the floor, for two hours.
When they dropped me off, I wasn’t at the small American Air Base 15 miles away. No, they had sent me to the Turkish Air Base in Diyarbakir itself. From there, the army was launching helicopters loaded with food and other supplies brought in by aircraft from dozens of countries to the airfield at Diyarbakir. On any given day you could find Saudi, American, British, Russian, Dutch, German – any one of a number of countries’ aircraft on the ramp. I know all this because the tent I worked out of was, and I am being very literal about this – about 10 yards from the edge of the parking apron.
For entertainment we’d watch Turkish pilots flying F-104 Starfighters (aircraft we hadn’t flown since the ‘60s). Our tent was on a strip of grass about 50 meters or so wide from the parking apron to the perimeter road around the base. About another 50 meters or so on the other side of the fence near the perimeter road was the Turkish bombing/gunnery range. We would watch the rockets detach from the airplanes and shoot toward their targets. Note, I didn’t say hit their targets. They didn’t seem to be very good shots but we enjoyed the show and dutifully held up signs to score their bombing runs.
We were lucky in that we had a Turkish fighter pilot help us out as an interpreter and such. In the couple months I was there I taught him to play cribbage, which he got quite good at. He was helping us because he was no longer allowed to fly.
“I got married to a Romanian girl,” he explained, taking out his wallet to show me a picture. “In Turkish Air Force, if you marry a foreigner, you lose your security clearance and they kick you out.” He leaned in to me and whispered, “It cost me $400 (US) to get married. When I’m out of Air Force, I pay her another $400 for divorce. I’ve got a job lined up with Turkish airline which pays much better.”
What I really learned from this deployment, then, was that people really aren’t so different no matter where you go. For him, he told me Diyarbakir was the TAF’s ‘shit base’ that no one wants to go to. Fantastic. And he also explained a little about the Turkish conscripts. Mandatory service was part of the deal then and conscripts were essentially third class citizens. I had heard stories of conscripts being shot out of hand.
“Well, if they do something really bad, like sleep on guard duty, then yes, I can just shoot them,” the officer told me. “But it’s not something you want to do too often because eventually they’ll start asking questions and there’s paperwork…”
And here’s the thing … he was not joking. This was a guy I’d spent a lot of time teaching to play cribbage and I had a pretty good sense of when he was or was not joking. In this case, he wasn’t.
So as part of my job here, other than providing media credentials to the more than 700 international media who moved through the place in about 3 weeks, we got to go on C-130 flights to deliver food and on helicopter flights where we’d stop at various places and watch Iraqi POWs playing soccer and really behaving like they were in absolutely no hurry to go south again.
The whole process of providing for the Kurds was a logistical nightmare and while I’m not one to get into the ‘we’re number one’ nonsense that so many Americans seem fond of, I’m quite sure no other country in the world could have pulled off what we did.
The sheer amount of tents, blankets, food, water, baby food and other supplies that we airlifted over some pretty big mountains and to some pretty remote places was astounding. The US Army was doing serious work herding all those people together.
I know ‘herding’ doesn’t sound good, but it’s true. As pallets of food and water were dropped (with parachutes obviously) some younger (and dumber) Kurds would race out to where the pallets were falling. Inevitably…well, do the math. It’s not likely you’re going to catch a two-ton pallet. Even with a parachute. The flight crews were devastated by this – I mean, they’re trying to help folks, not kill them.
So they started herding people up in groups and dropping the supplies several miles away. This made for more orderly distribution and people weren’t grabbing and hoarding everything. At the same time all this is going on, we’re trying to figure out how to get these people back home – because let’s face it, the Turks don’t want them. So there were dozens of soldiers essentially being auto mechanics. Going south and fixing and refueling all these cars that had been left there on the sides of the roads.
Aside from the human drama of it all – I think what amazed me most was that despite their condition – half starving – many Kurds refused to eat Chicken A La King MREs. If you don’t know MREs are Meals Ready to Eat. (non politically-correctly referred to in Desert Storm as “Meals Rejected by Ethiopians”) They were fairly new to the US forces in 1991. They’d only replaced C-rations about 5-7 years before. And they were awful. No amount of Tobasco sauce (which they all had in them in little tiny bottles) would make them better.
The British RAF officers and NCOs in the tent next to ours would gag when we tore into them. “Gad, man, if you’re going to eat that at least you could heat it,” they’d say as they opened up a 10 pound box of British rations that had tea, good chocolate, bacon and real food that required cooking utensils and fire.
An MRE packet contained a spork.
So on the hillsides of northern Iraq, where thousands of Kurds waited to be fed there were hundreds if not thousands, of unopened Chicken ala king packages. I think there were more than a few Cherry Nut Cake as well.
It was kind of ironic that the same military force that could unleash such devastation and just as quickly turn around and launch what amounted to an enormous rescue mission, was subsisting on food the rescued wouldn’t eat.
I often wonder if they laughed about that in their tents at night.
A couple weeks after returning home from my ‘adventure’ watching TV at Little Rissington, Shadow and I were at home – it was Sunday. And the phone rang and it was my boss, Satan’s daughter.
I’m not a severely religious person but there must be a God because I worked for the Devil’s progeny. There’s no doubt in my mind. I mean, I can’t prove it, but all the signs were there – her head spun around in complete circles, Bibles spontaneously combusted near her. But that’s not the point and I don’t want to go down that particular rabbit trail, because there was work to be done in Turkey.
You see, when 500,000 coalition members made scrap metal out of most of Iraq’s army, thousands upon thousands of Kurdish-Iraqis ran into the hills of Northern Iraq. These weren’t peasants who didn’t understand – many were well-educated people. Doctors, accountants – people from all professional walks of life – even lawyers. And they did understand. They understood that Saddam Hussein had used poison gas on them several years back and he was not in a terribly good mood with just one pizza delivery place left standing in Baghdad. They had to get out of town.
And this is what they did. They drove. They literally drove north until their cars ran out of gas and then they got out and walked – into some really big mountains. It was the first week of April. They didn’t have food, much in the way of clothing or anything else.
It seems kind of odd to us looking at a seething mass of humanity walking into the wilderness like that, but at some point, fear and the recognition of who the really bad people are will drive everyone to the lowest rung of Maslow’s hierarchy. They needed to survive. A chance in the wilderness was better than fat chance in their homes and towns.
Here’s the kicker though – they were heading toward Turkey. If there is a population on this planet that dislikes the Kurds as much as Saddam Hussein, it’s the Turks.
First a little history/geography lesson. Kurdistan, historically, is made up of bits of northern Iraq and Syria and quite a good chunk of eastern/central Turkey. In fact, a little town called Diyarbakir was the capital of Kurdistan. At least this is what I was told by a British Ministry of Defence official I hung out with for a while as we were standing on the walled city of Diyarbakir overlooking a bridge built in 1065 that spans the Tigres and one of the four potential spots Biblical Scholars think the Garden of Eden may have been. It is a land of some contrast. But I digress.
So, about 2 days after this phone call, I’m in Turkey, near Ankara, watching one of my co-workers very slowly win several thousand dollars at roulette in the hotel’s basement casino. And my boss tells me to get on a helicopter because I’m heading east.
If you ever have a chance to fly on a Chinook helicopter – go get dental surgery or something. It’s really not comfortable – especially on the floor, for two hours.
When they dropped me off, I wasn’t at the small American Air Base 15 miles away. No, they had sent me to the Turkish Air Base in Diyarbakir itself. From there, the army was launching helicopters loaded with food and other supplies brought in by aircraft from dozens of countries to the airfield at Diyarbakir. On any given day you could find Saudi, American, British, Russian, Dutch, German – any one of a number of countries’ aircraft on the ramp. I know all this because the tent I worked out of was, and I am being very literal about this – about 10 yards from the edge of the parking apron.
For entertainment we’d watch Turkish pilots flying F-104 Starfighters (aircraft we hadn’t flown since the ‘60s). Our tent was on a strip of grass about 50 meters or so wide from the parking apron to the perimeter road around the base. About another 50 meters or so on the other side of the fence near the perimeter road was the Turkish bombing/gunnery range. We would watch the rockets detach from the airplanes and shoot toward their targets. Note, I didn’t say hit their targets. They didn’t seem to be very good shots but we enjoyed the show and dutifully held up signs to score their bombing runs.
We were lucky in that we had a Turkish fighter pilot help us out as an interpreter and such. In the couple months I was there I taught him to play cribbage, which he got quite good at. He was helping us because he was no longer allowed to fly.
“I got married to a Romanian girl,” he explained, taking out his wallet to show me a picture. “In Turkish Air Force, if you marry a foreigner, you lose your security clearance and they kick you out.” He leaned in to me and whispered, “It cost me $400 (US) to get married. When I’m out of Air Force, I pay her another $400 for divorce. I’ve got a job lined up with Turkish airline which pays much better.”
What I really learned from this deployment, then, was that people really aren’t so different no matter where you go. For him, he told me Diyarbakir was the TAF’s ‘shit base’ that no one wants to go to. Fantastic. And he also explained a little about the Turkish conscripts. Mandatory service was part of the deal then and conscripts were essentially third class citizens. I had heard stories of conscripts being shot out of hand.
“Well, if they do something really bad, like sleep on guard duty, then yes, I can just shoot them,” the officer told me. “But it’s not something you want to do too often because eventually they’ll start asking questions and there’s paperwork…”
And here’s the thing … he was not joking. This was a guy I’d spent a lot of time teaching to play cribbage and I had a pretty good sense of when he was or was not joking. In this case, he wasn’t.
So as part of my job here, other than providing media credentials to the more than 700 international media who moved through the place in about 3 weeks, we got to go on C-130 flights to deliver food and on helicopter flights where we’d stop at various places and watch Iraqi POWs playing soccer and really behaving like they were in absolutely no hurry to go south again.
The whole process of providing for the Kurds was a logistical nightmare and while I’m not one to get into the ‘we’re number one’ nonsense that so many Americans seem fond of, I’m quite sure no other country in the world could have pulled off what we did.
The sheer amount of tents, blankets, food, water, baby food and other supplies that we airlifted over some pretty big mountains and to some pretty remote places was astounding. The US Army was doing serious work herding all those people together.
I know ‘herding’ doesn’t sound good, but it’s true. As pallets of food and water were dropped (with parachutes obviously) some younger (and dumber) Kurds would race out to where the pallets were falling. Inevitably…well, do the math. It’s not likely you’re going to catch a two-ton pallet. Even with a parachute. The flight crews were devastated by this – I mean, they’re trying to help folks, not kill them.
So they started herding people up in groups and dropping the supplies several miles away. This made for more orderly distribution and people weren’t grabbing and hoarding everything. At the same time all this is going on, we’re trying to figure out how to get these people back home – because let’s face it, the Turks don’t want them. So there were dozens of soldiers essentially being auto mechanics. Going south and fixing and refueling all these cars that had been left there on the sides of the roads.
Aside from the human drama of it all – I think what amazed me most was that despite their condition – half starving – many Kurds refused to eat Chicken A La King MREs. If you don’t know MREs are Meals Ready to Eat. (non politically-correctly referred to in Desert Storm as “Meals Rejected by Ethiopians”) They were fairly new to the US forces in 1991. They’d only replaced C-rations about 5-7 years before. And they were awful. No amount of Tobasco sauce (which they all had in them in little tiny bottles) would make them better.
The British RAF officers and NCOs in the tent next to ours would gag when we tore into them. “Gad, man, if you’re going to eat that at least you could heat it,” they’d say as they opened up a 10 pound box of British rations that had tea, good chocolate, bacon and real food that required cooking utensils and fire.
An MRE packet contained a spork.
So on the hillsides of northern Iraq, where thousands of Kurds waited to be fed there were hundreds if not thousands, of unopened Chicken ala king packages. I think there were more than a few Cherry Nut Cake as well.
It was kind of ironic that the same military force that could unleash such devastation and just as quickly turn around and launch what amounted to an enormous rescue mission, was subsisting on food the rescued wouldn’t eat.
I often wonder if they laughed about that in their tents at night.
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