Buzzz!

I love my electric shaver. I say this in full awareness of and with no intention to offend men who prefer manual razors, and especially with no intention to offend those who would be awakened every morning by my annoying buzz, if only I woke up early enough to cause annoyance. No intention, but a sad expectation.

There was a time when using an electric shaver was an unmitigated joy. That was back in the day when my voice could hit the same notes as Carrie Underwood and my stubble was just beginning to deserve that name (as opposed to “down”). I listened with grown up elation to the motorized hum of the shaver combining pleasantly with the crisp snipping sound of decapitated hair. Sure, I had spent prior years playing it tough when my pre-teen friends told me how they longed to shave. “Won’t that be cool?” they would ask. “No,” I would answer with a knowing shrug. “Just another chore.” But deep down, I was straining to make my whiskers grow and urging my follicles into productivity with every ounce of inner effort. And I felt pretty manly when my growth justified the whacker.

A few years later though, when time had done its work, using my electric shaver was anything but an unmitigated joy. There was a particular morning when the moment of truth arrived. I sprang out of bed at half past five, hoping to beat everyone else in the hotel room to the bathroom and complete my morning routine. That's when I realized that the noise of my buzzing contraption was going to fall on welcome ears. I looked at my shaver, and then at the slumbering males a few feet away. Even when they were awake, what would they think of my device? I furtively stuck it in my bag, showered, and waited, hoping beyond hope that another member of the group would turn on an electric shaver.

But no—one by one they entered the bathroom, and one by one they came out with fresh, unwhiskered faces, not having emitted a tone of automated noise. I rubbed my cheek in despair, and left the room with everyone else, wondering whether I looked sloppy or sexy. Maybe my stubble, like the holes and paint stains on my jeans or the knots normally in my hair, would be taken for a planned designer look rather than mere carelessness.

Maybe, but given my general preferences, probably not. In that raging debate over the rugged, whiskered look versus the cleaner and trimmer styles, I generally take the saner and smoother side. I use more than the beard-trimmer on my electric razor. I am not one of those men—the ones who think girls can be wooed with bristly, unkept cheekbones. In fact, I do not even observe with my colleagues the sacrosanct tradition referred to as “No-Shave November.”

Tangent: Participants in No-Shave November let the razors lie for all of that month, hoping in the interval to “grow more bestial, brutish, and manly.” The first two of those adjectives are quite appropriate, but the last one applies only occasionally. Some organizations have tried to civilize No-Shave November by funneling all the effort into a non-profit cause, but so far they have been largely unsuccessful. Primitive (i.e. college-age) man does not take easily to civilization.

Another Tangent: No-Shave November is most common among white, nerdy males. I do not participate in it because I am only a nerdy male, not the other thing. While I am entitled to check the “White/Caucasian” box on forms and surveys, my Mediterranean blood makes shave-fasting an impracticality. Like my Mediterranean compatriots, I had a bushy uno-brow by the time I was eleven, and grew whiskers before many of my peers. I also apprehend the day when I shall grow hair on my back. I spare you further details, gentle reader, but see this link for the general idea.

Another Other Tangent: Yes, the link is worth clicking. I know that some people get carried away with hyperlinks, falling prey to a reprehensible link fanaticism. Far be it from me to do so! All my links are relevant, informative, and hard to find.

As I was saying, I think that the smoother the cut, the better. Manual-razorites often concur with this opinion, in a vague, uninformed sort of way, and try to compensate for their bad razors by adding blades. Consequently, a comical one-upmanship pervades the market of inferior (non-electric) razors. You see, in the beginning there was The Razor. It was a simple, elegant blade fashioned in such a general and unspecialized manner that it was as useful for cutting throats as it was for hair (I’m not violent; I get my ideas from Faulkner’s novels). Then, probably to make amends, there was the Safety Razor, designed to prevent cuts. Then some genius created the double-bladed razor. Not to be outdone, another genius created a triple-bladed razor. Now, razors generally have a minimum of three blades, and sometimes five, or even, rumor has it, seven. Some moron of a CEO has even decided to produce a nine-bladed one, apparently hoping to make people look like this. Probably the next hot item will be the Armadillo Razor, a clump of moving, biting blades with no handle at all.

“Why would anyone use so many blades,” practical, electrically-savvy people like me are inclined to ask. The answer is probably quite simple: to shave faster. Yes, there are some who think shaving is a “therapeutic process,” a time to enjoy “the smell of the shaving cream, warm water on your skin and a good 15-20 minutes of personal reflection.” Maybe you know such people—the kind that shave so close they could remove a real shadow, not to mention a metaphorical one. Evidently, these are the kind of people who work at The Art of Shaving, a chain of stores with a location near you. But the majority of razor users think that a nine-bladed razor will let them approach the five minute shave that is, according to one site, possible with an electric shaver.

Of course, I belong to neither category. With my trusty electric apparatus, I can have myself buzzed clean in a single minute. And have you awake, as a part of the bargain.

Punishing a broken watch

Meet my watch. It is one of the few pieces of electronics that I haven't named. I purchased my watch late last year and was so proud of my new toy that I wrote a post about it. In that post, I lauded the features and abilities of my watch, including its 200 lap memory, which actually turned out to be more of a detriment than an advantage.

A week ago my watch broke. Something snapped in its silicon brain and it went all Charles Manson on me, squealing and flashing away in a way that can only be described as chronological. Anyway, it wouldn't tell time anymore.

I couldn't let my watch get away with this rebellion without some kind of punishment. I needed a deterrent to show the rest of the electronic world that giving up - even if that surrender is justified by valid medical reasons - will not be tolerated.

With N toting the camera, I took the offending watch outside to the concrete pad in front of my house and delivered the kind of swift punishment that would have, in another time and place, make me famous. In four strokes of my hammer, the damage was done. My watch will never disappoint another owner again.

Enjoy the photo essay...

Like the snake snuggling with the rat, the crazy watch nestled against the hammer.

The watch is in position and the hammer is poised to smash. I could almost see the watch's face flinch.

The glass is smashed, but the job is not done.

The faceplate broke into a fine powder that shone brightly in the late Spring heat.

This is one watch that will never again tell time.

Two smashes later, my watch was warning all the other electronics in the area to be good.

A million pieces.

A = E, I = U

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Runaway Car

On my way to school the other morning, I swung by the gas station to fill up the seemingly bottomless tank on my car. If you think this post is going to about the high price of gasoline, you read way too much FCN. For once, we are deviating from this popular and very relevant theme to discuss another pressing issue at the pump.

But, as long as we are on the subject - and I am already prejudged a oil price junkie - my latest fill up was ridiculously expensive. I would write the total price down, but most of the faithful FCN few would find it too fantastic to believe. So, I scanned my receipt, blotted out a few private and unimportant details and posted it to the right for you to enjoy and be amazed at (click to enlarge).

A little topography before we continue: My filling station of choice is situated at the top of a small rise. It isn't any great hill or imposing mountain (I live in the central valley for Quetzalcoatl's sake), but it is enough of an elevation increase to deserve a mention.

So back to the story: I pulled in front of the pump (#5, as the receipt will testify) and hopped out of my car, locking the door behind me. I was careful to bring my keys with me. I waltzed (1,2,3-1,2,3) over to the pump and began fiddling with the "easy to use" pay-at-the-pump feature. The screen was asking me to enter something, but the morning sun behind me created a glare that rendered the request incomprehensible. I put my keys on top of the pump and used my hand to shield the sun. After I punched in my zip code, I selected my grade and turned around to begin pumping.

That's when I noticed that my car was nowhere to be seen. I'd heard about people stealing vehicles while their owners where purchasing gasoline, but I'd never been a victim of such a brazen crime. Still, I hadn't heard the car start and it was possible...

There, not fifteen feet from where I had parked it, my car was creeping forward and no one was sitting behind the wheel. My car was stealing itself!

Quickly, I replaced the nozzle in the guzzle and sprinted to the door. Locked! And in my haste to get over I had forgotten my keys! I ran over to the other side of the car and tried the passenger side door, to no avail. I tried the trunk, irrationally thinking that it might be unlocked. It wasn't. Had it been unlocked, I have no idea what I would have done, although the idea of me riding in the trunk of my unmanned car does have a flippant nonchalance, like something Charlie Chaplin might do (WWCCD?).

I looked up at the rest of the parking lot and mentally projected a trajectory for my uncontrolled vehicle. It was headed right for the road. While traffic was lazy, it was present and images of my car looking like bad coleslaw flashed through my mind.

Maybe, I thought, I could run to the front of the car and push it to a halt. I started moving away from the trunk when I remembered the gentleman in Tiananemen Square who held back the Chinese army by prancing in front of a column of tanks, but figured my car might not be as considerate as the red commies. Standing in front of an unmanned mobile vehicle is not my idea of a fun school commute.

The consternation and requisite sweat were building when I remembered my keys sitting atop the pump. By the time I retrieved them, my car had merged into traffic.

I wish they put as much emphasis on teaching cars to drive as they do their drivers, because my car didn't know the first thing about the rules of the road: It didn't stop at a stop sign and merged without signaling. People sometimes say I drive dangerously. I say my car drives dangerously - I just go along for the ride.

There had to have been some kind of providential intervention on the scale of Moses and the Red Sea or at least "No Country For Old Men" for my car to have escaped unscathed. My keys and I arrived before the police or a human carjacker and I was able to safely navigate back to the pump.

Of course, as crazy an adrenaline rush as I got from that experience, it didn't come close to the buzz I got when I paid for the gas.

Todd's Double Entendre #1

Todd wakes up and performs the bread and butter functions of his morning routine (shower, shave and shine). Todd gets dressed in a nice suit, knowing he has a meeting with the big cheese at work. Todd's knows his boss likes to keep his finger in the pie and he doesn't want to risk upsetting the applecart. Meetings are not Todd's cup of tea and he was never very good at polishing the apple with his boss.

Downstairs, Todd grabs a fruitbar from a stash he has salted away and hurries to his car. The drive to work is slow and a traffic reporter on the radio spills the beans on an accident up the road. Some nut in a souped up truck lost control while doing something stupid. Fruitcake. Bad egg.

Todd is barely at the office ten minutes before his boss's secretary invites him into the main office. Todd sits down in one of the office's plush chairs and thinks again that his job is a gravy train. Very cushy.

His boss hasn't arrived yet, so Todd gets up to look at the family pictures on the office bookcase. One photo, positioned prominently among the rest, shows a smiling young girl with pony tails.

"Pretty, isn't she?" Todd's boss leans against the wall and smiles, adding: "She's the apple of my eye."

Todd returns to his plush chair and asks his boss how he can be of service.

"You're sure full of beans this morning," the boss says by way of humor. Seeing Todd's less than amused reaction, he adds: "Not to egg you on, or anything. I just think our approach to this new project should be as cool as a cucumber."

Inside, Todd is ecstatic. He got picked to head up the new project! And after Jack, a coworker, said he was getting the position, too. Todd knew he would make Jack eat crow. That couch potato! Jack was probably hitting the sauce right now instead of doing his job. Time for some humble pie, you conniving deceiver.

Todd makes a mental note to take a grain of salt with everything Jack says in the future.

"Our product is selling like hotcakes right now and we're getting our profits handed to us on a silver platter. Unfortunately, the market looks to be changing and unless we respond we'll have egg in our face. I know you're worth your salt, Todd, but this project is going to be a tough nut to crack. We are going to need you to put everything you have, the whole enchilada, on this and really bring home the bacon for the firm. You're the cream of the crop, but if you don't cut the cake, we'll drop you like a hot potato." The boss's short speech is delivered in an authoritative voice and Todd gets the meaning loud and clear.

"Piece of cake," Todd answer is delivered with a confident smile.

"Please don't make me make you eat those words." The boss stands up. The meeting is over.

After the meeting, Todd avoids the temptation to egg Jack on about his lie and instead lets his coworker stew in his own juices. Todd isn't happy with how he's handled Jack so far, but with the new project to worry about, he is in no position to cry over spilt milk.

Selbmarcd Lrettes

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