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Sunday, March 11, 2012

Ear Hairs & Moon Pies

March 11, 2012: Two things are on my mind right now -- these gorgeous peanut butter moon pies I just bought for my daughter, which I hear whispering to me from downstairs in a gelatinous siren-like song of sugar love -- and my poor burning beet-red ears, which I've spent the last 15 minutes abusing with an ineffectual tweezers in an ever-failing effort to successfully groom away the rampant growth of black hairs ... (Of course, there's SPACE CASE too, which relates to moon pies, but that's ALWAYS on ALL our minds, especially as it's so easily accessible in e-form on Amazon and B&N! So get your copy today ... Mr. Josh! >:- )

I just got a haircut yesterday, so I not only wanted to make my Sunday night straight-razor shave a good one, I wanted to do all I could to get all the other strange hairs out of the picture for at least a few days. As the months keep passing, more and more ear hairs show their ugly hairs, and as I have my own (probably fatuous) formula for contending with them -- an old pair of tweezers that doesn't close properly -- it's becoming an effort that feels earmarked (if you'll excuse the unintentional ha-ha) for failure.

It's a genuine mystery to me why, with my main hairs continuing to fall to grey and white, these awful ear hairs keep coming in blacker and blacker. I blame this one woman who cut my hair out in L.A. several years ago. Before I knew what was happening, she was in there with some tiny buzzing razor, mowing my ear like it was a public park. "Stop!" I yelled, but it was too late. Before that they'd been a sweet, invisible blonde down, barely noticeable, unless you happened to be in their with a Q-tip while I was asleep. Everyone knows that once you start trimming the things, they only get coarser and blacker ... maybe angrier too. (Imagine how hard it was for me to have to tip her, too, being she was a friend of my wife's ... and mine, I guess, at least up until THAT point.)

Speaking of L.A., I knew a lovely Indian man out there who had the thickest ear hair you could ever imagine. (I wish he were here now, living in Connecticut, for the juxtaposition would certainly make me feel better about mine.) He had what looked like two black and grey mice sitting in his ears (one in each). I mention that he was Indian not only because I'm prejudice -- oh, you know I'm kidding, EJ -- but also because I think it had something to do with his genes (if not his culture). And speaking racial genetics, little does my poor son know what he's due to face in his ears in the decades ahead with that rancid Sicilian blood bubbling through his veins, making every growth a thick black one. I mean, we get all these great cooking skills and a formidable love-making ability, of course, but I have to fear taking my shirt off at the beach. (Chime in, Cousin Gary! This is your history as well!)

Not to change the subject, but I noticed I also gained a stinging cut on my inner-ear this evening. (Well, perhaps not my INNER ear, but certainly more INSIDE my ear than outside.) And how I got the cut is remarkably stupid (dumb Sicilian!) because I helped my cat do it. (Cat cut! Cat cut your tongue? No, my ear!) For some reason -- I'm STILL not even sure why -- I was hoisting our kitten -- Bob K. -- over my head while I was lying down, and placed him on my ear. (See, I was on the computer as this was happening, which I often work on lying on my stomach, which is how the computer is set up ... I think I explained this once, but no one listened to me then either.) Anyway, the cat just panicked and scratched my ear, and while I was investigating the hair factor, I happened upon this nasty little cut ... in my ear ... and of course, once I saw it, it hurt even more!

So, that's all I have to share tonight, because I'm really, really thinking a lot about that moon pie right now. I will see how good it is ... or perhaps THEY are, presently ... and then I'll hope throughout the long, still-caffeinated night that my sometimes up-fluxing gullet doesn't demand that I barf moon pies out across the flannel bedsheets in this sweet mid-March evening of my Connecticut ...

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