Random Thoughts: The A to Z Blog of the Overactive Mind

 Some of life's constants: - Gravity - Taxes - Acupuncture at 50 miles per hour whilst downhill skiing amongst the majestic pines. That last one... probably just me. But a universal constant is the fact that every person who lived through the 80's as a teen was nearly suffocated at some point... by their own hair. And I'm not just speaking figuratively . No, quite literally in fact. Choked out by a chemically-enhanced, ozone-depleting cumulus cloud; a beauty-pageant thunderhead surrounding the dome. If you weren't there, you might believe I'm prone to exaggeration. How adorable. But let me paint you a picture: Imagine your head. Now double it. Now picture it after it's been plugged in to a small nuclear reactor fueled by volumizing conditioner and hairspray. That's your baseline. We called it Monday. On special occasions we added mousse. 80's Hair Philosophy Went Something Like This: If you didn't have to turn sideways to enter through an interior d...

  This alphabetical experiment IS about to close, and before we try to pretend that it was always under control, I think it's only fair - bordering on ethical - to try and explain what this series has delivered to you, the reader, and why. It's all your fault. So this post isn't what about what you read. And it's not the post you needed, but the post you deserve. Outcomes matter, people! You continued to show up voluntarily... those kind of actions carry a little friend I like to call consequence. And consequence has many faces. Sleeplessness Yes, sleeplessness. Not the dramatic, stare-at-the-ceiling blame it on dark roast after 9pm kind.  This is the brain reboot. Like your mind saying, " Dude! You can't reopen long-closed mental tabs like that and expect me not to freak out." There, in between REM cycles, your snoring mind ponders a weird metaphor you read that shouldn't have worked, but somehow did. How? I don't know, I just write this stuff. J...

  There's a moment - the precision of which eludes me - when my brain stops trying to remember it belongs to a responsible adult human being and transforms into an organ belonging to an unsupervised improv troupe. It might be the coffee. It might be the fact it's usually 5am when I start these posts. It might be my duodenum trying to be a triodenum, who knows? Maybe that's just the hour when logic loosens its tie, reality checks its guns with the hostess, and my imagination starts inviting guests that would be unwelcome in anybody else's noodle. It's definitely the time when cryptids start making perfect sense and Dave becomes suspiciously involved in everything. I don't mean that Dave. I mean DAVE . The universal fall guy. The man who wasn't even real but was somehow responsible. The invisible dude we blame when admitting fault would generate paperwork. The need to apologize. Require personal growth. Clean other people's bathrooms. You know, that kind...

  I didn't have many girlfriends growing up. In fact, I didn't have any... unless you count fictional characters, dreams, and possibly that mannequin at Sears I accidentally made eye contact with. But that's literally another post. It wasn't that I was unattractive. Let me tell you, I had Geek Chic up the metaphorical and literal wazoo. Quite possibly the lateral one, too, thanks to a couple of school bullies who I choose to believe were just jealous. Or on steroids and couldn't manage the aggression.  And it wasn't that I couldn't dance, recite poetry or do anything else that social situations required in getting to know someone. My problem was in the little things, like making eye contact and saying things without sounding like an orangutan trying to explain that he was constipated. Ughggh! It definitely wasn't a lack of interest. Like any young man entering the clumsy, always hungry and adorable only to grandma stage of life, I had a healthy curiosit...

  Yes, this is another "there was a time" post. There Was a Time... ...tragically recent if you ask anyone over 30, when being bald meant one of three things: You were old. You were stressed. Your hair follicles had called it quits early and filed for permanent retirement. With no benefits. At the same time, nerds were relegated to basements, classrooms, lockers, libraries, and the occasional comic book store that smelled vaguely of nacho cheese and the Old Spice aftershave they'd snuck off their father's dresser to impress "the ladies." They never met "a lady." Plural form? Fuhget-about-it. But somewhere along the way, the universe either got enlightened or a little bit confused. Because now, bald is beautiful. Nerds rule. And, let's face it, the world hasn't been the same since. The Bald and the Beautiful... Once, bald men were compared to cue balls, bowling pins, roll-on deodorants with arms, babies bottoms, polished glass, and prematur...

  Because the Internet Was Still Using Training Wheels - a.k.a. "Books." Before - long before - social media and the sinister Mr. Al Gorithm decided for us which cat videos mattered the most, there was a simpler, louder and decidedly flammabl-er(?) time: the 1980's. A decade powered by synthesizers, questionable fashion choices, and hair so shellacked you could use it to cut through drywall in a pinch. It was also the decade that birthed a very specific form of social networking. It didn't require Wi-Fi, a vast army of followers, and didn't even know what public shame was. And it's chief architects? Valley Girls and Frat Boys.  Two tribes, dos vibes. But one unified goal: look totally rad and pretend you don't care who who's watching (even though you, like, totally did.) This wasn't 'networking' as we know it now. This was networking through proximity, copping a 'tude, and just  the right amount of aerosol to melt a medium-sized iceber...

  We live in a world where everything has become a side hustle. People have "missions" now, not just jobs. Jobs don't cut it. Unless they're butchers. Or provide circumcisions.  Your accountant is secretly a weekend beekeeper and sells honey door to door. The dentist runs a TikTok that rates hotel pillows. And Uber drivers? Let's just say some of those barbarians of the road act like they're on an assignment for the CIA. This came true for me a week ago when I found myself in the backseat of a 1994 Toyota Corolla doing 126 in a 40 zone driven by what can only be described as a hairy, deranged lunatic who considered himself the best of the best of Undercover Ubers. And he smelled of canned cheese. The kind with a spray nozzle. Operation: Ride Share It started off like any other ride request. I tapped the app and began watching the little digital car zigzag toward me on the map. I waited. A nondescript sedan showed up. How nondescript? It was the kind of car tha...

Ever had one of those days where you feel like you were designed to take on absolutely anything other than the task at hand?  If so, like me you are the human embodiment of the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex. At 40 feet long and with a head and jaws powerful enough to eat a Jeep Cherokee with Dave driving, mighty T-rex was one imposing dude. Yet, he also had arms so comedically undersized that he couldn't pick his own nose. You know what? Let's go with scratch. Scratch his own nose. More socially acceptable, and less bizarre nightmare fuel. Still... imagine. Being King Lizard, lord of the dinosaurs and apex predator of apex predators, yet needing to employ the buddy system to put on deodorant or zip up your pants. Yet, T-Rex thrived despite looking like an oversized beach ball with toothpick arms. So, there's probably hope for us, too. Tiny Arms, Big Problems The mental image of a T-Rex trying to perform basic tasks with those woefully tiny arms is hilarious. Imagine those tiny a...