This is the scene of my recent haircut, where I fulfilled the lifelong dream of getting my hair cut somewhere where Miller High Life posters were hung.
For the first time in more than a year or so, I went and got a haircut on Saturday. I had been buzzing my own head, but I recently decided to grow my hair out because I was sicking of looking like I was 9. Not to mention, I’m a working professional now, which means overpriced hair products fit in my budget.
Yeah, that’s right — I use $12 pomade. Get jealous.
Actually, being a cheapskate, I much enjoyed cutting my own hair the past few years. There’s been a direct correlation between my personal financial standing and the length of my hair; when money’s been tight, I’ve been more than happy to lop of luxuries like haircuts, shampoo, conditioner, hair product. And while I only know how to execute one style of haircut, I’ve been OK with sporting a buzz if only because it keeps me in control of the process. I’ve had too many haircuts go awry in my life to trust just anyone.
But that’s what I did on Saturday.
I sauntered over to this trendy little barbershop nearby with its punk-rock posters splayed on the walls, vintage barbershop chairs and stacks of obscure art magazines I’d never heard of. Sometimes, I like to throw myself in environments completely opposite my personality, probably for the same reason people get tattoos in other languages they don’t speak or necessarily care to. Sometimes, I pose really hard.
It was a 40-minute wait before I could sit down, but that gave me ample time to conjure a way of describing what I wanted.
I was too embarrassed to say, “Make me look like Bob Harper from The Biggest Loser.“
I settled on, “Don’t make me look like a tool.”
My barber was nice enough. She wore a multi-layered, multi-colored haircut which said I’m not afraid of society’s judgment, so I’ll shave my head in whichever areas I please. I wasn’t entirely surprised to learn she was hopelessly devoted to World of Warcraft, her kittens and a vintage yellow couch she got for $150 because she knows the best places in Portland to buy vintage furniture. She was moving to a new studio apartment now in Northeast and she wasn’t going to have a roommate so she was hoping to pick up more shifts at the barbershop (which wasn’t to say I should tip her well because she needed the money) and she had recently rented Hannah Montana: The Movie on Netflix because she was too embarrassed to get it in a store but she liked it and thought it was cute and didn’t think it was fair Miley Cyrus should be held to such a high standard because she’s 16 and sometimes 16-year-old girls take provocative pictures, they just don’t always end up in Vanity Fair.
I learned a lot about her, unwillingly. She’d put down two cups of coffee prior to my haircut, and puked conversation all over me. (Luckily, I was wearing one of those stupid capes.)
I didn’t really say much — for lack of opportunity — and I felt a bit cheated. I won’t claim to be interesting by any means. I mean, I blog. But isn’t the barbershop a place where you get to speak openly about the most intimate details of your life to absolute strangers without fear of judgment or persecution?
Once you’ve let a perfect stranger touch your head and your ears and systematically remove things from your body for aesthetic improvement, there’s an unsaid bond that’s formed. And what do you do with people you trust? You confide. You opine. You tell stories. Not with this one. I just listened.
Little thing with the edgy haircut did a nice job, to be fair. I got a lot of compliments at work yesterday and my girlfriend seems to like it. When all was said and done, I was pleased. I paid the $21 for the haircut and left a $9 tip. I didn’t have the heart to tell this stylist I wouldn’t be coming back.
Frankly, she didn’t give me a chance.
Fans embrace players like New Orleans Saints running back Mike Bell, but how big of a role can players like Bell play in helping rebuild the city?
What if the New Orleans Saints had lost Super Bowl XLIV?
Would Mayor-elect Lt. Gov. Mitch Landrieu call off efforts to rebuild the most affected areas of the city still ravaged by Hurricane Katrina?
Would Governor Bobby Jindal turn his focus to other state projects instead of rebuilding the Lower Ninth Ward?
Would America just forget about New Orleans?
No, no, and no. And that’s what I find so irritating about the assumptions surrounding the Saints winning last night’s Super Bowl 31-17 over the Indianapolis Colts. With all the hyperbole spewed at us by CBS yesterday, you would think the Super Bowl was make-or-break for the future of New Orleans, and had the Saints lost the Super Bowl, the city rocked by Hurricane Katrina would somehow slip from our consciousness.
I do not dispute the Saints have been important to New Orleans. What annoys me, though, is how “important” has been used to say “integral to the function and survival of the city.” I’ll agree the Saints have given the city an identity, but so has Bourbon Street, blues and Mardi Gras. There’s been this notion all season that New Orleans is the only city that relies on its most beloved professional sports franchise to boost morale.
As a former Minnesotan, I can tell you the people of Minneapolis take just as much pride in the Vikings, Twins and Wild — Timberwolves, not so much — as New Orleans does the Saints. Still, that’s not a picture sports journalists or pundits would paint had any of those teams made a title game. It’s not sexy enough. What natural disaster did Minneapolis endure? Blizzards don’t count.
The bigger issue is this: CBS and sports journalists everywhere mistook context for reason to decide history in the moment. Stories like this team from this city winning this Super Bowl certainly matter now, but time will tell how big of an impact the win really has. The problem with defining this Super Bowl win as somehow crucial or pivotal in the rebuilding of New Orleans is obvious – we don’t know how much this matters. For now, it’s a great reason to celebrate. (See Bourbon Street for evidence.)
What has yet to take place and will ultimately decide how much this win ”mattered” is the massive, tangible change that could be spurned by the Saints bringing New Orleans back into the public’s awareness. This Super Bowl win may result in nothing more than a nice trophy, some championship rings and fond memories. And you know what? That’s OK. That’s all you can expect from pro sports. But something even bigger has to take place in New Orleans for this Super Bowl to live up to its own hype.
That’s not fair to the Saints, New Orleans or even fans.
That’s what happens when the media tries to make something bigger than it really is. This was a moral victory for a city in desperate need of a win.
The reality is it may never be anything more than a moral victory, and that should be enough.
No one’s going to see this ad and think, “Google? What’s Google?”
The ad is completely unnecessary. Google is the most popular Internet search engine in the world.
But, how awesome is it that they scrapped together a few bucks to air this thing during the Super Bowl? Apparently, we’re to the stage where Tiger’s extracurriculars are just good material.
This is really all I have to offer today for TMT. I don’t give a damn who wins the Super Bowl, but I’m watching it. I’ve been watching the pregame show for the past two hours and there’s still two hours to go. It’s a sad day for football fans, as this is the last consequential football game for a good eight months. My Minnesota Vikings should be playing today. This should be one of the most memorable days of my life as a sports fan.
Bloody hell.
My prediction: Colts 34, Saints 23. Manning should change his name from “Peyton” to “Patton.” He’s the best quarterback in the NFL, and while he’s the blandest, most vanilla star athlete in pro sports, you have to admire the fact he’s really, really good at what he does because he puts in the work.
Jesus, listen to me. I sound like Jim Nance.
I was waiting for a streetcar yesterday after work when a man came over and sprung upon me one of the bigger topics in the news today. He seemed like a nice enough man, and I could tell by his wounded veterans T-shirt that he’d served at some point, so I didn’t mind giving him some time.
The conversation started about Portland, in general, and how people here are so rarely rude. He mentioned having lived in the Old Town/Chinatown district, where he saw some rather interesting people and things during his stay. The subject somehow shifted to a gay pride parade, at which point he launched into his diatribe.
He spoke about the danger of waiving “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” the policy whereby homosexuals are allowed to serve in the armed forces, but they must keep their sexual orientation private. It appears this policy is on the way out, and this man was seriously opposed to it. He reasoned that most of the people who serve in the armed forces come from rural areas and haven’t been exposed to different lifestyles. He predicted openly gay soldiers would be subject to harassment, beatings and even murder, which would be swept under the rug even by the highest ranking officers.
“I’m not getting stuck in a foxhole with some faggot,” he so eloquently said.
This is normally where I’d walk away, but we were waiting at the same stop for the same street car. So I tried to remain civil.
I explained to him it was my feeling any American should be free to serve in our armed services. If one feels the calling to defend our country, that should be enough. And if those serving our country are defending our freedom, as it is so often said, shouldn’t that mean also defending the freedom to be gay, as well?
He gave my opinion a moment as the streetcar rolled in to our stop.
“Can I tell you something personal?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“About six years ago, I was wounded in a tank explosion. While I was in recovery, I was raped by a homosexual. They can’t control themselves,” he said.
This is where the conversation was left as we dispersed onto the streetcar. I couldn’t be sure if that experience shifted his perspective on homosexuals serving, but my sense is he was probably opposed to it beforehand. I couldn’t even be sure his story was true. That was beside the point.
I went to the gym, tried my best to blow off some steam, but couldn’t shake the idea the man’s opinion — albeit hateful and ill-informed — may have had some truth to it.
I called the one friend I have who’s served. He could also provide some interesting perspective because he’s the farthest thing from a bigot. In fact, he has many close homosexual friends. I knew his opinion was better informed, even if he was from a more rural part of the country that the other man had referred to.
Surprisingly, my friend agreed with the man’s sentiment. He felt it in the best interest of homosexuals to keep their orientation private, at least while in training. Once in the field, where bonds have been formed and trust has been earned, homosexuals may be in a better place to admit their sexuality. He agreed this was wrong, but it was a matter of mass ignorance and misunderstanding that’s very real.
I feel a little insecure about espousing my beliefs on gays in the armed forces when I have never and will never serve. However, honoring the First Amendment — one of the many freedoms our soldiers continue to protect — I say I hope for a military that reflects the population which it defends. That means gender, race, ethnicity, religion and sexual orientation should have no bearing on one’s right to serve. It’s plainly wrong to disallow homosexuals to be openly gay in order to protect the insecurities of some fellow soldiers. That’s not what equality is about. That’s not what America is about.
If I would’ve written this last night, it would’ve been thousands of words longer. It seems like a natural topic to opine on, but again, as a civilian, I feel my grasp of reality — from a military culture standpoint — leaves me limited at best. Maybe someone reading this has a better take. What’s yours?
Note: Respecting this is a controversial topic, I encourage anyone feeling anxiety responding to simply post anonymously. I’m more interested in discourse than disclosure.
For Christmas, my parents gave me a Stanley coffee thermos because that’s exactly what I asked for. I’ve become increasingly reliant on coffee working the 8 a.m.-5 p.m. five days per week. Coffee has been my coping mechanism. My Stanley, it holds up to a 1.1 quarts of coffee and keeps the brew piping hot all day. Not to mention, it keeps me alive all day. It’s become my favorite Stanley, in fact:
Andrew’s Favorite Stanleys
- Stanley coffee thermos.
- Stanley Hudson
- Stan Musial
- Stanley Kubrick
- Stanley Cup
I finally realized after putting down more than a quart of Starbucks Sumatra each day for the past month that maybe I’ve got a problem. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. I’ve successfully given up pop/soda, but replaced it with nothing but coffee and the occasional Sugar Free Rock Star. Add to the fact I’m working out six days per week with aide of a highly caffeinated pre-workout mix and I’m drinking a glass (or three) of shiraz every night (for heart health), it’s easy to see why I’ve been feeling like crap lately: I’m dehydrated.
It should be noted I make roughly 60 phone calls each day at work, and since that can mean up to three hours on the phone, I don’t have time to get refill after refill of water. Not to mention, I don’t have the time to relieve myself every 15 minutes. My beverage intake is strategic in that it keeps me awake, alert, and dehydrated so that I don’t need no stinkin’ bathroom breaks.
Well, that’s changing today. I normally sweat like an oversaturated sponge, but I noticed that wasn’t happening yesterday while working out. I felt lightheaded, a little disoriented, and actually thought I might pass out. I think I was experiencing what publicists describe when the Lindsay Lohans and Britney Spearses of the world pass out, only my dehydration is legitimate and not related to cocaine. At all.
According to the Mayo Clinic’s Web site, men should consume roughly three liters of water per day, and an additional 12-20 ounces on days of rigorous exercise. So apparently I’m going to have to wear swim trunks and a catheter to work today. I’m going for it though, because the way I’ve felt the past couple nights actually scared me. I’m drinking this cup of coffee to my left and one more at work, but then, its nothing but the clear stuff.
Oh, but caffeine. Sweet, sweet caffeine. However do I cope without you? The reality is I drink so much caffeine lately, I’ve become impervious to it. Maybe even immune. This is extremely boring for you, but a major lifestyle change for me. My belief is if caffeine is ineffectual at the point, my body shouldn’t notice its absence, right?
I’m curious, fellow members of the workforce, how you get your daily water intake each day. Any tips or tricks? How can I make this work in place of my coffee? Will it help if I fill my Stanley coffee thermos with water and food coloring and hope for a placebo effect?
What it says: defiled Korea
My feelings: Depends on which Korea we’re talking about. If it’s South Korea, it’s wrong. If it’s North Korea, well, they kind of deserve it.
NOTE: If you’ve got a great Captcha, do a screen grab and send me the pic. My e-mail address is atmiller14@gmail.com.
Interesting observation about Fall Out Boy: No member is, or rather, was taller than 5-6.
I started writing at Minnesota State University’s The Reporter a few days before classes started my freshman year. I was eager to get involved with the campus newspaper and begin my path toward becoming a respected music writer.
Oh, to be young.
One of my first assignments at the paper was a preview and subsequent review of a concert put on by a guy named Tom Fallenstein, a promoter from Mankato who was also in a band called Average Super Heros. (Their spelling, not mine.) I was told it would be a punk rock concert, so while I found Mr. Fallenstein to be interesting, I didn’t care so much about the show itself. I declined attending the show, but the preview made the Variety section.
I never thought twice about the story until about five years later, when I was reading some of my first articles a few days before graduating. Something about this story baffled me, but it was buried and I almost missed it completely:
“Fallenstein hasn’t signed any acts yet, but he has coordinated shows for some of the local bands, such as the Oct. 19 show at the Kato Ballroom, featuring Warped Tour alums Rufio and Motion City Soundtrack with local acts Fall Out Boy and Almost There.”
That concert, which I presumed featured a few no-name area bands and a crowd full of angsty high school kids, in fact featured what would become one of the top-selling bands of the past decade. I was aghast to see I’d blown off one of those concerts where — as a part-time music snob — I could say, Yeah, they’re big now, but I saw them back when…
(Let me pause and say yes, I’m aware Fall Out Boy wasn’t and isn’t ”local” to Mankato. If anything Minneapolis’ Motion City Soundtrack — another highly regarded pop-punk outfit — was. It’s hard for me to get hung up on that blunder all things considered.)
Fall Out Boy, in a really sloppy, disorganized manner, announced it is breaking up. It’s saddening if only because they were the underdogs who somehow surged to the top of the charts with charisma, genius marketing and a series of catchy singles. A few of their albums were mainstays in my iPod, but I really got away from their music over the past year or two.
For my sister’s 19th birthday, I took her to see Fall Out Boy with Panic! at the Disco, The Starting Line and Motion City Soundtrack at the now-deceased Myth Nightclub in Maplewood, MN. It was a sell-out show with a mixed audience who looked like they’d spent the afternoon shopping at Zumiez…like I had.
We arrived late to the show, and in our rush, I had left my headlights on. After the show, we realized the car battery was dead. We called AAA and a tow truck was sent to give us a jump start. In the meantime, my sister and good friend Dan walked on over to the Fall Out Boy tour bus. Playfully, they asked a security guard if they had a jumper back on board to help start our car. The security guard asked around, and in this time, bassist Pete Wentz came over and talked to Dan and my sister. He volunteered to took pictures, but apologized the band didn’t carry a jumper pack.
It was a pretty cool thing to do on Wentz’s part, so even while Fall Out Boy became popular to the point of annoyance, I admired how fan-friendly they remained in light of their towering fame.
When rock scholars look back on the ’00s, they should note the monumental rise of Fall Out Boy. They were one of the first bands to effectively utilize social media (blogs, YouTube, Twitter) to grow their brand. They were never the most talented bunch, but they played loud, loved their fans and seemed to love being in the band. This may come off as Pollyanna, but I’m glad Fall Out Boy proved me wrong for passing on that concert back in 2003. What I learned is in music and life, you can never be sure who’s capable of breaking through and making it big.
Mark is aware of my rampant Twitter usage. I'm not so sure he approves.
My uncle, Mark, is a marketing genius. He’s got a sweet promotion going on over at his blog, Ninth and Pratt. You can win won of these classy coffee mugs, signed and sent by Mark, just for referring a few folks to his blog.
I’m promising a share of tonight’s $115M Powerball jackpot for TMT visitors who commented a few posts ago. I hate to be the one to say, but we’re probably not going to win. Mark’s blog, on the other hand, is offering a very real, very redeemable coffee mug. (You’ll find the details there.)
Why do we do these things? To drive traffic, but what that really means is widening our audience and gaining a better understanding of just who we are writing for. Both of our blogs are non-profit. We simply want to reach as many people as we can, because as writers, that’s a thrill. Because of this, we’re willing to give away dishware or a fraction of $115 million.
Now, go get your mug, which is great for sipping on coffee whilst reading The Miller Times and Ninth and Pratt.
Maybe not the most accurate representation of the beetles we're seeing, but you always imagine them worse they really are, right?
Every morning, when I wake up to make coffee and oatmeal, I close my eyes a few seconds after turning on the lights. These black beetles have started showing up in our apartment, so I like to give them a head start as they scurry for cover. It’s an unpleasant cohabitation, but peaceful all around.
Still, I’d like them gone. It’s not like they help with rent.
We have what you might call a “bug problem,” although I would argue it’s always problematic when you’ve got beetles crawling around your place. It’s really kind of an insult, because there’s a stigma involved with having an infestation in your apartment — it must be dirty, it must be cheap or it must be old. Yeah, our apartment is old, but there’s no reason beetles would look at our apartment and think, Bingo! My girlfriend and I are victims here.
I suspect they’re coming in through the windows. With the weather being so mild here in the winter (and it’s been especially warm this year), there hasn’t been a streak of freezing days long enough to kill the beetles off. Then again, I’m an English graduate, so there’s absolutely not scientific merit to what I just wrote. That’s just my theory. It’s El Nino’s fault.
Maybe this is karma. This is what I get for challenging all the food ethics and sensibilities of the more environmentally conscious locals. One of the benefits of eating organic — or so I’m told — is the produce is grown without use of insecticide or herbicide. Just seeds, sunbeams, soil and the golden hands of God, and BOOM! Organic green bell peppers, $3 apiece.
I hate insects too much, so I’m not cool with eating organic. In fact, I’m happy to spray a little insecticide on my salad just to be sure I’m not mowing down on some microscopic larvae. I’ve seen Fly too many times. That’s not the lifestyle I’m going for.
What’s the connection here? My girlfriend and I, the ones unwilling to buy organic, are probably the only ones in our apartment complex who are dealing with these beetles. That’s how I see it, anyway, but that paranoia is tied with the emotion you feel when bugs start showing up at your place. You feel violated. You feel targeted. You feel like the beetles are communicating in the night, holding position in the most strategic areas of your apartment, slowly plotting a hostile takeover. Or a dance number:
So, faithful TMT readers and soon-to-be-fellow millionaires, what’s No. 1 on my list when we win the Powerball tonight? A new apartment with a 24-hour butler/Orkin Man. That’s a guy worth keeping in the payroll.
