Paging Theo Kojak

Hair. It's a regular frustration to me. More precisely, getting it cut. Why is it so difficult to find a barber that knows how to cut men's hair? I walk into the shop and there they are, all lined up in their crepe-apron finery, hair school certificates tacked to the mirror behind them, as if that's supposed to instill some sort of confidence in their ability to sculpt a handsome coiffure. But I know better.

No, when I sit down and she asks "How you want cut," I know whatever I say next has no bearing on what I will actually get. I may as well tell her I want to look like this dapper fella up top here. Although I'm pretty sure he got exactly what he asked for, a fact that only magnifies my frustration. That kid, who probably nourishes his supple cheeks with a steady diet of Little Debbies, paint chips and gasoline fumes, walked into a barber shop somewhere in Knoxville and described that NASCAR Dreamcut to his barber, and the barber made it happen. Why can't I walk in and say, "I'd just like a trim. See how it is now? Cut it like that, but shorter." I even show her exactly how much I want cut off. Doesn't matter. She'll keep cutting until it is entirely uneven and uncombable. Is it a language barrier? Am I slurring my words? Lack of training? Lack of concern? Need for speed?

Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. The result is always the same. I leave looking like I cut it myself with a Swiss Army knife, sans mirror. I want to shave it bald every time I get home.

Some would suggest going to a real Aveda-style salon to get it done. To that I say, I am admittedly a man of certain vanities, but paying salon prices every month for a haircut is a bit left of equilibrium on my demand curve. If I were a woman getting my hair cut every 3-4 months, sure. No problem. But every 3-4 weeks gets to be a bit much. If I had the patience, I'd grow it out long so I wouldn't have to go through the trama so regularly. But I don't have that patience, so it's T-minus 3 weeks until the next trip to the butcher's. Maybe I'll just take a picture of NASCAR Toby up there with me. Couldn't get any worse.

A Cold Wind's A Blowing

"Wanna know why the straw broke the camel's back? Here's the secret: There were a million other straws underneath it."

-Mos Def

War never materializes out of thin air. There is always a string of provocations leading up to the Fort Sumters of history. Raised as much on Nintendo history as I was real history, as a kid I thought World War II started in 1942. I guess that's typical of Americans to assume that a world war isn't really a world war until we arrive. That could have something to do with the fact that we live in a good neighborhood of the world. We have pretty good neighbors that we get along well with, and for the most part, we don't have to deal with their kids being hooligans and corrupting our kids. Sure, they jump the fence once in awhile and raid our barbeques, but they're mostly respectful, hardworking folks. We don't need to be suspicious of their motives, right?

Wrong.

The border wars have begun to gather steam, America. The campaign against our continental dominance is under way. But not from the source you might think. We've all read the news reports of heads in duffle bags and Federal agents being kidnapped and assassinated on our southern border. But the drug war with the Mexican cartels is not what I'm talking about. In that war, we are united with the Mexican government. The new aggression I speak of, detailed in a New York Times article, comes from our northern neighbors, Canada, host of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. In an act of incitement, the Canadian Olympic Committee has severely restricted access to Olympic facilities for foreigners:

Count the American speedskater Catherine Raney among the athletes, coaches and officials of several sports surprised by Canada's approach to hosting the Winter Games in February.

Raney, who spent more than seven years living in Canada and training with the Canadian national team, was told after the 2006 Olympics that the Canadians did not want foreign athletes training with them leading to the 2010 Games in Vancouver. She and many other foreign athletes had expected to spend quite a bit of time practicing at the Olympic sites, but have been granted only minimal access.

And get a load of this double speak, eh:

Canadian officials said they were following rules of access to competition sites, as set by each sport's governing body. But they also intend to protect the Olympic host's home-field -- or home-ice, home-snow, home-track -- advantage.

At the Whistler downhill course, unfamiliar to most of the world's best skiers, several medal contenders were left watching over a fence as the Canadian team trained. "Everybody was pushing to get on that downhill," said Max Gartner, Alpine Canada's chief athletic officer. "That's an advantage we cannot give away."

[Officials] acknowledge that they are also driven to succeed at these Olympics, perhaps more than any previous host country.

"We're the only country to host two Olympic Games and never have won a gold medal at our Games," Priestner Allinger said. "It's not a record we're proud of."

To put that into shorthand for you, they're essentially saying, "We've gotten our butts kicked on our home court too many times and we're ashamed of ourselves. To remedy this we're going to handicap every other team and give ourselves as much advantage as possible to prove that ours are the best athletes in the world." You've got to be kidding me. What that means to me is they're admitting in advance that their athletes are inferior, but they just care about the gold medals, not about competing.

When the first shots in a war are fired, those who've been paying attention are never surprised. Unfortunately for us Americans, we pay sparse enough attention that when war does break out, we as a public are caught off guard. Especially shocking in this case is that it involves one of our neighbors, whom we generally think we can trust. Well let this be a warning to you, America: Canada is not the jolly, flannel-clad lumberjack nation they pretend to be. They keep their ax honed for more than chopping lumber. Be on guard.

And to Canada: thank you for hockey. And Rachel McAdams. And back bacon. I still like you. We're still friends. But you're playing a dangerous game. And I'm watching you.

Does the ShamWow! Absorb Blood?

Back in March of this year, I caught a news snippet about the arrest of chameleon-eyed TV pitchman Vince Shlomi, face of the ShamWow! super-absorbent chamois and the Slap Chop kitchen aid.

In case you don't remember the story, ShamWow! had taken a hooker back to his room in a swanky Miami hotel for what the police report refers to as "straight sex." (I find that portion of the police report odd. Straight sex. You don't say? Wouldn't you assume that if you're taking a female prostitute to your room, straight sex is somewhere in the evening's plans? Was that just a contractual prerequisite to make sure he didn't have to pay her if he got back to his room and discovered she was packing extra gear? It's like the old Gaffer used to say, "No use packing a fishing pole on a spelunking trip." Be that as it may, a quick deployment of the Crocodile Dundee technique could have clarified any questions before the subject of price was even broached.) So back to the story at hand: ShamWow! goes in for a kiss and this gal bites his tongue. He has to punch the girl repeatedly until she releases his tongue. Cops show up, arrest both for felony aggravated assault. The Smoking Gun picks up the mugshots, both of them with that "longing for the meth lab" glaze over their eyes. It splashes across a slow news day, and I tuck it away in my Hilariously Sad file next to Gary Busy and Ashley Simpson without a second thought.

Then one day in September, I happen across the pictures taken of the two lovebirds at the hospital. Graphic. Back in March, I remember thinking, "Wait, he had to punch this little pixie multiple times to get her off his tongue? What kind of limp wrist was he swinging?" Well the hospital pics, (her passed out drunk and him trying to sell the photographer that Snuggie he's wearing), tell me he did more than Slap Chop her. He bloodied her nose and blacked her eyes. And I'll admit, I thought less of ShamWow! for hitting on a girl. But from the looks of it, he's lucky to have his tongue at all. She didn't just bite down, she bit in. Deep. A fair amount of that blood on her face must be his.

Now ShamWow! may or may not be the type who would, under normal circumstances, hit a woman. I can't say for sure. However, I can say for sure that I am not that type, and I'm not positive that if, (take a big hypothetical leap with me here, people), if I were in the same situation, I wouldn't employ the ShamPow! defense. How was he supposed to know kissing wasn't on the menu? I mean, he's paying $1000 for access to her VIP area, but he can't even get a kiss to start the show? As aggravating as that may be, it's not punch-worthy by itself. But why couldn't she have said, "No, sorry Romeo. Pretty Woman rules are in effect. No kissing." Instead, she launches straight into chomping down on his tongue, which, by the way, you don't get into someone else's mouth without an initial level of acceptance on the part of the other party. She waited until his tongue was in her mouth until she remembered that the Whoring For Dummies manual forbids it. That's malicious intent to bite. I'm not saying she deserved the two black eyes and a bloody nose. I'm just saying.