People never cease to amaze me. I was sitting at a bar earlier this week, complaining that my beer was too cold, and minding my own business when I noticed a pair of gentleman a few stools down from me. They were both a bit older than me, probably 10 or 15 years my senior, and based on their conversation, were compiling their singles for a trip to an…um…exotic dance establishment.
For the record, I have no problem with that. Personally, I’ve never understood intentionally visiting women whose primary task seems to be pretending to like you enough that you’ll trade your hard earned cash for a glimpse at “the goods” or a little lap-wriggling. It seems a waste of perfectly good beer money to me, but to each, his own I suppose.
At any rate, while the bartenders and I got a good chuckle as the pair power-chugged coffee and exchanged twenties for singles, that’s not what was so amusing about these guys. As I said, they were both likely in their early fifties, and were adorned with extremely stylish Jimmy Buffet shirts that, in keeping with convention, were open at the collar to expose both chest hair and some phat golden bling. Honestly, I think they were adult film producers from the 80’s and were visiting The Future for one night, just to grab a steak and hit a strip club in the new millennium.
As I sat appraising the couple, I noticed one thing even more disturbing than the thought that two sets of gleaming white Pat Boone shoes were poking out from beneath the bar. The seemingly senior of this dynamic duo, the pack “alpha”, was an exceedingly skinny guy with bushy eyebrows and brown, leathery, saddlebag skin; his nickname at some point was almost certainly “Slim” and I bet he never met a woman who wasn’t “toots” to her face and “that broad” the rest of the time. Slim is going to live his life his way, and nobody better tell him what to do or how to do it, which is a damn shame, because the full-size beaver pelt he was sporting on his noggin was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen on a person.
Seriously, I’m not talking Hair Club for Men here; the thing had to be a “new” hairpiece in 1976. Speaking of bad pelts, can someone tell me why fur-haters won’t bat and eye at dousing a perfectly nice fur coat in public, but if a dude leaves his house with a beaver on his head, he’s universally safe from red dye?
Anyway, I wish I’d had the opportunity to suggest to Slim, quietly, that his chances with the ladies in 2010 would be much improved if he removed the carcass from the top of his head. Telly Savalas pioneered the bald/shaved sexy thing in the seventies, and the last time I checked, women didn’t much go for the polyester helmet. As someone whose own date with a set of clippers is nearly inevitable, it took plenty of restraint not to run across the street to the drug store, pick up a personal Wahl set, and make it an early Cinco de Mayo gift to the guy before he headed off to trade his wad of sweaty singles in for a heaping serving of embarrassment.
Ok, so it didn’t take that much restraint. If he’s got cajones enough to wear that rat-hide in public, I guess he deserves what he gets.