Something's not right here...

Mike and Kim have more blogs than I do in the past two weeks.

Time to remedy that.

I don't know why I haven't been motivated to blog lately. A combination of a few things I'm sure. Christmas is over and a semi-depression always hits me. If you were not aware, I really like Christmas. I mean really really really like Christmas. I anticipate it so much and it always meets those expectations but after it's over it's only inevitable to feel some sort of blase' feeling.

On top of all that I got laid off in early December. My last day wasn't until December 31 but that kind of put a damper on things. Needless to say the pool industry has been hit pretty hard by this economy. It ain't pretty there right now. I think I'd rather be looking for new things.

I found a few too. I am going to Chicago tomorrow to work for a week. It's a 3 month contract-to-hire deal. I'm not sure if moving to Chicago will be necessary but it is a possibility. We are praying it is not but we'll go if we have to.

I also have a good opportunity in Miami. Although, living in Miami holds no appeal for either Kelly or me whatsoever. But we'll see.

So, things could be worse. I'm coming out of my funk and you will soon see the insightful wisdom, political savvy and hilarious commentary you have come to expect from this blog on a daily basis.

For instance...

I'm thinking of buying an electric shaver, and I don’t want to hear any arguments. There will be rueful nods and sighs – we thought better of you; we thought you appreciated the old ways. I don’t want to hear how it’s a link to bygone standards of manliness, what with the razor slapping the strop and the soft cluck of the lather machine and the clink of the combs dropped into blue bottles of Barbicide, the Esquire mags on the table, the smell of cigars, the hearty bonhomie of the tonsorial parlor. Fine. I know. And I know there is something comforting about the ritual of shaving in private, the way you face the fellow in the mirror and stare into his eyes at least once a day. I know there’s a virtue in good lather, but even when I used a quality cream I felt as if I should be grinding up lather-rock and adding witch hazel and applying it with bristles taken the belly-scalp of English hedgehogs. All of this I know. Lost art. Convenience over substance. Haste over meaning. FINE. I’m just tired of making the sink look like a scene from Hellraiser.

I know it’s my fault; I should prep the beard, swaddle my puss with scalding towels, use better cream, better razors. I was perfectly happy with the multi-blade razor that vibrated like it was full of bees; either on or off it did the trick, more or less, but I balk at laying out a double sawbuck for four refills. Disposables? Don’t get the store brands, because those things are like shaving with a garden rake. I wasn’t going to go for the two-blades; no man likes to think his beard can be tamed with a mere two blades, not when science is working as we speak on a razor with more blades than a Chinese acrobat pyramid has levels. Three blades seemed right, with a “lubricating strip” that deposited a stratum of imaginary soothing-agents on your face. The first shave was always good, unless you cut yourself making a turn on the jaw, in which case you had to have the razor put down immediately. Once they go rogue, taste blood, they’re useless. I usually managed to cut myself once a week, though – the side of the lip, or one of those absolutely unstanchable disasters on the top of the philtrum. Once you’ve opened a new account, so to speak, you’ve no choice but to scrape it open the next day, unless you shave around it and cultivate a small plot of beard to go with the conspicuous blot of clotted blood. If you have two going at once, well, you look like you shaved by dragging an angry parakeet over your face.

A Norelco, because it’s as traditional as you get. Right? Santa drove one in the commercials on the Rudolph special. There are several models, of one which actually dispenses Nivea cream as it passes; while that seems like a jolly treat for the mug, the cartridges are $20, which defeats one of the objectives. I’d have to put it on by hand. But that would be traditional, wouldn’t it?

I used to shave with an electric. Things I liked about shaving with an electric: you do other things. You can shave at your desk, if you really want that Jack-Lemmon “Days of Wine and Roses” vibe. When you’re done your face feels mostly shaven – not blade-slick, but you’re not blood-slick, either. Downside: you lose your place if you’re not paying attention. Shaving cream, like the rear view mirror, tells you where you’ve been. You end up grinding the razor into your face over and over just to be sure, and this leads to the dreaded Chin-Burger Syndrome. Previous experience taught me that the chin hates electric razors, and responds with all manner of dermatological protests. We’ll see.

At least the first shave will be the same as the shave I’ll get tomorrow. Someone once planted a horrible seed of doubt in my mind: he said the blades in the introductory packs of a new razor were better than anything else on the market, and once you’d tried them you’d switch. Even if the real blades weren’t as good, you remembered that first perfect shave. At the time this struck me as the sort of paranoia you find in the people who thought they airbrushed SEX into ice cubes (or, my favorite subliminal example, airbrushing SEX into the photos in Playboy, because otherwise you’d be completely at sea as to the point of the pictures) but as the years go on, I wonder. That first shave with a new brand is better than any other shave you ever get. It makes you wonder if there’s a whole different level of razor technology reserved for the uppermost elites, the Presidents and Premiers and 33rd degree Masons and Popes and Politburo poohbahs and everyone else who lives in the rarified air above. The job has to have some compensations. Obama’s first day in office will begin with the best shave he’s ever had.