Got my hair cut last night. My hair is the kind that grows incredibly fast. It goes from “presentable” to “big-ass Jewfro” in a matter of a few weeks. But I have a sweet deal worked out with my stylist where she comes over to my place. The only bummer about getting a haircut is that we never seem to be able to fully contain the hair. Somehow, it gets into everything. My chair. My clothes. I’ve inhaled strands of hair into my trachea a couple times, which leaves me sounding like a cat coughing up a furball. And I’ll admit right now that I’m incredibly vain about my hair. Do you remember the scene in the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou? where George Clooney is startled awake from a sound sleep and the first thing he mutters is “My hair!” That is so me. it’s my only physical characteristic that I actually like and that’s why my bathroom is stocked with overpriced shampoo and frou-frou styling products.
My broadband connection mysteriously stopped working last night. After giving it some thought, I thought the problem might be related to one of the several splitters I had in the cable line to split the signal between my modem, my video card, and the television. And I was right, which means no more television on the computer. Not a big deal, but it was a nice convenience. I think I’ll still keep my appointment with the cable guy to check my signal strength.

Congratulations to Stephanie Herseth, who is the second Democrat to win a Congressional special election this year. And in neighboring South Dakota, no less. I hesitate to say that the political tide is turning in this country. The election was close and she’ll have to do it again in November. But when a Democrat is able to pull out a victory in what is supposed to be a solidly Republican state, the future seems a bit more hopeful.
Last week, I wrote a short entry in defense of the Washingtonienne, former Senate aide who was fired for blogging about her sex life. Well, wrote in article in the Guardian and she comes off sounding like a brat:
I left Washington on Thursday and my timing could not be better: it’s Fleet Week in New York City. Fleet Week is when ships full of US sailors and marines pull into New York harbour to promote our proud maritime heritage. As an American woman, I cannot help but feel proud of the men who defend our country: they are much better off here than in Iraq. They roam the streets in their uniforms looking for fun and everybody wants to show them a good time. All politics aside, women love a man in uniform, especially boy-crazy girls like me. Like I said, my timing could not be better.
And now she is on the verge of getting a book deal, natch:
But the real reason I went to New York is not to hook up with sailors; I am here to meet with book people. If I get a book deal, that means I will actually have to write a book, which means I will actually have to do some work to make a living, which is bitterly ironic, since I had the easiest job in the world before I got sacked.
Sigh. To be expected, I suppose. We all have to work with what we have.

Memorial Day is the kind of holiday that easily lends itself to all kinds of platitudes and bromides. I’m going to skip all that. Instead, I want to let the numbers speak for themselves:
Revolutionary War–4,435 combat deaths
War of 1812–2,260 combat deaths
Mexican War–1,733 combat deaths
Civil War–184,594 combat deaths
Spanish-American War–385 combat deaths
World War I–53,513 combat deaths
World War II–292,131 combat deaths
Korean War–33,651 combat deaths
Vietnam War–47,369 combat deaths
Gulf War I–145 combat deaths
Gulf War II–814 combat deaths
If you add these numbers up, it’s equivalent to the entire population of Columbus, Ohio. And keep in mind that these numbers only reflect combat deaths, not total casualties.
Draw your own conclusions.

The best part of The Day After Tomorrow was the tornadoes. The movie delivers some quality money shots for the twister porn enthusiast. But plot-wise, it follows the same tired structure of every other disaster movie you’ve ever seen. Millions of people are dying in this movie, but somehow this entire family survives in spite of ridiculous odds and some really bad decisions. Please. Whenever I see one of these movies about some Big Bad wiping out most of humanity, it gets me thinking about how I would do in a real apocalyptic scenario. If the power goes out, I’d pretty much be screwed. I can breathe on my own without the ventilator, but I’m not sure I could keep that up forever. And I’m not a likely candidate for tagging along with other survivors in search of a new place to start civilization. Maybe I’d be like one of those characters in the disaster movies who puts on a brave face and says, “Leave me behind. I’ll buy the rest of you some time by letting the mutant horde feast on my flesh. Now go! Save yourselves!” And some cute girl will be so moved my bravery that she’ll give me one last passionate kiss before leaving me to my doom.

This article in Slate made a reference to mix tapes that had me laughing. I too am guilty of creating the dreaded mix tape for other people on one or two occasions. Okay, maybe more than that. You know what I’m talking about. You’re trying to tell someone your feelings for them but you don’t want to be all Captain Obvious about it. So you burn a CD and in between the other tracks you throw in Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” Or maybe Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight.” And then you give the CD to the person in question and later you realize you were being kind of Captain Obvious about your feelings. And you vow never to burn another CD but then she tells you she liked the music and the vicious cycle repeats itself.
You’ve all been there, right? And correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s almost always guys who are guilty of this behavior. Ladies, just remember: every time some lovestruck fool burns a mix CD for the object of his timid affection, God kills a kitten. So think of the kittens and flatly refuse that homemade CD from the guy in the next cubicle over who’s been making the googly eyes at you.
I got a call from the Kerry campaign tonight and I reluctantly agreed to host a house party in the near future. I say “reluctantly” because I’m just not very good at being a host. I feet a bit awkward when I’m thrown into a group of people I don’t know. But if I’m called upon to serve, serve I shall.