"S" is for Shaving

Warning:  This is a Super-Manly Post. Approach with caution.

It's also super-long and I do apologize. I know it smacks of self-indulgence and self-importance in a community of presssed-for-time A to Z bloggers, it's just that I did a lousy job of paring it down, and it's hard to constrain Super-Manliness, which tends to expand to fit whatever container it finds itself in. I appreciate your indulgence.


So, what are those strange artifacts in the picture below?

If you haven't the faintest idea, I was going to tell you to go play with your X-Box and get off my lawn, I have socks older than you. But on second thought, pull up a chair, you might learn something, and who knows, could even end up carrying the banner for an ancient rite of manliness yourself.

If you guessed double-edge safety razor, badger hair shaving brush and shaving soap, you're right, and if you guessed it’s the Merkur razor, Rooney brush and Col. Conk's Bay Rum shaving soap that I use when I'm not sporting my Super-Manly beard, you’re even righter, and are clearly a person of class and intelligence.  I actually enjoy shaving with these; so much so that when I have my beard, even though I look better with it, I'm constantly tempted to shave it so I can indulge in the daily pleasure of a traditional wet shave.

The one manly corner of the bathroom

Yes, I shave the way my grandfathers did. I could shave the way my great-great-grandfathers did and barbers and some stalwarts still do, with a straight razor. It's undeniably manlier than anything this side of a dry shave with a sharp rock, but any tool gives me pause when the possible results of mishandling include death and dismemberment.  A safety razor is only really potentially dangerous when disassembled, a margin of safety I'm comfortable with, especially with children in the house. Plus, a straight razor requires regular honing by a practiced owner or a professional, which just isn't my bag, man.

I believe the version of the safety razor introduced by King C. Gilette in 1903 was a significant and genuine improvement in the state of the art, but I don't believe the same for the cartridge razors introduced in the 1970s.

Multiple blades? The efficacy of two blades is debatable; three, four and five (!) blades are artifice, snake oil and flim-flam, respectively.* Pivoting heads? The compactness of the traditional safety razor obviates the need, and remember, we homo sapiens are blessed not only with opposable thumbs, but pivoting wrists and fine motor skills.  If one lacks the dexterity to follow the countours of one's face without an articulated razor head, one might be happier with an electric shaver or a beard.  Fewer nicks and cuts?  I've suffered no cuts and only a few tiny nicks with this razor, fewer than with multiple blade disposables, and none requiring so much as a dab with the syptic pencil.

I don't do this purely, or even mostly, for the sake of nostalgia.  The "old-fashioned" safety razor and brush have real advantages over the multi-blade, lubri-stripped wonders.

The German-made Merkur 33C razor pictured above costs $32, and refill blades cost between $2 and $10 for a 10-pack, whereas the latest five-blade razors are $10 and up, and cartridges cost between $20 and $40 per ten (although there are cheaper multi-blade alternatives). The typical safety razor is made of three pieces of steel plus the blade.  It's not going to break.  Hard to imagine that being true of a plastic Mach 5000 Terminator or electric shaver. Manufacturers of modern razors like to refer to them as "shaving systems."  I think there's a lot to be said for a shaving "system" that contains no plastic and could easily outlive my grandchildren.

There is more room between the blade and the bar or comb of a safety razor for soap and stubble to exit through than between blades of a multi-blade cartridge, so it clogs less easily, rinses more easily, and because it has two sides, requires half the rinsing.  Also, shaving cream is thick and gooey, not because that's better, but it's how an instant "lather" is achieved without a brush.  But all that's needed is lubrication, and shaving soap is every bit as good in that regard, if not better.  The thinner lather of shaving soap loads up the razor less, further reducing the amount of rinsing needed.  I only need to rinse a safety razor three times during a shave; about ten with a cartridge razor.

But the best advantage of the safety razor and brush is the most subjective, that is, the experience. The best things a man can feel on his face are the caress of a loved one, the winds of freedom, a hot towel at the barber shop and shaving soap applied with badger hair shaving brush.  The razor has a satisfying heft to it, the weight alone providing sufficient pressure for cutting the beard.  It's a stylish and elegant accessory worthy of a gentleman, not an amorphous plastic contrivance that looks like it would be more at home in ET's interstellar toiletries kit.

What many will see as the one undeniable disadvantage of all this is the time required, and it does take longer.  From the time I first wet my face to the time I slap on the after shave balm (my one concession to modernity; traditional aftershaves are mostly alcohol and can dry the skin) is a full ten minutes in "luxury mode," where I take my time and enjoy it; a couple less if I'm more purposeful about it.  Electric shavers are the undisputed speed champions (though that is somewhat mitigated by the fact that I have to wait for my face to dry thoroughly in order to use them comfortably), and they do offer a close shave.  If one's idea of shaving is a pedestrian chore, the goal of which is to get it over with as quickly as possible, then go with the electric.

But for me, speed isn't the issue. In taking the time for a traditional wet shave, I'm reclaiming a few minutes from my morning to enjoy an time-honored ritual of manhood.  When I look in the mirror, it's like Cary Grant is looking back at me (that is, if I squint and hold my head at a certain angle). It sets the tone for the day; less hurried, less harried.  My dad taught me to value good grooming, and after a traditional shave I feel well-groomed, manly, and confident, ready to take on the world.  Even if the world is only the inside of a cubicle. 



For further reading:

http://www.artofmanliness.com/2008/01/04/how-to-shave-like-your-grandpa/ 

http://www.artofmanliness.com/category/dress-grooming/shaving/

https://www.vintagebladesllc.com/

http://badgerandblade.com/

* From Wikipedia:
The marketing of increasing numbers of blades in a cartridge has been parodied since the 1970s. The debut episode of Saturday Night Live in 1975 included a parody advertisement for the Triple Trac Razor, shortly after the first two-blade cartridge for men's razors was advertised. In the early 1990s, the (Australian) Late Show skitted a (insert name of popular razor brand) "3000" with 16 blades and 75 lubricating strips as arrived at with the help of NASA scientists - "The first blade distracts the hair...". In 2004, a satirical article in The Onion entitled "F--- Everything, We're Doing Five Blades" predicted the release of five-blade cartridges, two years before their commercial introduction.
 

[A battery-powered vibrating action], as advertised by Gillette, was intended to raise hair up and away from the skin prior to being cut. These claims were ruled in an American court as "unsubstantiated and inaccurate."

"R" is for Redhead

Julia shook her head at Cal.  "I’m married to an adolescent."
 

"That's because you married an adolescent," Cal replied. "Not too smart, if you ask me, Professor."

"I don't ask you.  I admit it wasn't my most MENSA moment, but I needed someone who could work on a Volkswagen and open jars."

"Uh-huh... Son," Cal said, glancing sideways at Jay, "I’d never tell you not to marry a redhead, but I’d definitely advise you to go in with both eyes open," whereupon Julia gave him a good whack upside the head.

.....

It was 1987 and I was standing outside my senior English classroom at North High School with my girlfriend Robin before the bell rang, when my teacher, Mrs. Gaede (who, incidentally, is tied for First Place in my personal Teacher Hall of Fame) walked up to the door.  She suddenly stopped and looked us over, shook her head in bemused wonder and said "My, your family certainly has a predilection for redheads."

Let's turn back the clock another twenty three years.  My Dad, with whom I share a first name, was a North High graduate.  Not only did Mrs. Gaede teach at North High when he attended, he also did yardwork and odd jobs for her, and she remembered his redhead girlfriend from then. (Fortunately, hers was an interim position, and Dad married my redhead Mom, whom he met at Bakersfield College.  They just celebrated their forty-fifth anniversary.)  So yeah, Mrs. Gaede definitely had a point.

Our song?  Lady in Red, of course.

I met my own redhead girlfriend my sophomore and her freshman year at a Tuesday night band practice, but honestly, it didn't register very strongly with me at the time.  She seemed kind of goofy, but that's about it.  It wasn't until the next year that I fell for her, hard, at a County Honor Band practice.  There she was, under the lights on the other end of the stage, and BAM, I was smitten with the proverbial ton of bricks, yea, verily.  It took three months of concerted effort to convince her that I was The Guy.

Now I didn't mention it before, but at that first inconsequential meeting, the night air was damp and chilly, and Robin was wearing this ridiculous nylon windbreaker with the hood cinched tight around her face.  Note that there was no electricity when her red hair was covered, but when it was lit up by the stage lights I was zapped like Ben Franklin's kite.  Coincidence?  The gentle reader may dismiss it as such, but I'm not willing to.  Of course, there were other things, like her beauty, her vivacity, her faith, her inner glow, her nuttiness and her independent streak.  But never discount the redness.

Whatever it was, it was something.  We've been married for nigh on twenty-three years now, and my redhead and I have been through ups and downs, thin and flush, laughter and sorrow.  It's common for redheads to lose their red as time goes by, and she's no exception, now being more of a reddish, brownish blonde.  She hates it.  Nothing against blondes, I don't think, she's just always liked being a redhead, in a proud, defiant way.  Most redhead women know they're special.  Now she just requires a little help from magical hair guy David (two hours north in Fresno!) to maintain it.

But I don't care.  While it's true I have a thing for red hair, I'll always have a thing for one particular redhead, even when her hair is white.

"N" is for nothing

"Nothing" because I couldn't come up with a word for "whine," "gripe," or "kvetch" that begins with "N."  At the halfway point, this here A to Z Blogging Challenge is turning out to be, well, a challenge, and I have to admit, I'm struggling here.  I'm getting started on my posts later and later each day and staying up later and later to finish them.  The mainspring is starting to wind down, and the writing that came so freely and easily at the beginning of the month is starting to feel decidedly chore-like.  Which is just something that must be worked through, one foot in front of the other.  But not tonight.  I had alternately considered writing on New and Improved, Nostalgia, Dodger great Don "Newk" Newcombe and even Nickel Plating, of all things, but after a twelve-hour work day, I'm fried and can't muster the energy to do any one of them.

So I hit the pillow and salute all my fellow A-to-Z bloggers who aren't copping out and phoning it in today and hope to rejoin them tomorrow. 

"M" is for Motorcycle

Today's post is an excerpt from the book I'm working on.  And by "working on," I mean "mostly shamefully neglecting."

A shaft of amber light filtered through the ancient glazed window of the shed and illuminated a sea of swirling dust motes. Jay sat on a stool at the motorcycle’s flank, leaning into his work as if he were milking one of the dozens of cows his father told him used to populate the farm. But instead of milk from an udder, he emptied ethanol from the float bowl of a carburetor.
  

His mind wandered as he worked, muscle memory aiding nimble fingers.  Motorcycle. It was his favorite word. Like his second-favorite word, rifle, it evoked its object perfectly. Rifle is slender and spare and handy. The rhythm of the word, with its heavy emphasis on the first syllable, is like a rifle's report and echo, or the cycling of a lever action. Motorcycle is even more rhythmic. In a happy accident, its four syllables mimic the rocking, reciprocating cadence of a four-stroke engine: COMBUSTION, exhaust, intake, compression. MO-tor-cy-cle.

Motorcycle. It’s a solid word, substantive. It has mass, but not too much. It conjures a rider's view of treetops passing overhead in the gleaming fuel tank and stubby chrome handlebars with black, ribbed rubber grips that the hands fall to naturally, as naturally as Jay’s feet fit in the old new-in-the-box Frye boots that Jason had dug up and given him. 

Jay felt the overpowering sense of how greater was his machine than the sum of its bits and pieces. What peculiar brand of alchemy did the Italian ingenieri and operai di fabbrica employ all those decades ago that could give such life to an assemblage of inert parts?

Even though Jay had grown up with the motorcycle his grandfather first bought new off the showroom floor after his return from the Vietnam war, he was struck by question of whether there was an odder thing for a twenty-year-old man to possess these days than a fifty-six-year-old Italian motorcycle, even if said possession hadn’t been illegal on at least two counts. 

These days, Jay's life seemed to him like nothing so much as an assemblage of oddities, so the motorcycle fit right in.

.

Come Fly With Me

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away.

If you can use some exotic booze, there’s a bar in far Bombay.

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away.

Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru.
In llama-land, there's a one-man band, and he'll toot his flute for you.
Come fly with me, let's take off in the blue.

Once I get you up there where the air is rarefied

We’ll just fly starry-eyed

Once I get you up there, I’ll be holding you so near,

You may hear, angels cheer, ‘cause we’re together

Weather-wise, it’s such a lovely day,

You just say the word and we’ll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay

It’s perfect for a flying honeymoon they say,

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly

Pack up, let’s fly away…

© Cahn Music Company; Maraville Music Corporation

Are any of you old enough to remember when train travel was common and air travel was a big deal?  When a trip on an airplane was exotic and exciting?  When Frank Sinatra sang "Come Fly With Me" and you wished you could take him up on it?

Do any of you remember this scene?

Your dad wore his best brown suit and hat (well, back then he always wore a suit, although at the beach he'd at least roll up his pant legs and leave his coat and tie in the Buick) and your mom wore her new floral-print summer dress and lacy white hat.  Airport security consisted of a middle-aged guy with a nightstick and revolver and clip-on tie who looked like he'd eaten more than his share of donuts and rocked back and forth on his heels as he gave you a wink and a nod.  You strode out from the terminal building across the tarmac toward a gleaming, streamlined airplane with either a blue or orange stripe or two red ones, depending on whether you were flying Pan Am, American or TWA.  You ascended a set of air stairs that a coveralled mechanic had wheeled up to the plane and were greeted by a smiling stewardess (as female flight attendants were called in that less enlightened age), impeccably attired in a neat blue suit adorned with silver wings, and a smart, military-style cap.

The cabin wasn't cavernous, but only because wide-body jets weren’t yet invented, not because you were being stuffed into it like so much sausage by a bean counter corps trying to stave off bankruptcy proceedings.  Maybe your dad brought you up to the cockpit where the pilot (who likely flew B-24s during the War) pointed out what the various levers and switches and doohickies did and handed you a set of Junior Aviator wings that weren't plastic.

The biggest challenge for the stewardesses was your little brother wanting to zoom through the cabin with his toy F-86 Sabre jet.  Not business travelers refusing to turn off cell phones or surly men glancing furtively about, looking like they're up to no good.

Jet air travel was in its infancy.  You could get on a 707 or DC-8 for a trans-oceanic flight or major domestic route, but just flying was excitement enough and you felt a thrill, tempered with a bit of caution, as you looked out the window of the DC-6 or Super Constellation and saw the mechanic standing below the streamlined engine nacelle, fire extinguisher at the ready, and each propeller slowly turn before its massive Double Wasp or Turbo Compound radial engine caught and fired in a thunderous coughing fit and cloud of white smoke.  The booming cacophony calmed to a loafing, lopey idle until the pilot deftly eased the four throttles forward together with a practiced touch, unleashing ten thousand impatient horses to urge you free of the ground.  And then, leveling out at cruise speed and altitude, the engines settled down to a reassuring, steady drone.

It was still only 15 years since those same engines powered the Hellcats and Corsairs and Superfortresses that helped your dad and uncles whip the bad guys in the big war.  And even though they couldn't go down and have a big time in Havana anymore since that Castro clown took over, and even though the Russkies were rattling their sabers and sending stuff into space and you had to do duck and cover drills at school and your dad looked over brochures for backyard bomb shelters as he smoked his pipe, you still liked Ike and it was still an idyllic and exciting time, full of ideas and pregnant with possibility.  And on a day like today, bobbing on invisible currents of air between puffs of blinding white cloud in the achingly, impossibly blue heavens, even the Russians couldn't spoil it.

High Flight

Oh!  I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor eagle flew-

And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer John G. Magee, Jr

American flier with the Royal

Canadian Air Force.  Died in

aerial combat on December 11, 1941

New blog. Alert the media.

Hey, insomniac who wandered here by mistake, or the two who showed up on purpose.  Here's where I stow the stuff in my head, to prove there's something there.  No guarantees, implied or otherwise, on the quality of the content.  I just got done dumping most of the essays and stuff I've written and kept, because an empty blog is sad.  A full one may be just as sad, or worse, but it doesn't give off a hollow sound when you hit it.

Favorite Feel-Good Songs

January 22, 2011 

Some of my favorite feel-good songs

What a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong

Dock of the Bay, Otis Redding

Cherry, Cherry, Neil Diamond

Good Vibrations, the Beach Boys

Brown-Eyed Girl, Van Morrison

Here Comes the Sun, The Beatles

Drift Away, Dobie Gray

I can See Clearly Now, Johnny Nash

Three Little Birds, Bob Marley

Lean on Me, Bill Withers

Peace Train, Cat Stevens

Love Train, the O'Jays

Sweet Home Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd (not Kid Rock's ripoff of that song + Werewolves of London)

Everybody's Everything, Santana

Sir Duke, Stevie Wonder

Peaceful, Easy Feeling, The Eagles

Questions 67 & 68, Chicago

Kodachrome, Paul Simon

Just Like Starting Over, John Lennon

Watching the Wheels, John Lennon

Easy, the Commodores

Let's Go, The Cars

Just Like Heaven, The Cure

I left off some obvious ones.

Christmas Songs - Definitive and Favorite Versions

December 24, 2010

My favorite versions of Christmas Songs.  Your results may vary...


Adeste Fidelis                                                      Bing Crosby
All I Want for Christmas Is You                           Mariah Carey
Baby It's Cold Outisde                                         Dean Martin
Blue Christmas                                                     Elvis Presley
Breath of Heaven (Mary's Song)                         Amy Grant
The Christmas Song                                            Nat King Cole
Christmas Time Is Here                                       Vince Guaraldi Trio
Do They Know It's Christmas?                             Band Aid
Feliz Navidad                                                       Jose Feliciano
Frosty the Snowman                                           Jimmy Durante
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen                            Bing Crosby
Grown Up Christmas List                                     Amy Grant
Happy Xmas (War is Over)                                 John Lennon & Yoko Ono
Have a Holly Jolly Christmas                               Burl Ives
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas              Judy Garland
Heaven Came to Earth                                          2nd Chapter of Acts
Here Comes Santa Claus                                    Gene Autry
I'll be Home for Christmas                                   Bing Crosby
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year           Andy Williams
Jingle Bell Rock                                                    Ritchie Valens
Let it Snow                                                          Dean Martin
The Little Drummer Boy                                       Harry Simone Chorale
March of the Toys                                               The Philadelphia Orchestra
Mele Kalikimaka                                                    Bing Crosby with the Andrews Sisters
Merry Christmas Darling                                      The Carpenters
O Tannenbaum                                                    Nat King Cole
Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree                     Brenda Lee
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer                       Gene Autry
Santa Baby                                                          Eartha Kitt
Santa Claus is Coming to Town                           Frank Sinatra
Sleigh Ride                                                           Arthur Fiedler and The Boston Pops Orchestra
The Night Before Christmas                                 Amy Grant
There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays       Perry Como
Walking in the Air (from the film "The                  Peter Auty
Snowman" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ubeVUnGQOIk )


White Christmas                                                  Bing Crosby
White Christmas                                                  The Drifters
Winter Wonderland                                             Amy Grant
Wonderful Christmastime                                    Paul McCartney