I Hear The Secrets That You Keep...

So apparently I talk in my sleep.

I've had other girlfriends tell me that I mumble in my sleep, or occasionally even say a few words that don't seem to make sense. But now that Baby and I have been living together long enough to gather a reasonable sample size, there is simply no denying that I talk in my sleep. And knowing me, I'm bound to say something stupid and get into trouble.

The first episode happened right after we moved in together. In the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, I rolled over and punched Baby in the arm. I hit her so hard that I woke us both up. What's scary is that I wasn't the least bit groggy. I woke up on impact, and heard her say, "Ow!" Confused, I asked, "Did I just hit you?" And she says, "Yeah, what the fuck was that all about?" No telling. Thankfully she forgave me, and thankfully I haven't hit her since. Well, not in my sleep anyway. (These are jokes people! ...is this thing on?)

Baby goes running in the mornings before I get up. On days when she runs I don't set my alarm clock, and she comes in and wakes me up. She usually does this by kissing me, because she's just that awesome. So she comes home one morning last week and sits on the bed and kisses me on the lips. Still asleep, I clearly say the words, "Hi Mom." No, I'm not kidding. But again, I knew right away that something was amiss. I immediately say, "Did I just call you Mom?" "You sure did, Son." Yikes.

Then just this weekend we saw this crazy vampire band at the Cat. I don't mean to imply that they're really vampires, although they might well be. But they wear these campy vampire costumes, and they rock in a way that would be derivative if it weren't for the fact that they're dressed up like vampires. When Baby pitched the vampire band idea to me earlier in the day I had balked at it, because I'm a sissy and that kinda thing gives me nightmares. But we ended up having a good time and getting awfully drunk. So drunk, in fact, that Baby fell down a few blocks from home and in front of not a few cars at the traffic light. I laughed, because sadly I'm the guy that laughs at that kinda thing. I also didn't get laid. That's just one of the drawbacks of being that guy.

So anyway later that night I passed out drunk, flat on my back. I started snoring, and Baby told me to roll over. I don't remember this one, but according to Baby I shouted, "Shut up! I'm trying to communicate with the dead!" and just kept on snoring. Your guess is as good as mine on that one. I'm just glad I followed the 'shut up' part with the nonsense part, otherwise I probably would have spent the following night communicating with the dead from the couch.

Ducktails, Boo Hoo

My hair is growing out. I feel pretty good about this. I used to keep my hair short and kinda messy. It was my way of not conforming. Then short and messy became the look, and I started seeing guys in the boardroom wearing their hair that way. So I had to make a change. I'm vain like that. It also helped that my girlfriend really wanted me to grow it out. I'm a pussy like that.

My hair is painfully straight. Like, if it grew all the way out I'd look like the guys from Nelson. Not that that wouldn't rule, but I've kinda wished my hair would at least do something other than hang. But hang it does.

It's ok though, because at least I don't have to do much to tame it. I pretty much just dry it and put this crap in it that Baby buys for me that keeps it from getting frizzy. It takes thirty seconds. Time is money.

When I was a teenager my hair was really long. Like, middle of my back long. I really don't know why. I think it was one of those 'trying to be different' things. Of course, in trying to be different I looked like every other heavy metal (why don't more people call them grits, like we did?) kid in school. But dude! I was SO not into heavy metal. I was into Jane's Addiction, and they weren't metal! I was alternative. I looked the other way when the guitar players made out on stage. I tried to score with the goth chicks. I failed miserably.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah, so my hair is growing out again for the first time since I was a kid. Only I've got this goddamn problem that's making me rethink the whole thing.

When I leave the house in the morning I'm all shaggy and it looks the way I want it to. But by the time I get to work the back right side has completely curled, leaving me with a gravity-defying little ducktail that makes me look completely retarded. What the fuck is that all about? I gotta think it's because it hits the collar of my shirt and gets all banged up. But why only the right side? Do I have some bizarre cowlick down there that's fucking it up? Is the guy sitting on the metro behind me fucking with it while I'm sitting half asleep on the train? Is this the beginning of the rest of my hair curling? Should I curl the front left side to balance it? Or maybe braid that part and let it hang down? Rat tails are still cool, right? Maybe I should cut it off and grow a fauxhawk? Those aren't too trendy, are they?

Who Are These Fucking People?

Honestly, is there anyone in America that doesn't understand that everyone makes fun of people with mullets? Is there a barbershop you can go into somewhere and say, "Business in the front, party in the back" and not have the guy laugh at you?

There have been movies, websites, and entire stand-up comedy careers based on ridiculing the mullet as a hairstyle. When you see the look, you immediately think of the cliche. It's instinctual at this point. I mean, nobody wears the Hitler mustache anymore, right? There are some looks that we just know are not for us. And I can't, for the life of me, figure out why the mullet hasn't achieved this status.

I was at RFK this weekend for the Nats and Orioles series. RFK is in Washington, DC, the capital of the United States of America. You'd think that people living within driving distance of a major American city would at least be hip enough to understand the no-mullet rule. This isn't Alabama, this is the Mid-Atlantic.

But there they were, in all their glory. Mullet, jean shorts, high top sneakers, Marlboros and Miller Lites and fanny packs. I don't mean to suggest that everyone in attendance had a mullet. But they weren't exactly rare, either.

And the more I think about it, the more puzzling it gets. These weren't hipster kids with faux mullets trying to be ironic. These were manicured, styled mullets that take years to grow. The kind of thing you have to work on, the kind of thing that takes planning and thought. Growing a mullet is like planting a garden. You have a picture of the finished product in your mind, and you painstakingly work at it until it's ready.

This is the part that gets me. They've obviously been thinking about growing mullets. They're aspiring to do it. What the fuck? Where does that come from? Who are they looking at and saying, "I want to be like that guy!"? All the kids these days want to look like rappers, and that's understandable. Rappers are all over TV, and people emulate what they perceive to be cool. We all do it, in a way. We have a look we're going for. Who the hell is going for the mullet? Who is the role model? When is the last time you saw a mullet on somebody even remotely famous? Hockey players and professional wrestlers don't even have mullets anymore.

Who are these fucking people?

Pales In Comparison

Everyone judges people. We all do it. We're internally critical of people, noting flaws and differences and unfortunate aspects of others' appearances, personalities, lifestyles- you name it. But we've been taught (some better than others) that it's not a good idea to make those criticisms known. The idea of "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything" is sound advice, even if we don't follow it as often as we should.

Yet there are certain things we feel we've got free reign to comment on, despite the fact that they're every bit as hurtful and judgmental as some of the things we're not allowed to say. And frankly, I'm starting to get a little pissed at your supposed right to tell me how I'm somehow inferior because I'm not just like you.

Until a few years ago I was embarrassingly skinny. Weak beyond words. I had a number of issues, chief among them that I just wasn't that into eating and I didn't eat particularly regularly or well. So I was always underweight. And if you've ever been in that boat, you know that being skinny in a society full of fat people is an uncomfortable place to be.

Heaven forbid I should ever discuss a fat person's weight or diet in public. So what on earth gives you the right to declare how I must never eat, how I'm so lucky to be so thin, and- my personal favorite- actually put your fucking hands on me to display how skinny I am? Let's turn this one around. Let's say your fat ass walks in the room and takes two servings of birthday cake. Am I allowed to tell everyone in earshot what a fucking fatty you are? Maybe comment on how lucky you are to just not give a fuck that you could fit three of me in those pants of yours? And while we're at it, the next time you put your chubby little thumb and finger around my wrist and hold it up for everyone to see, how about I take a deep breath and see if I can't wrap my arms around you? Maybe stand behind you and try to figure out how you take a leak when you can't find let alone see your peepee?

Do you think I liked being different? The butt of the joke? Would you? Do you even care about the reasons why I got this way? I'm supposed to be sensitive to your condition. I'm supposed to understand that you're unhappy, and it's having an adverse impact on your body. Hey Slim, when I graduated from high school I was six feet tall and one hundred and fifteen pounds. I know from eating issues. So how about we start talking about this goddamn double standard?

Lately I've put on weight and I'm much healthier. But I've got a new issue that's apparently everyone's business. One that makes even less sense, if that's possible.

I'm pale. I am, and I will be for the foreseeable future. I wasn't when I was younger, but things have changed. I'm anemic. And I'm anemic because I take medicine to treat my leukemia. Leukemia is cancer of your bone marrow. Let me tell you, it's a bag of dicks. Anemia makes you weak and tired and pale and generally all banged up. It's not fun, but it sure beats being dead, which is where I'd be without the medicine.

So I'm concerned that it's ok for you to tell me that I need some sun. I realize it gives you a tremendous sense of self-satisfaction to place your desirable, golden brown arm against my unattractive pale one and declare yourself the winner of the great suntan contest, but I think it's a little fucked up. I know white people are supposed to get suntans. It's what all the cool kids do. But I can't get one. I just burn. And it hurts and so I'm over it.

When I was younger I took all the skinny cheapshots without fighting back. Those days are over. I'm trumping your suntan attack with the cancer card, and I'm clearing out the goddamn room while I'm doing it.

"My God bryc3, do you ever go outside? You're white as a sheet!"

"Yeah I go outside sometimes, but I can't get a tan because I've got cancer and I'm dying. So tell me more about your vacation. Hey wait, where are you going?"

Chocolate City Laments

You know, it's not my fault that things are the way they are. I didn't cause this situation, and I'm not exacerbating it. I just live here, same as you. Sure, I'm new here. But nobody told me I wasn't welcome. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why you want me to leave.

I was born right across that river. I'm not from this hood but I know it. Thirty one years doesn't go back all the way but it goes back far enough. I know the history, I know who lived here when things were good and I know who lived here when things were bad. And honestly let's stop kidding ourselves, because we both know that there was a hell of a lot more bad, and the bad wasn't exactly a long time ago.

My family has been here even longer than me. Plenty of them, older ones mostly, can't even imagine why I would choose to live where I do. They remember the riots, the fires, the crack, the hookers and the murder rate. They remember the white flight, the black flight, and the vacuum that ensued. I explain that things are changing, that things are safer, that most of those problems (ok, maybe symptoms) are fading away. They seem to want to believe me, because that doesn't sound so bad.

So why does it sound so bad to you?

I don't own this apartment or this building. I'm not on any community board to clean up the neighborhood. I don't care if you sell single beers or single cigarettes at the corner store and I'm not lobbying you to replace all those forties with bottles of wine. I think the selection of cheese at the Giant on 8th is just fine, thanks, and frankly I couldn't care less about a lack of good coffee shops or restaurants.

Now that you know a little bit more about me, can we maybe take it easy on the dirty looks? I'm just walking home, not to the 'let's turn this place into Georgetown' rally.

I'm not trying to steal Shaw from you. I just live here.