PAGEANTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST

 

Note:
I wrote this several years ago and have been inflicting it upon my readers every holiday season since.
                                                               Jon


I never look back on those events with undiluted fondness. Through the long distance of years I still regard them with a twinge of humiliating disdain. I'm talking about the obligatory school Christmas pageants. Where innocent children are compelled to make fools of themselves on stage in front of parents, classmates, and faculty.

The only positive aspect I can ascertain is that those childhood days were simple, uncomplicated days - - when no one was offended by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and front yard nativities were proudly displayed without any concern about being confiscated by the Neighborhood Manger Police.
It seemed to be a Norman Rockwell America.

Scene One:
Glendora, California. The Gordon Elementary School. Second Grade. I was six years old.

My teacher Mrs. Eisendise (whom I called Ice and Dice) came up with the grandiose idea of staging several scenes from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet. I wasn't in the least smitten by her plan, but I did fall in love with the music. In fact, I forced my mother to buy a recording of it. A double LP album in those primitive days.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I was chosen to be one of the waltzing flowers in (of course) the Waltz of the Flowers. My humiliation was lessened only by the fact that numerous other boys were also sentenced to being flowers in Eisendise's delusional bouquet.

 Four boys who became unwilling participants in Mrs. Eisendise's flower bouquet. I'm the one in the striped shirt.

The stage scenery was quite elaborate for a less than minor production. A serene rural backdrop with cardboard trees and shrubs. I can't exactly remember the flower costume that I wore, which - from a Freudian point of view - is probably a good thing. I can't attribute it to any pansy complexes I might have acquired twenty years later.

It's a fleeting thought. Don't ponder it for too long.

The dance started out splendidly but rapidly deteriorated. The music somehow seemed to be going faster than our twirls and leaps. In time, it completely resisted our efforts. Disharmony and vertigo ensued and soon it was every flower for himself. We had completely abandoned the music and were simply fighting to stay alive. I'm not sure which flower knocked down a cardboard tree, but trees suddenly began toppling like dominoes. Petals were crushed and the curtain was mercifully pulled. We waltzing flowers were far from a success.

If nothing else, the entire ugly ordeal robbed me of any future desire to have a career on the stage.

Scene Two:

Covina, California. The Charter Oak School. Third Grade. I was seven years old.  

My teacher Mrs. Rollins was unusually weird. She had heavily dyed black hair - parted severely in the middle - thick tortoise shell glasses, a generous  application of rouge, and more red lipstick than Bette Davis wore on a bad day.

Mrs. Rollins also had a very strange habit. At the end of every school day, she had the class line up by her desk and would kiss each of us goodbye. Sometimes I was able to duck out and avoid being branded by her crimson lips.

Fortunately this caused no known ill effects on my future psyche - - although to this day I still become completely impotent at the sight of tortoise shell rimmed glasses. 

Mrs. Rollin's Christmas pageant was no less unnerving than Eisendise's waltzing flowers had been. I and two other boys were chosen to sing We Three Kings (I never figured out whether we were technically kings or wise men).

Rollins handed us the lyrics and demanded that we learn them within a week. I still don't know where the hell she got those lyrics, but I'd never seen so many pages for one Christmas song in my entire life. There were at least ten choruses.

We three boys wore cardboard crowns, makeshift capes, and had to carry empty gift boxes wrapped in Christmas paper. The pageant went off without a hitch, until we began singing....

We three kings of Orient are, bearing gifts we traverse afar...

we sang....and sang....one excruciatingly long chorus after another.....over and over.....and....over....

The audience would begin to applaud - hoping it was finally the end - and we'd suddenly sing another chorus.

It was the longest frickin' song in Christmas pageant history. I was seven years old when we started. I think I was pushing thirty by the time we finally finished.

Despite trying for years to expunge the event from my mind, I can still remember every chorus and every word from that ghastly song.

 

 

REACHING BACK

I want to reach back in time and retrieve those summers that I knew long ago. In my fertile and unblemished childhood mind, those summers seemed to span a blissful course of carefree eternity - where time and purpose were momentarily suspended and the burden of reality was suppressed.

Those were the golden times, when minds weren't stifled and tainted with the toxic addiction of the Internet, video games, cell phones, and social media.

Those were times of delicious normalcy - - when plague masks were unheard of, and there were no inane restrictions to destroy the body and ravage the soul. The flu and the common cold ran their natural course, without the perpetual indoctrination of pandemic panic.

Summers were accepted as being hot - a natural annual occurrence - which had nothing to do with frantic alarmist pronouncements of climate change and an eventual fiery Armageddon. 

Swimmers and beachcombers savored the intoxicating sunshine without the impending prediction of eventually contracting skin cancer and suffering the agony of eternal doom.

The world at that time projected a satisfying sense of normalcy and rationality.

I want to resurrect the times when sun tea was the best ice tea ever consumed and back yard barbecues didn't cause world-wide pollution and global damnation.

I want to savor the simple summer childhood pastimes and diversions that I once knew:
Swimming, biking, roller skating. Tree climbing and jumping rope. Languishing in secret shady places while absorbed in the luxury of reading books.
Indulging in idle hours of board games: checkers, Chinese checkers, games such as Monopoly, Why, and Clue.
Staying up later than childhood restrictions allowed - being scared witless with the unholy exchange of ghost stories.
 Listening to a transistor radio under the covers in bed, during the hours when you should have been sleeping.

Childhood summers were absolute perfection in the biased luxury of what we choose to remember.

In grim reality, nothing is perfect.

In the sacred portal of our selective memory,
perfection lingers with unabashed persistence.

Cheers, Jon

THE CHRISTMAS DOG

I had just turned six that Christmas (my birthday is December 13th). Even though I had never made a list of Christmas wishes, that year I really wanted a dog. Since my parents were never exactly enthusiastic about maintaining a pet, I decided that a chihuahua would be a perfect choice. They were tiny, obedient, probably easy to care for. We casually talked about it, but I had no big hopes that my wish would materialize.

Imagine my complete astonishment when I looked under the tree on Christmas morning  and found an adorable little chihuahua curled up sleeping in a basket! I was so overjoyed that I picked up the precious dog and ran into my parent's bedroom to show them.

Jingles and me on Christmas morning

 

I named the dog Jingles (inspired by the song Jingle Bells)  and spent the day playing with him. 

Unfortunately, happiness never (and I mean never) prevailed for very long in our family. That night, Jingles accidentally had a bowel movement under the Christmas tree. He was an untrained puppy, in a new home. Such unpleasant mishaps should be expected.

My father immediately went into a rage. He grabbed the dog and beat it mercilessly.  This insane outburst was nothing new and certainly nothing unusual.  

Dad was never able to handle any situation rationally or in an adult manner. His immediate reaction was always a burst of unbridled physical violence. Any incident - no matter how trivial or insignificant - could set him off.  He'd grab my mother or me and beat us relentlessly, without  restraint and with no subsequent guilt. I could very easily relate hundreds of similar incidents that involved my father's temper and physical violence throughout my childhood - including one which resulted in an ugly court case that happened when we first moved to California.

Of course, we couldn't keep Jingles the chihuahua. If I remember correctly, we only had him for one or two days.

Fortunately - perhaps miraculously - there was a positive end to this dire tale. There was a middle-aged man who lived across the street from us named Jack. He lived alone and wanted a pet. When he saw Jingles, he fell in love with the dog and took him immediately.

Jack built a special bed for Jingles, gave him all kinds of toys, and taught him to do impressive tricks. I remember that he taught the dog how to kneel by his little bed and put his paws together in prayer before he went to sleep!  Jingles was showered with attention and couldn't have had a better home.

My sixth Christmas was ruined by the dog incident. My fifth Christmas had been ruined by the train incident (see my previous blog post Tale of a Christmas Train).

At that time in my childhood I was never angry, bitter....or surprised. Disappointment, violence, unhappiness, and uncertainty were all a very normal part of my existence. 

Perhaps, perhaps that is why I became a pessimistic adult. I always expect the worst and have always had a difficult time accepting any semblance of happiness. It's just a fleeting theory. Heck, what do I know? I'm not Freud.

Truth to tell, the dog incident is only a very minor footnote in my chaotic existence. There were future Christmas horror stories involving my father that are almost too incredible to comprehend.

 

TALE OF A CHRISTMAS TRAIN

If I wasn't the most gullible child who ever existed, I certainly ranked in the top ten. I wholeheartedly believed everything that I was told. If my parents didn't finally reveal that there wasn't any Santa Claus (when I was six), I would still believe in him today.

The above photo was taken when I just turned three. I looked older because I was unusually tall.

I have two Christmas tales to tell, but I'll save the second for another post. I should probably warn you that my  Christmas tales are neither particularly uplifting nor happy - but that was a normal aspect of my childhood. 
Ancient memories are crowding my mind at this sentimental time of year....


When I was five years old, I received an elaborate train set for Christmas. It was one of the most magnificent things I'd ever seen.

The train tracks were mounted on a very large platform, with an entire village - including a train station, church, school, shops, houses, etc. - all with lighted windows. There were tiny people and animals, electric lamp posts, even advertisement signs and telegraph wires. A huge snow-covered mountain was in the center, with a tunnel where the train went through.

The Gilbert train was equipped with electric lights, a whistle, and real smoke coming from the engine (liquid smoke from a bottle was utilized).

I was completely fascinated and could hardly believe Santa would present me with anything so fantastic.

What I didn't realize was how incredibly big the village was. We lived in a small place and the train set covered the entire floor.

The day after Christmas I leaped out of bed and ran into the living room to see my train village.
Imagine my shock when I discovered it was gone! Nothing was left but the train in a box and a few of the tracks.

I was curtly told that the train village was too big and Santa had to take it back.

I didn't cry or put up a fuss. At that early age I was docile and compliant. I was extremely disappointed, but Santa had to do what he had to do......  

The train was quickly put away and I didn't see it again until I was twelve. My father took it out, set it up, and we (mostly he) messed around with it for a few days. Then he put it away again (deciding that it was too much trouble to maintain and annoyingly in the way).

So, I've kept the train in mint condition for over fifty years - in the same box that it came in at Christmas when I was five years old.

After I moved to Tennessee, I put the boxed train on a top shelf in my bedroom closet and nearly forgot about it.

Yesterday, ancient Christmas memories inspired me to look at the train again. When I retrieved it from the closet, I was horrified to see that mice had gotten into it and ripped the top of the vintage box to shreds. They even chewed the cellophane on the little boxes that the train cars are stored in.

My move to Tennessee has resulted in many disasters. The movers "lost" or stole an enormous amount of my most cherished possessions.
And most of the things that I still have were destroyed by dampness and mice.

I've been told (by well-meaning people) not to worry so much about "mere" possessions......
.....but I'm a sentimentalist, and possessions are all I have left....

Anyway, today I took a few photos of what's left of the train.

 The top of the box was chewed by mice

This is what happened to the lid when I opened the box.....I'll eventually try to tape it together.

The train is heavy and made of metal - - not like the plastic stuff they make nowadays.

Jon

(originally posted in 2020)

 

MEMORIES OF EASTER

There are some memories from my life that are so distant, they seem to exist in another world and I seem to be viewing them as a stranger.

I'm suddenly three or four years old, walking with my mother in downtown New Brunswick, New Jersey. She goes into a shop to buy an Easter bonnet. After carefully contemplating many selections , she decides on a lovely white hat garnished with a small spray of spring blossoms.

On Easter Sunday she wore the hat with matching white gloves, a gorgeous spring outfit, and (of course) high heels.
Do ladies still wear Easter bonnets? Do people still dress up for Easter, or is this an archaic ritualistic tradition of the dark and distant past? 

I must interject that this was when my mother was still a (disbelieving) Catholic. A few years later, when we moved to California, she denounced Catholicism completely - to the absolute horror and hysteria of her devout Catholic family.

St. Peter's Church

in New Brunswick, which I remember as a child. It was built in 1865 - slightly before my time.

There were Easter egg hunts at my maternal grandmother's house. We grandchildren spent part of the afternoon eagerly scouring the back and front lawn, searching for Easter eggs and candy.

My father whispered hints to me, disclosing where the treasures were hidden, and I angrily said "Don't tell me! I want to find them myself." 

I was a stubborn little booger, even back then.

One day my cousins, Maryann and Dianne, walked with me to a department store downtown to see the Easter Bunny. The most vivid thing I remember was that the Easter Bunny reeked with the strong scent of perfume and was wearing a woman's wristwatch.

She was also wearing a smiling bunny mask and - strangely - the open mouth had a little screen over it.

"The Easter Bunny's a lady," I mentioned afterwards. "And she had a screen over her mouth!"

"That's to keep out the flies," Maryann told me.

Me with my cousins Maryann (left) and Dianne (right)

It wouldn't have been Easter without going to Woolworth's downtown to see all the candy displays - - and especially the baby chicks and ducks in the basement.

This was during those cruel, unrestricted times when baby animals were sold for Easter. The chicks and ducks were crammed closely together in wooden pens, with lots of light bulbs glaring overhead to deep them warm. Some had even been dyed in pastel Easter colors.

The feathered critters always intrigued me, but - thankfully - my parents never let me have any. 

And - even more thankfully - this inhumane tradition is no longer in vogue.

In conclusion, I never thought Easter memories could be boring - but I think I've proved the point.

 

FIRST KISS

Well, the eclipse is over. And so is summer, almost. It hasn't rained here in two days and everyone is getting nervous. 
Coyotes howled enthusiastically late last night. Gunshots echoed through the forest this afternoon. I doubt if the two things were related.

My usual foul mood is compounded by a sinus headache and an ear infection. I feel ear blockage and hear echoes. It's kinda like Black Sabbath is performing in my cochlea.
Don't panic. The cochlea is nothing sexual.

Speaking of sexual - - I was scanning some old photos into my computer last night. And I found this one photo that I had completely forgotten about, which is connected with a story that I had also completely forgotten about: my first kiss.

 Me on the left, Lynette on the right, with a very reasonable distance between us. This is a crappy photo with bad lighting, and some mysterious streaks on the film.

I was seven years old and we lived in Covina, California.
Lynette was around my age and lived across the street. We were just casual friends and I hardly remember her. Except for the kiss.

It happened in my back yard. In all fairness, Lynette was completely innocent. I was the aggressor, the perpetrator, the wolf in pursuit. But, for the life of me, I don't recall exactly what inspired my rash act of unbridled ardor.

I suddenly planted a big smooch right on Lynette's unsuspecting mouth, and I did it with admirable enthusiasm for an inexperienced seven-year-old.

My moment of bliss was of very short duration. As luck would have it, my mother and a neighbor lady were looking out their respective windows and saw me commit the blasphemous deed.

All hell broke loose in our reasonably quiet and conservative neighborhood, and I was soundly chastised and nearly banished and forced to wear a scarlet letter.

It's improper and inappropriate! my mother said.

It's immoral and unacceptable! a concerned neighbor lady chimed in.

You could get a disease from kissing someone! another do-gooder warned me.

I couldn't imagine what disease I'd contract from a seven-year-old virgin, but that was beside the realm of my eternal damnation. 

Anyway, the ugly incident put a major damper on my sexual proclivities for many years to come. Kissing was one more thing added to a tediously long list of unconscionable sins.

We moved to Pomona when I was eight, and the girl across the street from us there was named Carolyn. Carolyn was two years older than me and very wise in wicked ways. She made Lynette look like a Romper Room amateur.

But this post is getting long, so I'll leave Carolyn for another time.

So, Jon, when was the first time you ever kissed a boy?

You nasty people have minds lower than the bottom of the trash cans in the Edit Room of the National Enquirer.

If you really must know, I was a sweet and totally innocent nineteen-year-old. The lucky perpetrator was pushing thirty.

From there, I'll leave you hanging in agonizing suspense.....

Note:
I finally  corrected the typos. I may not be perfect, but I'm damn near it.

FATHER'S DAY

I could never bring myself to call him "Dad" or "father". Ever. That generic term of endearment was completely foreign to me. I considered it to be a title that had to be earned - not given. I usually called him "the old man". Or worse.

I'm not proud of my reluctance. Or resentment. Or hate..... but it was there deep within me where it festered for years. I never really connected with him. We never bonded. I was perpetually uncomfortable in his presence, to the point that I often stammered with a loss for words. 

When he attempted to be kind I would recoil and resist. All the wicked, detrimental things that he did over my entire lifetime would well up inside me and become a defensive wall of immunity around me - rendering me resistant to the intended truce.

In retrospect, I was often at fault. My hate was a self-inflicted venom that had been slowly poisoning me since childhood. It had little effect on him.....but it had completely destroyed me. My self-hatred was profound.

I was with him when he died. A sudden, completely unexpected heart attack. As he clutched his chest in pain, I held him and said "It's okay, Dad, you're going to be all right."

They were the last words he ever heard. And I had called him "Dad". I never thought about that. He has now been dead for nearly ten years and I never thought about that until last night. I'll admit that it made me cry.

 

My parents in Atlantic City

before they were married

 

Dad holding me.

I was born nearly three years

after my parents were married 

My father was the most terrifying person I ever knew. His temper, violence, and rage was inhuman and superhuman. It always came unexpectedly, and with such unbridled fury and insane viciousness that any rational attempt to describe it would be futile. 

It came unexpectedly, and yet it was always expected. It was an inevitable and unavoidable part of my existence. Anything could ignite his insanity, and most often it would be small, insignificant things. His rage wouldn't just last for hours. It would last for days. Often weeks. The same eternal pattern. When the rage finally ended, he would be like someone who had awakened from a deep sleep and remembered nothing. He would be completely normal.

He would also never be apologetic. Anything that had previously happened was entirely my fault, or that of my mother.

My father, long before he was married.

I think the car belonged to his brother Jim.

 Dad in his Willys Jeep. The year was either 1948 or '49. This is the vehicle that my parents used when they eloped.

I had no siblings. My mother and I endured the impossible, unresolvable situation completely alone. All we had was each other. I was accused of being a mamma's boy. She was accused of being over-protective. 

In retrospect, I was seldom a child. My role was that of mediator, referee, counselor, protector, psychiatrist. I would endure nights of incredible violence, beatings, shocking scenes of insanity that can never be expunged from my memory. Mom and I would often have to hide in the yard until dawn. And then I would go to school in the morning and pretend that nothing happened. It was my way of life.

This was taken at the Grand Canyon but I have

no clue what year. My guess is that I was about

fourteen. The body language is evident. I always distanced myself (the photo is a Polaroid and has moisture damage)

It seems foolish and futile to dwell on things that happened in the long-ago past, but some scenes aren't easily expunged from memory. I have learned to forgive - but it's not easy to forget.

When angry, my father would lose all sense of reason. His strength was incredible and his sole instinct was to kill.
He ripped a solid oak bedroom door off the hinges and beat my mother over the head with it.
He fractured two of my ribs when I was fourteen.
He savagely attacked me with a shovel because I used some tools from his tool chest. I was usually attacked with whatever weapon was available: a crow bar, a wooden ladder, a chair.
When I was eighteen, he choked me into unconsciousness.

Once, when I parked my car in the "wrong" place in the driveway, he opened the hood, ripped out all the wires and loosened the engine. 

I still shudder when I remember the day, after a particularly violent blowup, that he handed me a loaded gun and told me to kill myself.

These are only a few random incidents out of a multitude of others. The most unbearable thing for me to witness was the violence he inflicted upon my mother. I have no intention of relating  details or offering analysis. My parent's relationship was extremely complicated and warrants more than a few lines.

Me and dad, barbecuing in Glendora, 

California. I'm probably six years old.

I'm holding a can of his beer. 

 Dad and Mom during a rare pleasant moment.
I took the photo (I think I was seven at the time). That's the Chevy truck that we drove  when we moved from New Jersey to California

There were definitely good times, but they surfaced infrequently. I think I resented them the most, because I knew they wouldn't last. 

By all accounts, my father's life hadn't been easy and he was troubled at an early age. When he started school he only spoke Hungarian and didn't know a word of English. He learned English entirely on his own (children of different ethnic backgrounds weren't catered to back then). He left school at an early age to work full-time. Got in trouble with the law numerous times. Was in the Navy during WWII. He narrowly escaped a blitz in London. His ship was bombed near the coast of Africa. He was later a participant in the invasion at Normandy.

Dad is on the right

In describing his virtues, I have to carefully differentiate between the madman and the person of rationality.
He was meticulous in every aspect of his life. Obsessed with cleanliness and absolute order. Scrupulously efficient - never owed a penny to anyone. He was an indefatigable workaholic, had astoundingly endless energy, and was the most hyperactive person I ever knew.

He was mechanically-minded and could build or fix anything. He had a great passion for music of all kinds and loved to hear me play the piano. Ironically, he tried to break one of my fingers once when I was practicing. As bitterly ironic as it sounds, he sometimes had a good sense of humor. And he was a good cook.

He would brag whenever I had an article published or gave a concert. He once confided to my mother that he wished he had been handsome like me when he was young.

My father was deeply troubled and extremely complicated. In that respect, we were very much alike. Fortunately, I didn't inherit the violence.

I forgave my father for all the wounds he inflicted long before he died. After he died, the hate completely vanished like a lifted weight.

I never told my father that I loved him.
It is one of my deepest regrets.

 My parents on their 37th wedding anniversary

Mom was 59, Dad was 64.

In later years

when Dad was in his 70's

MORE HAIRY STORIES

(Hey Phil, thanks for making me look cuter than I really was)

I was a nervous, timid kid. My home life was harrowing, since my parents marriage was constantly turbulent. Both my parents worked, so I was often cared for by relatives or neighbors. Things were always unstable and I was always apprehensive. Somewhere around the age of three (possibly four??) I developed the habit of twisting my hair around one finger and tugging at it. I didn't do it constantly, but I did it often enough to annoy my father.

One day Dad grabbed me and whisked me off to the barber shop. He plopped me down in the chair and said to the barber "Cut it all off!"

The son of a bitch did. 

Within three minutes of the clipper's buzz, I was as bald as Humpty Dumpty. I looked like a frickin' midget from Camp Pendleton.

 Me during my third Christmas.

I looked cranky, but at least I still had my hair.

From that day on, hair was a big issue for me and I had an intense aversion to barber shops. I was subsequently subjected to crew cuts for many years, although - judging from photos - the length of my hair fluctuated from nearly bald to almost normal.

On my third-grade school photo my crew cut looked so horrible that I hid the picture from everyone. To this day nobody's seen it. From grades four through six my hair seemed to be a more reasonable length. Perhaps my parents finally realized that I shouldn't go through life looking like Sluggo.

Second Grade, age six. I'm the one in the striped shirt. I wasn't subjected to another crew cut until I was in third grade.

By seventh grade (which was Junior High in California) my hair was long enough to part and comb over to one side. That was the "longer" hair style that the surfers wore back then, so everyone started calling me "Surfer".

So, Jon, when are you gonna get to the good stuff?

There is no good stuff. I'm merely walking down a Hairy Memory Lane. 
 
My high school years occurred during the  hippie era. One or two guys dared to have long hair in school, but they were inevitably expelled. Hair cuts for boys were still de rigueur. If your hair grew long enough to touch the top of your ears, it was considered too long.

I was sixteen during my senior year. My maternal grandmother died that autumn and we went back east to attend the funeral. Numerous relatives icily commented that I needed a haircut.

Graduation, age sixteen

my hair was considered too long

Men's hair was a huge issue at that time. You were either a clean-cut non-conformist collegiate type, or a radical, freakish, trouble-making hippie. If a man let his hair grow anywhere near the realms of "shaggy", snide comments would inevitably be hurled.

When are you gonna get a haircut?
Do you want to be a girl?
Are you trying to be a hippie?
Are you a frickin' fairy?
(Yea. Wanna see my magic wand?)

When I was sixteen I happened to encounter my cousin George in New Jersey. George was ten years older than myself and a successful restaurateur. He was always known as a stuck-up condescending snob.

He didn't even bother to say "hello". He simply sneered and said "I'd never let you work in my restaurant with hair like that!"

I was shocked. Hey, Georgie old boy - how'd you like a turkey baster up your ass?

Fortunately I was disgustingly sweet and polite back then. I didn't dare say one word.

Here's a delicious aside:
Ol' George has since been married about five times. I heard that one of his ex-wives dumped boiling water on him, then drove her car through the side of his house (no lie - I couldn't make this stuff up).
Hey - revenge is sweet....... 

After high school graduation I slowly but surely started letting my hair grow - nothing close to radical hippiedom, but long enough to be contentedly shaggy. I began using lemon juice on it (like some surfers did) so it was sun-bleached.

 Hippie Jon (I'm the one on the right......in case you couldn't guess....)

I went through numerous phases during my colorful California youth:

The Huntington Beach Surfer. 
 I was far from ever being an adept surfer, but I could pass for a reasonable facsimile.

The Quasi-Hippie.
 Any one remember puka shell necklaces, granny glasses, and mood rings?

Devotee of Transcendental Meditation.
 I wore sandals and East Indian clothing. A guru told me to give up my worldly possessions and abstain from sex. 
I had no worldly possessions. I abstained from sex for about three hours.

Post Vietnam Army Fatigues and Dog Tags.
 I used to haunt Army & Navy surplus stores. I wound up looking like a reject in a casting call for "Platoon".

Hollywood Boulevard Midnight Cowboy. Arguably my best facade. And my most popular one.

So, what does all this have to do with my hair? 

Through all of my many phases and identities, I've never again went to a barber. Never had another crew cut. Never trusted anyone to cut my hair but myself. Never gave a damn about what anybody thought about my hair.


I might look like the far side of hell, but at least I'm content.

Nowadays, at 150 years old, I don't give a rat's ass what anybody thinks. 

Note:

all of my family photos are still stored on my desktop computer, which I haven't unpacked yet, so I didn't have much of a choice. I had to take all of the above photos from my old blog Lone Star Concerto.