Smoke and Mirrors

In a perfect world . . .

Category: hair (page 1 of 2)


Halloween will be here on Saturday and I have a few creepy and crawly things
to offer you between now and then.
If you are not a horror flick fan, I’m so sorry.
This short clip is from ‘An American Werewolf in London’, a film by Jon Landis.
The clip is pure Landis with musical soundtrack, graphic manipulation of human flesh and all.
At the time it was state of the art.
Still looks pretty damn cool today, methinks.
Check it out.
Oh, and . . .  Booo!

12 more things my daughters have taught me

  • Crappy ringtones are unacceptable. Upload a favorite song for free at
    My current ringtone is the first 40 seconds of ‘We won’t get fooled again’ by The Who.
    ‘Panama’ by Van Halen let’s me know when Pamela is calling.
  • Even a 50 year-old guy can learn to use Word (T9) to text on a cell phone.
    Drives them crazy that I can text almost as fast as them now.
  • What life used to be like when I was 20 and how much fun I had.
  • To never give up. Ever.
    (who’s teaching who here?)
  • What phrases like ‘cover flow’ and ‘shake to shuffle’ mean. (Ipod terms)
  • How to upload a Wordle to my cell phone. (Pam and I have Zero for Zooz on our cells) (Zooz Wordle)
  • My day off is not for me to rest. It’s the day I cook one of them a favorite meal, ultimately receiving a load of laundry that needs to be done . . .  ahem, Sarah . . .
  • Silence is a legitimate answer (as is yup, nope, uh-huh and dunno)
  • Time is like a river . . .  to the sea
  • Life is not always fair.
  • College girlfriends can be incredibly vicious. And really nice. (all in the same day)
  • That I am truly blessed to have 3 (and 4) such incredible women in my life.
  • watch out guys, these girls are tigers.


Heart my coconut
Aerodynamic brilliance
Forever full moon

My daughter Sarah came by the house a week or so ago and decided to
lounge around on the couch and do some work for school.
Methinks she needed a break from the campus crowd.
At one point she got up to go into the bathroom and I heard her start laughing.
Holding my precious bottle of Headlube, she looked at me and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?” I said.

“Headlube? Come on, Dad. It comes in a friggin’ water bottle for God’s sake!” (she’s still laughing)

“So what,” I said, “It’s usually 8 bucks and I got it for 2.50. It’s just moisturizer and besides it’s my head.”

“See you got the ‘matte’ finish. Nice.” she said.

Yeah, I’m all about the silky smooth but understated cueball noggin’ I guess.
Hmmm . . .
Can’t wait to see how long it will take for the comments to plummet this post to rock bottom.
Yeah, I got it coming with a product that sports that kind of name.
As it says on the bottle, “It’s your head. Buy this lube.”
So, I did and I might add that some days my glabrescent dome is a blessed work of art.
IMHO . . .


All of us have moments in our lives that we repress; traumatic and emotional pitfalls, odd and complicated times – things we just can’t look squarely in the eye.
Occasionally, these moments are dragged out into the light for all to examine and mentally fondle.
This past August we went to stay with my sister and her family for a few days at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire.
It was here that one of these hairy little creatures of truth was revealed.
And no one was more surprised than ‘yours truly’.

One beautiful moonlit summer night, me, Pamela, my sister Maureen and my brother-in-law sat on their back deck sipping ice-cold margaritas while taking in the comfortable night.
With the conversation flowing nicely, and my cigar smoking beautifully
my sister said, “Do you remember in first grade when Mom dressed you up as a woman?”

I looked behind me wondering who the hell she was talking to.
My mother would never do something as hideously damaging as that to my then dormant masculinity.
I figured my sister was talking about a brother I never knew I had.
What else could possibly explain it?
I had no recollection of it whatsoever.
Holy crap, I wonder why.

She was staring at me, smiling.

“Me?” I said.

“Yeah, don’t you remember?” She asked.

“Get the hell outta here, Mom would never dress me up as a woman,” I said, scoffing at the mere thought.

“Well, she did. In First Grade. It was a costume contest.”

Pamela and my brother-in-law were laughing their proverbial asses off at the
hairy little critter my sister had just so casually released.

“Come on, ” I said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. And you won first place! You had on make-up and lipstick and you wore a dress.
I think she even gave you some boobs, too!”

Well, that explains . . . ah, nevermind.

So, I guess I made a very convincing woman when I was in the first grade.
This should eat up a few years of therapy.
Thanks, Mumsy.
And thanks to my sister for dropping that runny egg on my head. (you messed up my hair!)
Time to go change these damn panty hose, too.
Damn runs.
They just don’t make them like they used to when I was a little girl.
Wonder if she had me wear a pair of her stiletto heels, too . . .
Repressed memories?
Yeah, that’s one way to put it.
Somebody, please shoot me.
Just watch out for the pearls . . .


I got on the train one morning several weeks ago and settled myself in for the train ride into Boston.
I was on a double decker train in a seat for one, perfect for writing or sleeping, the latter of which I do in the mornings I leave early.
A woman (I think she was a woman) with incredibly confusing blonde hair sat in front of me reeking to the high heavens of a cologne that almost made me gag.
Eau de Litter Box, perhaps?
All I could think of was the feeling I get when I walk in to Bath & Body Works at the mall; a total devastation of the olfactory senses to the point of nausea.
Anyway, this woman proceeds to flog the ever-loving shit out of her hair, cooties, dandruff and dead hair flying everywhere as I sat there taking it like a man, too tired to move to another seat.
That wasn’t quite enough though. She pulls out her compact and begins to violently swab her face to beat the band with the finesse one would use to scrub a dirty truck bumper.
I don’t scrub my ass that hard in the shower, for God’s sakes.
This went on for twenty or so minutes and it was disturbing, to say the very least.
The lips took at least half of the twenty minutes ending with that yucky “schmupp” sound.
I’m thinking Blondezilla must be an absolute vision when she’s finally done primping and packing her fat little face.
Sometime shortly after the “schmupp”, I fell fast asleep.
Thank God for small miracles.

Later that day, I thought about my wife, a minimalist when it comes down to makeup; less is more, period.
She’ll argue with me until JFK comes back from the dead but when she’s done up for an evening out (a rare event these days, sadly) she IS a vision.
Her face is just beautiful.
A few mornings ago I got out of the shower and dried off before opening the medicine cabinet for a Q-tip.
I saw a small innocuous looking package and I could swear it read “FaceSpackle”.
Now I looked up “spackling compound” on the web and found this: A white pre-mixed compound or powder to which water is added for use in mending cracks in plaster, holes in sheetrock walls, skimming old wallpaper seams, should be sanded smooth and flat after drying
This was disturbing.
Dear God, please not my wife.
I put my glasses on and saw that the writing didn’t say anything close to what I thought it said.
It was some kind of newfangled facial exfoliant from Origins.
As a man, I have a difficult time understanding all these exotic things women use on their face.
But my wife has taught my daughters well though; easy on the rouge, light on the eyeliner, gently shadow the lips.
Whenever one of them wears makeup they look like women, very pretty women. What happened to my little girls, I’ll never know.
If they continue to take their mother’s advice, the future years will treat them kindly.

As the train pulled into Boston that morning, Blondzilla got up and made her way to the exit.
Lord have mercy, I think she used to do makeup for Bozo the Clown . . . Ringling Brothers at the very least.
And if she happens to read this?
I’m getting my ass kicked some unsuspecting morning.
I think I’m safe . . .

Elektronic (or Elvis is Everywhere)

Back in the late 70’s and early 80’s I was gigging on a regular basis. (gigging = playing music i.e., weddings, night clubs, festivals, frat parties)
For a working musician, the times were good.
Actually, that’s wrong, they were the best.
Although things have changed dramatically and DJ’s continue to unjustly monopolize the wedding industry I still have rather fond memories of the good old days.
I read this short post at FFE’s blog and the wheels began turning.

Back in ’79 I got into a very popular cover band and was told I needed to purchase a specific wardrobe to be worn when we played various nightclubs in the area.
It didn’t seem like a big deal to me at the time until I found out exactly what I would need to purchase.
Alright, I’ll describe it.
And if you laugh, you’re freekin’ dead.
Here goes: tight, hip-hugging, white bell-bottoms (the widest bb’s I’d ever seen with a red silk insert on the outer seam), a red silk shirt with lapels that came down to my nipples, a white and tres skimpy white vest that rode somewhere near the bottom of my rib cage and a pair of (God help me) hideous ruby red platform shoes ala Elton John and the Yellow Brick Road.
You want to put me out of my misery already, don’tcha?
I would wear this ‘manly-gear’ mainly at nightclubs.
After the band finished the night (@1:45 -2:00am) I’d be hungry and would venture into Worcester to a tex-mex place called “The MidHeaven” for a few tacos or enchiladas.
The eating part doesn’t strike me as strange but the fact that I still had on my stage clothes deeply disturbs me these days.
Go ahead.
Ask me.
Michael, what in God’s name were you thinking? You’re lucky you’re alive you stupid bastard.
I must have looked like some bizarre Elvis wanna-be, incarnated and twice removed.
Dear God, please someone shoot me . . . uh-huh-huh
Maybe that’s why no one ever bothered with me.
They thought I was dead.
I’m alive to tell the tale so . . .
God damn, I looked goofy.
But I got babes.
Go figure.
Must have been the hip-huggers.
I saw the video below and thought, “This video deserves a post.”

Most memorable line from the video?
The really memorable line from the video?

” . . . my blue jeans is tight
so onto my love rocket climb . . .”

Is that frickin’ poetry or what?

Just Evyl and me

Evyl and I have decided to offer our services to all the gentlemen types currently surfing the web looking for something interesting to read, watch or do.
We’ve started something of a manblog to be sure but it has so much more to offer than that.
At Evyl and Smoke there will be no syrupy sweet posts, no sentimentality and a no holds barred policy; a very different place than here at Smoke and Mirrors.
Oh, and absolutely ‘no bullshit’.
This is a place where I can let my hair down
(funny, so to speak, even though we’re two guys with cueball noggins)
Women, cigars, sports, beer, booze, good eats, guy gripes and chili recipes will rule the roost.
Both of us aren’t quite sure where this thing will go but it’s been a blast so far and we’ve decided to finally go public with it.
We’ll leave it up to you as far as linking to us.
We are, first and foremost, gentlemen. 😉
BTW- We decided on an anonymous system in terms of posting and commenting thinking it might offer a bit of devious fun because you’ll never really know who is who.
I’m honored beyond belief to team up with the likes of Evyl.
He pulls no punches yet you always know where you stand.
For now, I’ll just welcome you to our new abode: Evyl and Smoke
Stop by and at least say hi.
And yes, it’s most definitely a guy thing.
And that’s alright by me . . .


My name is June

My dear friend Annie left a writing prompt (idea) for me on her blog.
Your turn, kiddo. {{{{grin}}}}}

” You wake up to discover that all your daughters are sons & your wife is your husband – what happens?”

Here’s what transpired . . . I don’t really know if I even like this but here we go . . .


You stare into the bathroom mirror and scream – OH! MY! GOD!
June Cleaver continues to stare back at you in horror. You watch your chest heaving up and down and think “Christ in a sidecar, I have breasts and wide hips and then no, no, dear God, no . . . yup, they’re gone.”
Your precious jewels are gone.
You scratch where they should be and look around the bathroom stunned by the realization that your world has turned to black and white and that you’re June Cleaver.

You pray that the kids have gone to school and Ward is at work before making your way to the kitchen when you see a handwritten note on the kitchen table;


I decided to let you sleep in this morning and have taken the boys to school myself.

Don’t worry, I made them oatmeal and toast for breakfast.

Wally asked if you could get him some pimple cream. His acne is acting up again.

And Beaver is, well, the Beaver. You know how much I love the Beaver.
I’ll see you tonight for dinner, my dearest



Your world begins caving in when you realize and understand the sheer magnitude of the situation you’re currently in.
You think, “What Would June Do?” and laugh thinking the initials of the phrase would look great on a bracelet.
You desperately need some booze but it’s only 8:30 in the morning and you’ve no idea where Ward hides the hootch.

You think that 24 hours ago the world was a vastly different place, as was your gender.

The phone rings and you automatically answer it like a subservient Stepford wife.


“Hi June! It’s Agnes Haskell. Have you seen my Eddie? He never showed up to school this morning and I think he’s up to no good and goshdarnit, I’m a bit worried.”

“Oh, Agnes! No, I haven’t seen Eddie. Ward let me sleep in this morning and he took Wally and Beaver to school. Boys will be boys! I’m sure it’s nothing serious, Agnes. If I see him I’ll be sure to tell him to call you, okay?”

“Are you okay, June? You sound . . . I don’t know, different.”

“Oh, if you only knew, Agnes. No, I’m fine. Gotta run, the milkman is here! Bye!”

You place the receiver into the cradle of the black rotary phone and catch a glimpse of yourself in the living room mirror and think: I’m going have to do something with this hair! It will never do!

You’ve never been ogled before in your life until you go out on the front steps to get your bottles of milk.

“Morning Mrs. Cleaver!”

“Good morning, Dan.”

“Hey, did I show you my new tattoo?”

“You have a tattoo, Dan?”

“Did I say tattoo? I meant to say my thick enormous tongue!” {laughing}

“Oh, Dan, you’re such a cut up!” {you’re laughing, and shaking your head because he’s such a freak}

You pinch yourself and repeatedly head butt the fireplace mantle hoping to wake yourself or ultimately pass out.
You somehow make it to 5PM when a bulb goes on above your nicely coiffed head.
You find a piece of paper and write:

Dearest Ward,

I must have come down with the flu because I’ve been sneezing all day.
(I must be contagious!)

I did manage to do some of the boy’s laundry. Please tell Beaver he needs to start wiping himself better or I may start calling him “General Beaver”!
Please take the boys for dinner. I just couldn’t cook in this condition.
I’ve taken two aspirin and plan on sleeping until my color returns.

I hope you understand, dear.



You lie down and close your eyes while praying for a Medjudgore miracle.
Your breasts are nice and quite perky but BIG DEAL.
You just want your junk back. {and rightly so – *authors note}

You accept the fact that you’d never make it in this world as a June . . . April or May could be a distant possibility though.
And though the hormone thing is just a killer . . . the nasty shaving business ain’t quite that bad.


Who Dat?

A) Barry Manilow after a 10 day bender at the Copa

B) Phil Spector after unsuccessfully trying to explain his signature “Wall of Sound“, and how much chicks really dig it

C) Mike Vick’s lawyer leaving the courthouse gobsmacked after failing to convince the judge that, “Hey, Mikey don’t smoke that shit.”



I go to a particular place for lunch several times a week.
While I’m not on a first name basis with the manager, he feels he knows me well enough to chat me up sometimes.

The other day he said, “Hey, you’re a good looking married guy judging from the wedding ring on your finger. You have a lot of women hittin’ on ya?”

I turned around to see who he was talking to when I realized he was talking to me.

He said, “I’ll tell ya man, this wedding ring is a freekin’ babe magnet! They won’t leave me alone! How about you?”

What you need to understand is this guy is somewhat geeky and has roughly 60lbs. on me, never mind the fact that he dresses like a slob with flecks of todays’ special all over his shirt.
He’s what you would call ‘a tad rough around the edges’.

Now, I’m no slave to fashion but I usually wear a nice ironed Polo shirt, khakis and a Harris Tweed suit coat, I’m not Rockefeller mind you but I look decent enough.
Never have I ever been ‘hit on’ like this guy.

In my mind, I gave a perfunctory whiff of my underarms and general body aroma (I say ‘aroma’ because I usually smell like whatever cologne I’m wearing that day. Truth be told, I had a flamboyantly gay customer tell me one day that I smelled ‘delicious’. Now if that’s not a compliment, I don’t know what is. I was wearing Paul Sebastian cologne) and there was nothing negative in terms of overall fragrance, albeit a hint of cigar smoke.
I aromatically ripen after five o’clock.


“No.” I said, “No hits today.”

“Man,” he said, “I’ve had like three women asking around today! Three!

”They must love you for your massive Columbo, “ I laughed, nodding in the direction of the frozen yogurt machine.

“Oh, yeah man!” he said, chuckling as I walked away with my lunch.

My pheromones must be on sabbatical or something.
All I seem to attract are guys that think I smell delicious, squirrels that want me solely for my food and bible toting assclowns that want to talk to me about Jesus.
Maybe it’s time for some new cologne.
I’ll have to ask my buddy in the Food Court what he wears because I hear the women are all over him like graffiti on an abandoned freight train.



My wife selected the picture.
I was emotionally torn between pics of Jack Palance and Harry Dean Stanton

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