My friend Ringading turned me onto THIS SPECTACULAR PHOTOSET of random vintage photos. To the right is one of my favorites. Here is a little backstory written by yours truly: When he was a boy of sixteen, Henry Moses Singleton confessed to his father that he wanted to be a barber. Nothing gave him as much joy as running his fingers through a thick, greasy, textured head of hair. His father, a successful lawyer at the GGG law firm in Boston, was troubled by his son's desire to be a "man of hair" and insisted he find another passion. Distraught by his father's demands, Henry isolated himself in his room for several weeks and ate nothing more than a few crumbs, a moldy ham, and twelve plums. 

Two years later, when war called on him to serve his fine country, he filled his bags with hairbrushes, scissors, and head elixirs and bid his father farewell. "I trust you will stay safe and on a path to success" his father said to him as he closed the door. Henry wasn't sure about safety or success, but he was certain he was now finally free to do what he loved the most. 

The war lasted years and Henry managed to stay on the sidelines away from bullets and shrapnel. In battle, he'd hide behind the head of one of his navy mates, easily consoling himself with the ripe odor of their coifs. 

When his fellow navy men needed haircuts, Henry would gently sit them down and work his magic. Money was tight amongst the men, so instead of pocket change they would give Henry cigarettes, whiskey, or other random gifts. A feathered bow tie from Mali, a miniature flute from Barbados, and a stuffed Icelandic fox head were amongst Henry's favorites. He wore the bow tie on sunny days, played the flute at the masthead on every full-moon, and because its fur was the perfect texture and aroma, he always carried the stuffed fox head with him. 

Due to the horrid and shock of war, the men on Henry's ship eventually lost interest in keeping their hair neatly trimmed. When they weren't in battle - or killed either in battle or with their own hands - they locked themselves in their bunk and slept, and slept, and slept. 

Henry's spirits dwindled, but he found pleasure in little things, the sun, the roaring sea, his morning cup of stale coffee, his fox head, and a tiny cat who had snuck her way onto the ship sometime after leaving Palermo. 

monologue

Monologue (work in progress): You wake. You breathe. You sit. It's Saturday. It's Friday. It's Wednesday. It's one pm. It's two am. It's cold. It's hot. You're bored. You're in love. Your back aches. You feel like shit. You want a vacation. You want to take a nap. You can't sleep. You're hungry. You don't like this. You don't like that. It's September. It's March. You forgot your mother's birthday. It's raining outside. The baby needs changing. You prefer to walk. You prefer the red. It was an awful movie. You don't know. You'd rather not know. You don't want to talk about it. You hate your job. You wish you would have done something else with your life.

You wanted to be a botanist. You favored the company of  funny women. At one time you parted your hair to the right. You wore tight jeans and brown leather boots. You flossed your teeth while talking to others. You painted pictures of scantly clad women. You washed your hands seven times a day. You ironed your khakis on a portable ironing board. You carried around a noisy German typewriter. Your sandals reeked of cheese. You shaved your head with hopes that you'd find a new simplicity. You carved pumpkins on the basement floor and left the seeds to dry. You never cleaned up after your sick cat. You stole from your roommates. You planted a rare watermelon species in the back yard. You allowed a blind Indian man to shave you with a straight edge razor. You passed out cold on the subway and someone picked your pocket. You wore clothes too big for you. You mocked the cats. You listened to rare arias. You chewed your nails and spit them on the floor. You often dreamt about swimming. You once parked your car and soon after forgot where you parked it. You broke your rib in a mosh pit. You sung in the shower to avoid looking down at your growing belly. You stuck your tongue out while stirring cake batter. You sucked your thumb until you were twelve. You had two children. You were ashamed of the hair on your chest. You played abandoned pianos. You often slept on your left side. You massacred slugs with your fingers. You rubbed aloe vera in your eyes. You found a trio of baby possums under your porch. You picked avocados in Punjab. You weren't afraid of flying. You watched swifts fly into a chimney. You bought fifty balloons from a street vender and handed them out to strangers. You fed a mythical turtle. You only ate bagels and cream cheese. You slept on a Greek rooftop. You stole cigarettes and pop-tarts from Safeway. You tried to kill yourself seven or eight times. You watched the eclipse and waited for the world to end. You laughed easily when prompted. You made your own furniture. You carried around a pocket dictionary. You held your shoulders close to your ears. You lazed on the grass of Prospect Park every summer Saturday. You despised television. You weren't confident in your ability to use chopsticks. You thought you looked like someone other than yourself. You were afraid of full-moons. You sent long letters from jail after robbing a post office. You drew pictures of demonic clowns. You were turned on by watching other men fuck your wife. You ran the New York marathon. You were terrified of driving on highways. You made your bed meticulously. 

You shift in your seat. You check your email. You throw out the trash. You wash your hair. You brush your teeth. You say yes. You say no. You pass gas. You open the door. You watch the sun through a window. You check the time. You cross your legs. You do a pull-up. You open the mailbox. You fold and refold a napkin. You eat a piece of toast. You drink a glass of water. You blink. You wait. You peter back and forth. You tap your fingers on your knee. You sweep crumbs across the floor. You itch a scratch. You doodle a smiley face on a receipt. You answer your phone. You say goodbye. 

An interview with my wife FF. Tonight, FF sits at the fir farm table her other spouse (I'll call him Mike) made for her last Christmas. She wears a black sweater and magenta scarf over a skinny army pant. Her eyes are slightly puffy around the edges from lack of sleep. She sips on a small glass of red wine while tapping thoughts into her personal computer.  FF- How are you feeling today?

FF- Well. it's chilly outside. And my poor nipples have been sucked voraciously, so each time I step into the frigid outdoors they swell and throb with incredible pain. 

FF- That sounds icky. 

FF- Yes, but I'm getting used to it. The pain. It's mostly fine - and nothing, absolutely nothing compares to the horrific pain of childbirth. Plus, I'm feeding this little being and watching her mature before my eyes. It's pretty amazing how a pair of boobs can grow a human. 

FF- A pair of boobs containing the most nutritious liquid ever. 

FF- True. There is a point to all this booby madness. Miss Beckett now weighs eight and a half pounds. She's been sucking me dry. She loves the teats. Teats, teats, teats!

FF- And what are you feeding yourself?

FF- Tonight I'm having tater tots, spinach and a chicken hotdog for dinner. I have to eat blander foods - sans garlic and spicy spice - to avoid giving her painful fart syndrome. 

FF- Didn't a group of soldiers in New Delhi die from such a thing?

FF- I believe that version of painful fart syndrome involved a black snake, a dirty saddle, and a boxing match between two lightweights gone wrong. 

FF- Oh yes! It was called Tangekalolly Pood Syndrome and many villagers died as well. 

FF- It was a travesty. 

FF- Indeed. An odorous one. 

FF- Something I'd rather not experience at all. 

FF- I imagine there are few who would.

FF- Sadists and 4th grade elementary school teachers. 

FF- Tilt-a-whirl conductors and Chinese barbed wire manufacturers.

FF- those too.