Twisted Scribbles

Wasn't This Popular for Like, Ten Seconds in 1985?

(The following is an adapted excerpt from the new book, Kink in the Timeline: How the Modern Hair Crimping Iron Changed History, by Madelynn R. Rouge, licensed hair stylist and author of the best-selling 'Permanent' Record: My Life as an Award-Winning Stylist.)

After the invention of aerosol hairspray can in 1956 and the creation of handheld blowdryers in 1971, the debut of the hair crimping iron in 1972 stands as the most important haircare product design of the last half of the twentieth century.

The Seventies was a big decade, and few celebrities were bigger than Barbra Streisand.  A young stylist by the name of Geri Cusenza was one of the stylists lucky enough to work with Ms. Streisand during this period.  Cusenza, who would go on to win numerous awards (including a 1995 North American Hairstyling Award) and found, with her husband, the famous haircare company, Sebastian, was spending hours braiding and unbraiding her client’s hair to achieve a tight wave.

It is usually at this time during my talks to hair clubs and beauty schools that I pause to explain the great star, Barbra Streisand.  Unfortunately, reader, many of us continue to get older while those entering our profession remain a blissfully ignorant (yet still intelligent!) 18-24 years old.

I usually start out by explaining to the sea of pink hair and nose rings that Barbra had been (and still is!) well known for the songs she sang, the movies she sang them in and the male co-stars she serenaded both on- and off-screen, all while sporting a non-traditional (some might say “ethnic”) look that made her immediately recognizable and strangely attractive.  On one such occasion, I was right in the middle of explaining why, in The Way We Were, someone as beautiful as Robert Redford would choose a Jewish queen like Barbra, when a young man covered in white makeup, black lipstick and jetblack hair stood and screamed at me.

“Don’t be such a hater.  Some of us know who Barbra is,” He said.  “Some of us think she’s beautiful and some of us know that she’s a real hero!”

And while I’m not old-fashioned at all, it was nice to see that even a world as rigid and conservative as the hairstyling industry has become open enough to welcome people who practice “alternative lifestyles.”

Anyway, it was during a marathon braiding session in early 1971 that Geri Cusenza, working through what I can only guess was excruciating finger pain, began searching for a better way to achieve the look her client wanted.  I imagine that she stifled the desire to verbalize her pain, as many clients do when you accidentally tug too hard when applying a difficult weave, and instead turned her attention to ways to make her job easier. 

While Cusenza has yet to pen her own autobiography (Dish the dirt, Geri.  It’s not that hard, girl!) I’d like to think that she thought first of mechanical robot hands that could accomplish the braiding task faster.  Of course, research she invariably undertook at the time would have revealed not only the crude mechanics of Seventies-era robotics but the primitive control software of the time.

All the while, Geri continued to braid and unbraid.  Finally, inspiration hit and she cobbled together her first prototype.  That iron, which later became the modern hair crimper and is probably now gathering dust in the basement of the Smithsonian, was the result of hours of frustration and hundreds of miles of braids.  But like all great inventions, Cusenza’s tool would take years to find appreciation.

As Bea Arthur can attest, the Seventies quickly turned into the Eighties and tastes changed.  Barbra Streisand’s first role of the new era, Cheryl Gibbons in All Night Long, was considered a misstep by critics, and things looked much worse for the crimped look.  That all changed when young stars like Jodie Foster, Alyssa Milano and others listened to the counsel of wise stylists and brought the look in to the open.

The Eighties, became, in time, the decade of the hair crimper.  After John Hughes’ movies, cocaine use and shoulder-mounted boomboxes, crimped hair (and, by association, the hair crimper) has come to represent the free-spirited return to innocence that was the 1980’s. 
 

It's Actually an Anteater

The following is excerpted from the book "Hey, That's MY Porcupine!" and Other Great Conversation Starters by H. Brodus Finklestein:

As we discussed in the previous chapter, eye contact is a major part of a great introduction and is as important as a good opening phrase.  But, like any combination, it's important that the intentional (some would say aggressive) eye contact that I recommend is only used in the right situations.

What follows are several scenarios that require a modification of the H.O.R.A.S.S. (Hand Out Right Away and Stare Strongly) technique explained in chapter 3.

Meeting the Pope.  While few of us will have the honor of an audience with the Pope (except for those who gain success after reading this book and my previous tome, Piece of Cake, and 46 Other Single-Serve Business Ideas, who will be more qualified to meet with His Excellency), but for those who do, immediate eye contact might be innapropriate.  From what I've read, the Pope prefers to touch his ring to one of yours, in effect, "kissing the rings."  Just remember to wear your ring that day.

Meeting CoCo, the gorilla.  Unlike humans, animals (even the ones who can do sign language) view direct eye contact and staring as a sign of intimidation and strength.  And while CoCo can act gently enough to care for a kitten, she is also strong enough to tear your limb from your body.  In this case, I'd also refrain from the first part of the technique (Hand Out Right Away).

Asking for Leniency from a Kidnapper.  Desparate men undertake desparate acts.  Any kidnapper will, undoubtedly, be in a heightened state and will view a cheery "Think it'll rain tomorrow?" as a threat.  While conversation starter #41, "I have a handgun JUST like that!" might seem appropriate here, my law enforcement friends suggest keeping quiet so as not to make yourself a target, especially in large-scale kidnapping scenarios, like the ones you see on cop shows.  For standard, waking-up-in-a-strange-trunk kidnappings, the police explorer I consulted suggests making sure the your kidnapper sees you as a human.  However, stick to "I'm thirsty.  Could I have some water," to impart your humanity, rather than #107, "Sometimes, when I'm alone, I cry because I wasn't breastfed."

Joining a Prison Gang.  Yes, the gangleader will seem like an affable fellow (how else did he become the leader?) but prison gangs have their own hierarchy.  While conversation starter #9 "What Up, G?" might be adequate, I'd actually suggest a subtler approach.  Any gang will have specific needs from their members.  Research the group and find out which vital members may have just been paroled, executed or shivved in the bathroom while the guards were busy breaking up another fight.  Hopefully, you'll be able to fill the shoes of the missing member, allowing you to utilize starter #112, "My mom told me never to brag, but did you know I can ______________?"

About All the Freaky Painting on RVs - My Bad!

The following is an adapted exerpt from the autobiography, A Stepladder, a Paintbrush and a Dream:  One Man's Quest to Bring Art to the R.V. by Jonathan J. Johnson:

I used to be embarrassed by my art.  Exciting conversations with fascinating people would eventually reach the "and what do you do for a living?" section and I'd look for a rock to crawl under.

At one time I imagined notoriety and fame as a result of my groundbreaking art.  I embarked on the experimental phase of my craft with a belief that what I was doing was new, exciting and revolutionary.  And for a few short months in the early nineties, it was.

And then came the imitators.  Phillistines with no sense of color balance or geometric principles.  Unburdened by taste and the emotional sensitivity required to create true art, they began haphazardly copying my work.  Without the soul that I added to my own avant-garde pieces, the evil painters foisted bad art onto an unsuspecting public.

The vision was diluted.  The passion was lost.  And the deceptively simple geometric works of art that adorned the motor homes I painted were turned into mass-produced "graphics" to be applied with no thought to composition or the needs of the specific motorcoach.

It's not like I started out with a vision of getting one of my swoopy designs on every RV in North America.  I didn't even start out to paint motorhomes at all.

I was a junior in high school, with no discernable skills or goals, when my favorite uncle gave me his 1970 Chevy panel van.  Uncle Leroy Lee (most of my familymembers use their first and middle names, after my great-grandfather's brother, Jeffery Jefferson Holdsclaw, who was a private in the U.S. Army and who would have been Pocahantas' first white husband had he not choked on a bone while eating raccoon stew.  Poca, as he called her, referred to him as "Jeffy Jeff") was a house painter and used the van primarily to haul supplies from job to job.  When I received the van it was covered in splashes of paint, with no discernable pattern.

Not wanting my friends to see the worker's vehicle I'd been given, yet totally siked that I got such a great gift, I decided to paint it. 

I assumed that the task would be daunting, as the canvas was so large and the possibilities endless, but after just a few minutes I had a subject and several possible layouts in mind.

I painted the lone wolf standing on a rock outcropping, sillouhetted by a rising moon in less than an hour.  Springing fully formed from my imagination, the image was surprising well-composed and captured my adolescent feelings of loneliness and aggression.

Driving my van around town, I received numerous compliments, but was unaware of the career that loomed large in my future.

Soon, I began receiving requests to paint the vans of my friends.  My friend Harold, who claimed Iraquois roots, wanted something tribal, and a large Native American face surrounded by beautiful plumage burst forth from my creative mind.  By superimposing the image over an airbrushed mountainous landscape, I was able to suggest the Indian ideal of being part of the land but not owning it.

The van of another friend, Robby, needed something nautical.  Contrary to his desire for a "really cool green lizard," I whipped up an undersea vision of dolphins and reef formations in less than two hours. 

I was on a roll.  dropping out of high school, I started "The Painted Van-Vas," a rolling art studio (operated, naturally, out of the back of my van, which now featured a large beach sunset scene on the right rear panel), and hit the road.

Those were the glory years.  Outfitted with shag carpeting and captain's chairs, the van became my home on the road and, in time, the "love den" that every young man dreams about.

But the life was also hard.  I'd roll into a new town, park my van in front of some seedy bar, go in for a drink and answer questions about the van.  Attracting potential clients was easy.  Attracting their girlfriends into the back of the van was even easier.

The trick was getting the jobs finished and getting out of town before the clients figured out the sleeping arrangements.

Hundreds of vans and thousands of miles later (and at least five women whom I will never, ever admit to being with) I decided to settle down.  A small ad in "RV Times" gave me a lead on a job doing portrait work on motorcoaches.

My first client was J.G. "Freddy Fingers" Harzwell, a business man from Racine, Wisconsin who wanted his family portrait (his wife, himself and his prized pug, Twinkler) painted on the side of his newly purchased Winnebago.  Freddy was known in Racine for the successful cabinet molding company he owned.  Nothing about the company was particularly exciting, except for the way Freddy turned high employee-injury risk into a small fortune.  Freddy was smart enough to take out huge dismemberment policies on his staff, while replacing the more careful, high-paid craftsmen with lesser-skilled workers.  Pretty soon, Freddy was making monthly claims and the insurance company was reviewing their policy qualifications.

Freddy cashed out of business when the eight- and nine-fingered employees began grumbling about their share of the insurance money.  (In an homage to his business, the figure of Freddy in the portrait is missing a finger on each hand!)   

That painting led to other work, and I'd have been painting portraits and still-lifes (scenery, animals, etc.) for the rest of my career, if not for a traveling exhibition of abstract art.

While I can't remember the name of the artist, I can still see the big geometric shapes and strong colors.

I never knew what the word "epiphany" meant until that day.

But now I'm stuck.  My beautiful work, big blocks of passionate color, have been hijacked by talentless hacks who have no sense of art.

Sorry about that.

But the next time you see a motorhome with slashes of red and a wiggly silver line that moves you to tears, think of me.

Card Catalogs

 

The Voice of God

I was poking around my local Wal-Mart Supercenter last week when something stopped me in my tracks.

Specifically, it was the voice of God.

I stood still, taking in the message.  He spoke for a surprisingly long time.

When he finished, I pondered the meaning of his words.  Was there some significance to the phrase, “Home electronics, you have a call holding on line five.  Home electronics, line five” ?

I finally decided that it might not have been the voice of God, but rather the voice of the Wal-Mart phone operator, who only sounded like God.

One thing is clear:  this guy has a GREAT voice.  It’s booming, but sweet.  It’s got that pleasant rumble, with just a small lilt at the end that pierces you.  In a word:  enchanting.

Now, I’ve never seen the guy, but I’d say he’s in his late 50’s, early 60’s.  He sounds grandfatherly.

I wandered some more, hoping to hear him again.  While I wandered, I tried to figure out who he is or where he works.

Surely a voice so nice couldn’t be reserved for just this one store.  Maybe Wal-Mart has decided to send all their calls to a central hub, where Grandpa God pushes buttons or pulls and pushes cords into jacks like an old-fashioned operator.

I called the supercenter a few days later, expecting to get a recording.  But Grandpa God answered.  At first, I couldn’t speak.

GRANDPA GOD:  “Thank you for calling the Mt. Dora Wal-Mart Supercenter.  How may I direct your call?”

ME:  silence

GRANDPA GOD:  “This is the Mt. Dora Wal-Mart, can I help you?”

ME:  “Umm… I’m… I need… I can’t remember why I called…”

I quickly hung up the phone.

After calming down, I called back.  I asked him where he was located.  He assured me that he was actually at the Mt. Dora location.

Weird, huh?

Now I imagine who he USED to be.  Was he a famous voice actor from the 40’s, blacklisted during the McCarthy hearings because he once narrated a cartoon about socialism?

Or maybe he was a Canadian sports announcer, broadcasting spirited games of curling until a gambling scandal cost him his job and his reputation?

He could have been a freakshow announcer who fell in love with the bearded lady, only to lose her and his sense of purpose in a tragic Epilady accident.

I’d like to ask him about his life.  I'd like to find out where he's been and what exciting adventures he's had.  But I’m so nervous everytime I talk to him that I just cave in and say, “home electronics, please.”

Is That Woman Amish?

I was headed home the other day when I saw a woman that I thought might be Amish.

First, I wondered what she was doing in my little Central Florida town.  I mean, we're awfully far from Pennsylvania.  And while I've seen many Amish families visit Universal Studios when I worked there (makes you wonder what they thought about the movie rides, since they don't have electricity or television) I always wondered how long the buggy trip must take.

But then it struck me, maybe the Amish were tired of two week covered wagon trips to Disney and had decided to start a colony here in Florida.  That might be exciting, right?

Then my analytical mind brought me back to reality:  shouldn't I be sure this woman was Amish before I started speculating about an insidious Amish plot to turn my community into the candle-making, quilting, barn-raising capital of the Bible Belt?

So I looked her over, mentally deciding if her features were either AMISH, NOT AMISH or BOTH

1.  Hair in a bun:  AMISH

2.  Plain, long sleeve dress with no buttons:  AMISH

3.  No makeup:  AMISH

4.  Driving a Chrysler minivan:  Um.... well, maybe...

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Still, I think the Amish are up to something.