Morning Ablutions (Cigar Smoke 1-24-08)

I bet you are pretty much like me. You have no idea what an ablution is. You think it has something to do with guilt or religion. (No, that’s absolution.) Or you think it’s some kind of growth you get rid of by applying a good ablution cream. Nope.

I first heard the term when I was in college. I was reading Melville or some English dude who referred to someone “performing their morning ablutions.” But instead of looking it up, I decided to go on with the rest of my life and just pretend that I knew what it meant. Kind of like sex.

But one day while I was performing what I thought was a sex act, my helpful partner asked me if I had performed my morning ablutions. I thought it involved bending, so I dumped her. And picked up a dictionary.

I discovered that the word “ablutions” simply means acts of washing yourself. How disappointing. But, once I got past the ordinariness of what ablutions meant, I stopped to consider just how important ablutions are to all of us.

In the old days people would usually just take a bowl of water and start abluting, I guess; just dipped their hands in the bowl and splashed water on their faces. Makes sense. Who wants to be around someone who hasn’t abluted? I realize now that’s what my potential sex partner was trying to tell me: no ablution, no touchy. I was just a splash away from love.

But back then, I think, it was simpler than it is today. Today, performing your morning ablutions is, shall we say, challenging. Maybe “challenging” isn’t exactly the right word. Maybe it’s just more time-consuming. Yeah, that’s it. There is just way more abluting to do nowadays.

In the old days you just washed in the bowl and went to the bathroom and that was it. Today it is more complicated. Let me give you a more modern recap of performing ablutions.

Here’s what I did this morning to get ready for my day: I went into the bathroom and turned on the radio and then I turned on the hot water. Then I waited for the water to heat up. While I was waiting for the water to heat up, I multitasked and brushed my teeth.

When the water was hot, I splashed it on my face. Then I put on my shaving cream. Then I washed the shaving cream off my hands. Then I shaved. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. And winked.

Then I went to the bathroom. I’m not going into too much ablutive detail there. After that I sprayed some Fresh Linen air deodorizer to mask the nonfresh-linen results of my bathroom-going. It kind of smelled like a pile of warm clothes kissing an angel.

Then I got into the shower. I got the soap and washed my left arm with my right hand. Then I switched the soap to my left hand and washed my right arm. Then I washed a few other things I could reach. My feet weren’t one of them. Haven’t washed those guys since the Rams were in LA.

Then, of course, any good abluter has to shampoo his hair. So I had to make the decision to use either my red Strawberry Fields or my green Apple Festival shampoo. I always like to have options when I shampoo. I usually rotate four bottles of shampoo, adding a Peach Mist and an Orange Cascades scent in there for health reasons. Some days I just don’t feel like a strawberry. You know what I mean? You do? Call me, maybe we can ablute together.

Of course, when you get out of the shower you have to dry yourself. Sheesh. Drying has to be considered ablusive, doesn’t it? I hate drying myself. The legs. The arms. The chest. The tummy. Too many body parts. Why hasn’t some guy invented the body blow dryer, dammit! Just step in it and hit the button. Hell, I bought a Kindle, I’m dumb enough to buy a body blower.

Then you obviously have to dry your hair. And when you’re finished with your hair, you have to spritz it, and brush it, and admire it, and then you have to put on underarm deodorant, and then put on some Chaps cologne so you can smell like … a chap, I guess. Damn, it’s ablusive, baby!

And then, because I just may be a little older than some of you stud-muffin abluters out there, I have to perform another somewhat sensitive ablution. Yeah, the doc said I probably needed a little something to perk up my interest in sex. So, although I hate to reveal myself in public, but because I am a truth-seeker, and a truth-teller, I have to inform you (under the Freedom of Too Much Information Act) that I rub this testosterone goop into my arms and chest.

I’m not exactly sure how this relates to ablusiveness, but hell, after rubbing in this gel, now even my hair has hair. My teeth are dating. And I’ve grown six little penises on each of my upper arms. It’s not really a problem, except that when they’re aroused, I can’t get my T-shirt on.

Yeah, this performing ablutions thing is pretty crazy. You know how you always hear about that poor, depressed guy who just can’t quite get it together? And they always say that the first thing to go is the person’s desire to take care of himself? They just won’t wash up or do all that stuff. It’s just too damn much trouble.

Well, I see that ablutions-rejecting rebel in a whole new light now — an admiring light. I say, “Nonablutionists, unite!” I say, “Ablution this!” I say, “Anyone with 12 penises on their arms is clean enough!”

Can You See Me Now? (Cigar Smoke 1-17-08)

Well, gals and gal-ettes (I can’t get more nonsexist pig than that!), how are you all doing in this New Year? I’m doing pretty well, and thanks for asking. I’m sitting here at my computer listening to Bob Dylan on iTunes. Something about mountains with thunder and mystic gardens and crystal falcons. I had ham-hock-and-split-pea soup last night for dinner. Life is good.

Except … (You knew there would be an “except,” didn’t you?) I have discovered that at my semi-advanced age I am hardly ever noticed by anyone under the age of 40. I know this is kind of an old saw and that old guys have always said this, but now that I am walking the walk, I am here to tell you that it’s the damn truth: I am invisible!

Nobody sees me. It’s incredible. I was in the mall the other day returning all the thoughtful gifts my family gave me, and I was bustling along being a good citizen shopper while teenagers walked right at me like they were playing chicken. If I hadn’t moved at the last second, they would have run right into my lanky butt.

At first, I just thought they were being their usual rude-ass selves, but when it kept happening, I had to admit that they didn’t really see me. I think if we had actually run into each other they would have thought they hit a post. OK, a pudgy post that smelled like an ashtray, but a post nonetheless.

It doesn’t bother me that the guys don’t look at me. Hey, they’re guys. They only look at girls and carburetors. But it does bother me that the girls and young women don’t see me. Oh, I’m not completely out of touch with reality; I don’t expect a real look with real eye contact with a possibility, albeit remote, of a possible hookup of even a tame, nonthreatening, platonic kind. (Make a movie out of that, Spielberg.) I just want them to acknowledge in some way that I am really there. Is that too much to ask?

They could even be hostile. That would be fine with me, “Pardon me, sir, but could you get the damn hell out of my way.” God, I would love to hear that. “Sure, Miss, excuse me for even being here on the same sidewalk. I apologize. Hope you find that PCC stud-hunk who’s flunking out of chemistry you’re looking for. Good luck, and thanks for being pissy. I appreciate it.” I am not kidding. I would appreciate that. Just acknowledge me. That’s all I want.

I know this sounds kind of scary, creepy-uncle scary, and I wouldn’t tell this to anybody except you guys, but I would even grope some young thing if I thought she would react. I would. I know I would. I would go up to some woman who was wearing shoes that looked like they would take names and I would ease up behind her and reach my hands around her and — call the cops now — I would cup her young throbbing breasts that were trying to break free from their clothing confinement.

But I don’t do this. Why? Am I afraid of being arrested? No. Am I a nice guy who shouldn’t even have these thoughts? No. I don’t do it because I know she would say to her girlfriend standing there, “Damn, this bra is tight, Tiffany. It’s just pulling into me.” That’s why I don’t do it. Shoot me now.

Now, after saying all this, and exposing my gropieness, I actually did have a pretty neat experience the other day. A beautiful woman in her early 30s actually saw me the other day. Yes, an actual geezer-I-can-see-you-now sighting. She acknowledged me even. I couldn’t believe it.

I was in an office building last week, pretending I still had a job and a reason to live, and I got into an elevator. There was no one else in there. Just me and the buttons. Then as the doors were closing, a nice-looking actual woman got into the elevator with me. I moved to the back and she punched in her floor, and then she turned and said, “Hi, how’s it going?”

I turned and looked behind me, and when I saw the elevator wall, I remembered I was alone. I asked, “Are you talking to me?” And then she did something I never thought I’d ever see again. (No, not that.) She smiled. Oh, God, she smiled — a real smile from a real woman who didn’t know me. Man, it was beautiful. Much better than a grope.

Yes, she smiled and said, “ Yes, I’m talking to you. Who did you think I was talking to?” I said, “I thought there was somebody behind me.” She laughed. Yes, a real laugh from a real woman. And then she did a little woman hair-flick maneuver. Just subtly tossed her hair back a little. Such a small thing. But God, it was great.

So, because I had read a book on body language 20 years ago, I knew her hair flick was just her way of telling me she wanted me, and wanted to dump her lout husband, and wanted to run away with me to Room 432 at the Ritz-Carlton and go to the satin-sheet city of love. I was pretty sure that’s what she meant.

So I sidled up to her — yes, sidled, just a subtle George Clooney sidle — and I raised my eyebrows just a little, and I said, “Hi. How you doing? right back at you.” I tried to sound mysteriously and darkly sexy like a rebel on Vicodin.

Just then the elevator door opened, and she got out on her floor, and she looked back at me, and our eyes met, and I’ll never forget the words she said. I can still hear them like it was just yesterday: “Call security!”