Just... don't.

I was looking forward to 有隻僵屍暗戀你 (The Vampire Who Admires Me) to begin with.

Now I am really looking forward to it.

I hate getting haircuts. Even in the US, I always felt stupid when people asked how I wanted it cut. Because I honestly didn't know, or didn't know how to tell them.

At the same time, I learned the hard way not to let them run rampant with the scissors by saying "However you think it would look best."

Why do hairdressers always have some of the worst hair styles you've ever seen?

So add to this the idea of trying to get a haircut in another language, and you can see how this quickly risks devolving into farce.

Which I have learned the hard way.

On a different but related note...

I take a lot of guff from people for being a Nick Cheung Kar Fai fan. Reactions range from laughter to disbelief to being insulted.

To which I say, go pound sand. He's funny, acts well, and scared the sh*t out of me when he ate that spoon in Election. 

So there I was, sitting in the chair in a hair place, reading Milk magazine while I waited on the stylist (kill me for saying that). There were some stories and adverts for Connected, the current Louis Koo/Nick Cheung movie.

Sadly, what I wanted for my hair was exactly what Nick's hair looked like:

When the stylist asked how I wanted it cut, I...

It's so hard to say...

I pointed to Nick Cheung.

Is there a more fanboy gesture? Especially one so unintended? Oh, the shame...

At least I got the haircut I wanted.

And so far no one has told me I look like Nick Cheung.

Lately I've been too horridly busy and my (not-from-playing) tennis elbow had been kicking my ass, so I haven't written much of anything, including emails to my US accountant for tax purposes. So please, don't think I was being selective...

I'd promised to write when something interesting and/or good happened. Well, today, it did.

I had gone to TST to listen to Rick, my chiropractor and gym fuhrer, do a presentation about stretching at his clinic. It was in Cantonese, but friends is friends and we had already been to the gym so I was not really capable of leaving.

Afterward, I went to HMV because I was a block away and it's not like I had a pressing schedule. I found a DVD of "Inside Deep Throat," a documentary about the infamous adult film that I may use for my Media, Sex and Violence class next semester. Sometimes I love my job.

While I was wandering around upstairs, I noticed a guy who looked like Jordan Chan.

Then the little voice in my head -

Not the voice that says "You're a loser!" and sounds like my mother, I mean the voice that sounds like that movie trailer guy. The voice that tells you "You have gonorrhea. The nurse will not take it well if you ask her to dinner. And she has a syringe. A big syringe..."

That voice.

Well, that voice said "That is Jordan Chan."

It was.

Opportunity presented, I walked over and said hello, handing him my card. I told him (in Cantonese) that I liked his movies and wanted to say thank you. Understandably, he was rather reticent at this lumbering gweilo who just bum-rushed him, but after reading my card, he seemed okay.

We talked briefly, in English and (my awful) Cantonese, about a lot of stuff, about movies, his experiences, and other things. I was rather shocked that he seemed so willing to talk to me, but I usually am.

He asked how long I'd been here, and when I said three years, he just stared at me. He asked me how I learned to speak Cantonese so well (which I neither claim nor concede); I told him from movies, and from living in places where eating necessitates the language.

He continued to stare at me, and it was kind of funny because it was the 'Jordan Chan staring' face I'd seen in so many movies! He said "No wonder you are a doctor," and I thought it was a nice compliment. I always tell people that one of the great things about living in Asia is that when people find out I have a PhD, they don't ask me where I wait tables.

I often find myself initiating a kind of Mutual Admiration Society with actors I meet here. The best example was meeting Lau Ching Wan; he looked at my card and said "You're a professor!" and I said "And you're Lau Ching Wan!"

You get the idea.

I figured I better leave Mr. Chan to his CD shopping, so we shook hands and I wandered downstairs to grab that documentary. I wished I had a paint pen in my bag; I'd have bought a DVD of Kung Fu Hip Hop and begged for a signature.

I made my way up to Fa Yuen St., because I hadn't been there in a while and enjoy looking for cheap clothes.

And and it's not like I had a pressing schedule.

I try to tell people that I never take my life seriously and God doesn't either. It's rare that I find pants my size in Hong Kong. And when I do they are usually... unique.

Like bright orange corduroy. HK$59.

I had to laugh, because there is absolutely nothing useful about orange corduroy pants, even if they are my size.

Except...

There's an AnD Halloween party and costumes are mandatory.

In another store I found a similarly revolting bright orange polo shirt.

So I can go to the party as either a safety cone or a pumpkin.

But...

The pants are not, how to say, generously cut. It's not the waist, it's the legs. They're cut for some Eurotrash model-type with greasy hair and a smack habit, not a 42-year old American of Polish ancestry with a penchant for red meat and weightlifting. I may need to visit a tailor and have the seams opened up and some reflective material put down the sides of the legs so I get a little breathing room.

Besides, that would look good for the safety cone motif. I'll buy one of those flashing lights, put it on a belt, and maybe find an orange kid's toy bucket and stick it on my head.

Or, I'll just suck it up (literally and figuratively), and wear them as is.

It will be a loud outfit, and it's snug fit may inspire comment and/or laughter, but I'm resigned to sticking out in a crowd of people under 6' with black hair. May as well run with it.

So all in all, a good day; I met Jordan Chan and found a Halloween outfit.

Maybe next week Candy Lo will take me up on my offer of free guitar maintenance.

Tomorrow, D'in and Don Cruz will do the same, but it's not quite the same somehow, and I doubt they'd diasgree.

Still, I'm happy to help, and it will be fun to talk about guitars for the afternoon. Stay tuned for that entry...

This should be Air BRUSH Justin.


This should in no way be construed as critical of Justin. Instead, I am trying to highlight the wildly artificial nature of advertising such that people we recognize and are visually familiar with can be rendered nearly unrecognizable in the purported interest of improving their appearance and therefore appeal/marketability. They've made a real person look like an illustration. And for what? He looks perfectly okay in real life.

Except when he wears Yankees gear.

Lately I've blogged a lot about women.

And why not? Women are the greatest thing ever, and I'm not just saying that because my mother is a woman. I mean, so is my ex-wife.

But never mind.

Women are so magnificent sometimes because of, rather than in spite of, some of their foibles.

Today I want to talk about two of them, located at opposite ends of their bodies.

Forgive me if I say so, but there's really no need for me to describe the magnificent foible in the middle of them, is there? I thought not. If you don't know, look it up on the internet. There are lots of movies to help you learn.

So... the good news first, or the bad news?

I say, start from the literal and figurative bottom and work your way up.

Women always seem to think that big feet aren't cute.

I mean on women.

Well, you know what's not cute? Seeing feet stuffed into shoes that are too small. Or the "My shoes are too f@#$ing small and it's your fault" face.

And neither are crufty, misshapen hammer toes that have been systematically gnarled by years of mistreatment. They are REALLY not cute hanging over the front edge of much-too-small shoes like vulture's claws. That's scary, not sexy.

What are you, auditioning for yet another version of The Condor Heroes?

Please, wear shoes that are the correct size. For us, for your toes, for the love of God.

I have big feet. US 13 (48 in local terms). I have BIG @SS feet.

I bet your feet are smaller than mine. In fact, I bet they're small.

So unless your feet are bigger than mine, you do NOT have big feet and you can safely wear the correct size of shoe without someone saying "Damn, do you rent those shoes to snakeheads for bringing in illegal immigrants by boat?"

If you're really self conscious about your feet, you know the best place to hide them? Behind our back. I guarantee you we'll never even notice. We'll be focused on a different foible, I promise.

But speaking of the (for me) rare and elusive Double-Back F*ck Turtle...

Up at the top of women (no, above those...), there is something else that women hate but most men love.

Your glasses.

Why do women hate their glasses so much? You look GREAT in them. You look smart, sophisticated, sexy, cute, endearing, and just absolutely fabbing f*ckulous.

Let's face it; women spend the same kind of time and money on glasses as they do with the rest of their wardrobe, so WE know they are the best choice you could make and that they compliment your looks and all that other stuff. Trust us, you bought the best glasses for you. We know this.

And WE like them!!! I adore women in glasses (because they're women, of course, but particularly 'lensed' women).

Maybe it's because seeing a woman with and without her glasses is like seeing two different women. But without all the lying and blood tests and restraining orders...

I just always feel terrible that women seem to despise themselves in glasses. I love women in glasses.

Digression: You want men to clean their home/kitchen/office/closet/garage/whatever? Clean your glasses. As much as you paid, and as much as you need them, the least you can do is make a token effort at maintaining their transparency.

I love to clean a woman's glasses.

And that's not a euphemism.

It makes me feel like I accomplished something (like removing a pound of dirt), and women are usually astounded at how much better they can see. The only time they're mad is when they realize that they don't need to replace their glasses and so lose a shopping excuse.

So please, ladies, believe us when we say: YOU LOOK GREAT IN YOUR GLASSES.

Don't believe me? Look:

To quote David Lee Roth, circa 1980, "No, no, no, no, don't take 'em off. Leave 'em on." But he wasn't talking about glasses.

How great do you look in your glasses? How much do they compliment your (already abundant and stunning) visual appeal?

Me personally, I think glasses make great accessories for your birthday suit.

I have yet to convince a woman to actually keep her glasses on while we indulge in herpetology research.

That is a euphemism.

If she has her glasses on, she'll be able to see the turtle more clearly.

Even without all the mirrors.