Next Time I Go, I'm Bringing a Bass-Guitarist.

The new Beck album came out today. I wish it had come out when I was a little kid, because it rules. The cover is this slick Color-forms style paper, and it comes with like a hundred stickers, so you can MAKE YOUR OWN COVER. Rock. That Beck is one fun Scientologist.
But I digress, already.

I think I have a crush on the girl who cuts my hair. Normally I hate getting my hair cut, but I'm minding it a little less each time. Let's put it this way: before she cut it today, she gave me a shampoo, and I enjoyed it so much I almost asked if she wanted me to do her too.
What? What'd I say?

Anyway, she had a picture of what I'm guessing is her husband by her combs and gels and so on. Dude looks just like me. Exactly. He looks so much like me, at first I thought he was some fat former child star. (Every time I see some fat former child star, my first impression is that it's a picture of me. For just a second, I'm all "I wasn't on Kate and Allie...was I?")

At one point, she said "I'll start with half-an-inch, and then you can decide if you'd like me to take more."

I SWEAR TO GOD THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID. I'm pretty sure I blacked out for a second.

When she was done, instead of powder and a stiff brush, she cleaned off my neck with a blow-dryer set to Cool. Aw yeah, that's right. I looked back over at that picture of Not Me. Poor guy. Dude doesn't suspect a thing.