A Close Shave

1962. I am 14 years old fatherless and cursed with the

kind dark fuzzy proto-moustache that took its inspiration from mould that forms on top of old sour cream, The beginnings of facial hair sprinkled are randomly around a landscape of pimples. "Fatherless" is mentioned only because there was no one to teach me what to do. Fortunately, the best instructor of all appeared with great frequency on our black and white Philco TV; in truth, he was many men, but really all the same man: the hunky model, bearded with rich shaving cream. No matter what the brand of blade or cream, the money shot was the same: the Man dutched in the frame, grinning the grin at himself as he draws the blade across his jaw and chin in one smooth arc. So, now I knew how to shave.

I'm at my best friend, Armin's house. A fully fathered boy, supplied with everything I needed. In this case, one can of Barbasol, a nice creamy lather and one razor with a double edge blade inside. Back then, most razors closed around such a blade and arched it at the "perfect" cutting angle. Time to lather up. I pressed out a generous amount of aerosol cream, and spread it across my face. I, the pube was no longer the pube. I was the hunk, angled in the mirror, razor poised for the shot. I'm a lefty so the blade is resting lightly just below my right ear at the jawline, I grinned my manly grin and brought the blade across, Hollywood all the way. It took about 10 nanoseconds for the pain, a little longer for the blood and a few beats for my girl-ey scream. I lost my faith in the verity of advertising (though I spent my career in it). I switched to an electric razor for awhile, but nothing shaves like a blade; and after awhile I learned to use one and then the next, passing from double edge to injector blades, to stainless blades, double bladed disposables, tripled edged razors and even quintuple bladed razors. I mastered it. Now I'm a father, and have the opportunity my own father didn't. To teach my child the art of the shave, close and pain free.

Seppuku in Washington (after Yukio Mishima)

Toyota’s President to Take ‘Full Responsibility’

-- The New York Times 2/24/10


Already his his acolytes have distanced themselves; they will not meet his eyes. He is shunned, a disgraced Lord; his Samuria are now Ronin: warriors with no Lord to serve. A dishonor he alone has visited upon them. Akio Toyoda winces at the camera lights that fill the Senate chamber, like so many suns hining upon a desert with no sign of life. No oasis with cool water to slake his shame.

Akio Toyoda knows what he must do. His firstborn son also knows the terrible part he must play in this final act of utter responsibility. The boy, Sesue Toyoda secrets his father the short tanto blade beneath the desk with the microphone. Sesue Toyoda's own katana lies naked and hidden against his back; the cold steel chills the length his spine.

Akio Toyoda has takes the questions, answers with the dignity of an ex-warrior Lord and utters the words, "I accept full responsibility." With that, he plunges the razor-sharp knife just below his navel and pulls it upward with great force. The pain has little time to become unbearable as Sesue Toyada's katana completes its arc and severs head of his father, Akio Toyoda in the senate chamber.

Through a final act of honor within his dishonor, Tooda, the warrior expunges the blighted reputation of Toyota the corporation before the eyes of the senators and the people they represent. Ronin are once again Samurai and bow in supplication to their new Lord, Sesue Toyoda. If called upon, they will die for him.