The Wonder Years: Our Struggle with Hormones and Puberty

January 31, 1988, was a very important day in the history of our nation. First and foremost, it will go down in the annals of the Google search engine as the day that the Washington Redskins embarrassed the Denver Bronco's in Superbowl XXII. Second and fivemost, it was the day that millions of teenagers tuned in to watch Winnie Cooper and Kevin Arnold begin a sordid Shakespearean affair with a single kiss. From 1988 until 1994, The Wonder Years captivated me. In my opinion, the best show of the 80's decade and arguably the greatest comedy/drama series of all time.

The Wonder Years was remarkable television...for many reasons, not the least of which was the narration of Daniel Stern. (Yep that's the clumsy bad guy from Home Alone.) The nasally, reminiscent voice-over of Kevin's adult self reminded us that it's all in the past, that high school is over, and that the worst and possibly the best years are gone.
"Thirteen is a crazy age.
You're too young to vote and to old not to be in love.
You live in a house someone else owns...
[Camera shows WINNIE's house through KEVIN's window]
but your dreams are already somewhere else." (episode #46)

We followed Kevin Arnold through his teenage years while he navigated through the battlefield of adolescence to claim the rewards on the other side of puberty. A television show about puberty. That word still makes me shiver. It was punishing, and it left us helpless in the combat zone of junior high school. However, the hormones had a blast, running to and fro through the amusement park of our little bodies, riding blood vessels like roller coasters. We were enamored with Kevin Arnold, his trusty sidekick, Paul Pfeiffer, and the innocent, emotional, and enigmatic Winnie Cooper, as they all fought valiantly against the onslaught of those hormones. We were fighting with them, growing up with them, living and dying with them, every Sunday night, for six seasons.

Like battle weary soldiers standing on the edge of sanity we stood with Kevin, Paul, and Winnie. Our heroes on Sunday evening helped us stake flags in every corner of our endocrine system, claiming victory over every gland. We will not be governed by an ocean of hormones that don't care whether we live or die. We will make decisions based on logic, instead of irrational exuberance. We will ignore the acne and the cracking voices. We will use razors and buy deodorants. We will not drool over the opposite sex... in public. We will keep our pants on and our eyes up. We will... or we will at least try... most of the time...some of the time...

The Wonder Years, took us from 7th grade to graduation day. And somewhere in the midst of all those English tests, chemistry labs and sibling rivalries, one of those rewards I was referring to earlier, began to emerge. I call it LOVE now, but back then it was "LIKE."

Kevin and Winnie, an epic "like" story. 

KEVIN: Winnie, you know I don't get you!! One minute you like me, the next you don't. You've been doing this all year. First you kiss me, then you act like you don't like me. If you like me, fine, if you don't, quit acting like it!!
KEVIN: I just have to know if you like me or not. And don't give any of that "like me" like me stuff.
NARRATOR: Well, that was it: a straightforward, face-to-face, yes-or-no question. And I was going to stand there until I got my answer.
WINNIE: I don't know.
KEVIN: "I don't know"! What do you mean you don't know?
WINNIE: I mean I don't know. I really don't know. [On the verge of tears] I wish everyone would just leave me alone. I don't know what I'm doing.
NARRATOR: This was something new. I mean, I always figured girls knew exactly what they wanted. They knew; they had a plan. Or maybe they didn't.
NARRATOR: Maybe they were just as confused as we were. Isn't that great?
NARRATOR: It--it's horrible. They don't know either. That means nobody knows.
KEVIN: You mean you really don't know?
WINNIE: No.
KEVIN: Oh.
KEVIN: Well, I'm sorry.
WINNIE: What for?
KEVIN: I don't know.
NARRATOR: As I stood there that cold night, I realized for the first time in a long time that Winnie and I were feeling the same thing.

Love in the hearts and hands of teenagers is like Icy Hot in the underarms and undershorts of Ronald McDonald. But what can we do? You just got to ride it out. Let it wash over you. Let the pain make you feel alive and believe as Shakespeare did, "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

Almost two decades have gone by since the last season of The Wonder Years aired, and I've figured out a couple things. The fact is, each one of us is still a walking hormone. The hormones won. We didn't defeat them. We keep them at bay, with things like political discussions, and careers, and long division, but we all know that hormones are just beyond that tiny ridge bouncing around like paranoid junkies, countless in number, waiting for the right girl to walk by, or the right guy to whistle at us. Then we have to corral them back in with a show on the Discovery Channel or a walk through the forest.

Looking back, I realize that the reason The Wonder Years was such a great show was because it was a revealing documentation of the most transformative, dramatic and hilarious stage of human development.

The Awkward Stage. 

Cheapskates Get Bad Haircuts

"Ouch." A hair is yanked from its dream follicle on the side of my head by a 30-year-old barbershop buzzer. My Bigdaddy smirks and teases me about taking it like a man, and I grow an inch taller on that butt-punishing, iron stool placed perfectly just outside the garage. It happens again, but this time I just wince.  I'm 7, and this isn't the first haircut Bigdaddy has given. He'd been doing it for years, but that razor was on it's last leg. He must have seen me wince, because he mumbles something about oiling the blades.

I was at his mercy, much like the thousands in his unit who needed buzz cuts during the war. I would sit on that old black stool for thirty minutes, staring at the cars whizzing by on Atlee Road while he buzzed and clipped away at my aching scalp. Haircut Day never failed to be the most gorgeous day of the week to sit motionless on a device intended for torture while your brains constantly vibrated under a tool that can only be described as a jackhammer with scissors. Tiny fibers of distressed proteins rained down past my shoulders and landed in piles on the driveway. 

I couldn't wait to feel that soft brush on my neck that signaled the end of my misery. The existence of those remaining prickly hairs on the back of my neck would drive me to madness every time. As soon as he would unfasten that white cape, I would make for the swimming pool faster than a subatomic particle. It was always emotionally and physically painful and I winced constantly, but I didn't let anyone else touch my hair with a razor until I turned 16.

Although my mother would argue with this, I think I gave up those haircuts way to easily. No one could ever give me a haircut like Bigdaddy... because his were free.

As I grew older, It was a surprise to learn that people would pay money to experience this misery.

$12 for a haircut plus tip.

$23 for a shampoo and a haircut plus tip. 

$18 for a hot towel $10 for a shampoo and $11 for a haircut PLUS tip.

$40 for consultation, head massage and a haircut... PLUS TIP!

Call me frugal or Mr. Scrooge, but I hated paying any amount of money for this tribulation, much less, a tip.

Hair stylist: "Excuse me sir, may I crucify you on this stool and let you watch in this beautiful mirror. In the mean time, I won't bring you any drinks or onion rings to make this any easier on you, so you must give me a tip when I'm done."

Me: "Okay, and while you're at it, can you dangle loose hairs in and around my eyes in an attempt to blind me? Thanks."
No. Not anymore I won't stand for it. So I went looking for a way out.

Coupons gave me some relief, but one afternoon on my way to a raw bar with some friends I found it. The Virginia Beach Beauty and Barber Academy. "$2 a haircut. No tips." I couldn't contain my excitement. Finally, an answer to my faithless prayers. I wrote down the number and made an appointment for that evening.

Work ended anticlimactically, and I hustled over to that Academy like a school boy going to his first coed sleepover. Jittery with excitement, I grabbed a couple of quarters from my ash tray to complete the total required for my haircut. I sauntered toward my destination thankful that I thought to make an appointment, because looking through the tinted windows from outside, I realized I wasn't the only one that had found this "Secret Garden." 

INT. CROWDED BARBERSHOP - LATE EVENING

The door opens and a tall, handsome, debonair, young gentleman walks in with a grand smile. He walks up to the front desk.

 SHAGGY YET HANDSOME MAN 

         My name is, Ben Hornby, I have an appointment for 5:30. 

As his name and appointment time is confirmed he lifts his head to take in his surroundings... 

CUT TO:

EXT. CROWDED BARBERSHOP - STRIP MALL - LATE EVENING - CONTINUOUS

Someone screams, "Noooooo!" from inside the barbershop.  

I freak out. A mob of small Asian men all dressed in white smocks with black pants are staring directly at me. I'm the only Caucasian, so I'm a head taller than anyone else in the room. An unusual murmur ripples through their ranks as they glance back and forth at each other and at me. This goes on for a couple of minutes until the voice of the attendant behind me cuts through the air and states, "They want you to pick." 

"Pick what?"

"Who cuts your hair."

Suddenly overcome by a desire to flee, I point and say, "Eenie, meanie, miney, moe...; ...catch a tiger by his toe?" My awkward smile turns to a nervous smile as I realize my sense of humor was my last hope. Defeated, I say, "I don't care."

It is then that I notice, how many empty chairs there are to chose from, 30. This barbershop school, the venue I have chosen for the demise of my head of hair, is larger than the largest hair salon/barbershop/killing floor I have ever been in.

Thirty Asian men and ME. You have failed, Grasshopper, only your own ambition. More murmurs. Then silence. All eyes center on me again. The sea of identical bodies begins to part and one emerges taller and more confident than the others. "I will do it," he spoke in broken Engrish. 

He took my hand, and I was a lamb, a tiny little lamb being led to the slaughter. The mob follows, closely behind me, as I land in a cushy chrome chair. I sit and look at my face in the mirror. Every last pore has opened and sweat erupts from me. I am glistening. They turn me towards the student gawkers and then the torment begins. 

However, not the torment I'm used to, an excruciating torment that reminds me of the fourth level of Hell. The last thing I see before shutting my eyes and splintering off into a thousand personalities as a coping mechanism, is one man standing before me with a pair of scissors in one hand and a razor in the other hand visibly shaking because I must be his very first paying customer ever.

I kid you not, two hours later, (yes, two hours later) smiles begin to emerge on the faces of the onlookers. The sculpture is beginning to take shape and I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. My phone is now buzzing every 5 minutes because I forgot to tell my wife I had stumbled into a Hunter S. Thompson nightmare. 

The smiles ripple through the audience and just before a round of applause arrives, I am spun around to observe the masterpiece in the mirror. Everyone takes a deep breath. Something is weird. All the faces stare back at me through the mirror waiting for me to rejoice, then I look into my own eyes. I don't recognize myself. And then the horror of it sinks in to my numb skull. I look like... them, like the Asians. With my white cape, my black pants and now my Asian haircut, I look like them. I am now an American-Asian.

I want to be clear here. I love the Asian people, Asian food, and Asian culture but I don't want to be Asian. So naturally, I begin to feel a little ridiculous. I smiled, then hummed and hawed, admiring the absurdity of it all, then I asked him to take a little more off the top, because that's what customers sometimes do. He does, and I nod, and accept his mild offering. Another awkwardness ensues as I wait for him to take my white smock/cape off and finalize the deal. After waiting long enough I reach for the snap myself and hop out of that chair. 

They all bow and nod and thank me for coming in as they escort me to the front desk. I continue smiling and reach in my pocket for the two dollars. I pull it out. And then God Almighty slaps me in the face. There in my hand is four quarters and a receipt for a Pepsi that I got at 7-11 during lunch. AUGHHHH! I apologize profusely, run as fast as I can over to the ATM across the street, withdraw twenty dollars, walk back in, hand him the twenty dollars, then wait for my change.

No change. I. am. the. only. paying. customer. 

I turn and walk out the door leaving Alexander Hamilton laying face up on the counter in front of thirty Asian men who are no doubt bouncing off of the walls. Then I call Jenny and tell her I am going to Hair Cuttery down the street to pay $20 dollars for someone to fix my fool-headed fool head.

---------------------

I tell this story because you may be like me, a curmudgeon. Stop it. Don't let it ruin your life. Someone once said, "You get what you pay for." I would like to amend this by saying, "You get what you pay for, unless, you try to get something that you didn't pay for then you end up paying for it twenty times over."

Yes, I still pinch pennies, but not as many as I used to.

*This may or may not have been what I looked like.

Quick Read...About Motion Sensor Bathroom Lights

Okay, let's discuss motion sensor lights in the Commercial Bathroom. Sounds like a great idea, right? It's Eco-friendly, it's clean, saves money. But what about the guy in the stall that takes longer than 10 minutes to get his business done? It's lights out, and there's no turning it back on unless you get up, open the door and wave your hands wildly. But make sure you reach and wave in the right direction, or you could be standing there with your dirty bum hanging out, waving at nothing for an extended amount of time. Don't forget, your doing this in complete darkness. Such fun.
New rule: "Never spend more than 10 minutes in a bathroom stall unless you know the lights will stay on."

Confessions of a Facebookaholic

I hope this day finds you all well. Today's topic is a sensitive one, and I thought it best to let someone who understands the subject a little better to delve into it's horrors. I secede to my new friend Larry the Talking Bird. Watch his video below.  (Transcript of the video is written out below.)

(if you have trouble viewing the video, click here)

Transcript of the Above Video:
Facebook. Facebook has taken the world by storm and right now someone somewhere is pretending not to be on it.  Hello, everyone, my name is Larry and today's blog is entitled "Confessions of a Facebookaholic" The Polar Bear has given me the task of bringing you today's blog Via Skype from my perch, high above the world. I would like to begin today's post by proposing we make an addendum to our old High School English Textbooks. A new part of speech called the proper verb. Definition: the class of words used to identify an action associated with a unique person, place thing or idea. Although mostly used as a proper noun, the word "Facebook" is also a proper verb. Example: "I'll Facebook you, after I finish building this rocket launcher." 

Well, I guess it's confession time, so here we go. I'm Larry the Bird and I'm a Facebookaholic. I stay up all night my eyes bloodshot, my bladder swollen, my tiny bird claw glued to my mouse "liking" everything that regurgitates over my glossy computer screen. I comment like there's no tomorrow. Commenting on status updates like there's no tomorrow, trying my best to get as many comments back as possible. Sometimes I can get a little crazy looking for an available computer to use. After taking down that adorable yet persistent 8-year-old girl at the public library for a chance to get on that infernal computer I realized I had a problem. After doing a little research I realized I wasn't the only one with a problem. There's others out there that spend half their afternoons spying on their ex-girlfriends, new boyfriend.

According to a study done in August of 2011 the average person spends almost 8 hours a month on Facebook, 2 hours more than a August 2010. That's 4 times the amount spent on Google. Wow! That actually may sound low to more than half of you. Remember though, these are averages. Here are some other averages in descending order: AOL - 2 hours 53 minutes/month, Yahoo 2 hours 12 minutes/month, Google - 1 hour 46 minutes/month, and Youtube - 1 hour 41 minutes/month. Think of all the diseases we could be curing or the celebrities we could be stalking... or the money we could be making...

Time is money, you know, and Facebook is stealing our time like a dairy farmer steals milk from the utters of lonely heifer. We are that lonely heifer. For years now, we've been getting owned by Facebook. Not anymore, it's time Facebook got owned by us. Apparently, Mark Zuckerberg, creator of Facebook agrees. Mr. Anti-Social, himself, has ironically, opened his social network to John Q. Public. Facebook has filed for a chance to be publicly traded on the stock market. Come April or May-ish you too can own Facebook.  All you have to do is buy one share. It's a statistical coin flip on whether you'll make some dough or not, but when the time comes the proverbial bathrobe will be open and you'll be able to judge alongside your peers whether Facebook will be worth it or not. I'm not saying its a good or a bad investment, I'm just saying you CAN invest.
Just to give you some perspective on this interesting venture, when Google went public it offered 19,605,052 shares at a price of $85 per share, with 271 million shares still under the control of Google employees. This means that at the time Google was worth 23 billion dollars. Facebook is said to be worth more than 4 times that at 100 billion dollars. Can someone say, "Dollar, Dollar Bills, ya'll, rainin' up in here! Cha-Ching!"?
So, here's the long and short of it, folks, I love Facebook like I love sunflower seeds and I am absolutely nuts about the fact that I will soon be able to own a piece of Facebook. So the next time your boss catches you updating your timeline instead of running analytics, just tell him it's okay, your working on an investment.
Larry the Bird says, "Get off this stinkin' computer and go buy yourself a piece of Facebook."