Category: Hygiene

  • The Glibening, Part Four: Hardboiled Dick

    The Glibening, Part Four:

    Hardboiled Dick

    by Tonio

     

    Previously: Part One, Part Two, Part Three

    Ramesh’s iPhone emitted the special chirp which meant that Google Alert had turned up a new hit from one of the websites his boss deemed troublesome. Crap. He grunted, then flinched as the cold water splashed up into his anus from the toilet bowl; he was glad he had pre-flushed and tried not to think about what germs were lurking in the water of the public toilet. Someday he hoped to have a corner office with a private toilet like his boss. Ramesh quickly cleaned himself and stood up. He raised his trousers, slid his arms into his suspenders, then buttoned and zipped his pinstriped trousers and put on his suit jacket. He pressed the flush handle with his shoe and exited the stall quickly before the toilet overflowed.

    Practicality necessitated that public restrooms should have poop knives, but the security requirements of a federal courthouse prevented it. He walked from the innermost stall to the sink nearest to the door. As he reached the sink he heard water splashing onto the tile floor from the stalls behind him. Ramesh hurried through washing his hands – he counted to twenty as always, but much more quickly than normal. His phone kept chirping, not a good sign. He reached for a paper towel and dried his hands while looking back in the mirror at the stalls to check whether a stream of water was flowing his way – fortunately not. Finally he dried his hands and exited to the public corridor before checking his phone. A livestream from the Thought! Magazine commenters mocking the boss was going viral. He was going to be livid about that.

     

    A collection of old kitchen knives such as are commonly repurposed as “utility” knives.

     

    Ramesh quickly swiped through the door into the private corridor of the US Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York. He walked down the corridor and into the conference room where the Multi-Agency Task Force on Political Subversion met. The weekly meeting was about to start and the boss was chatting with the New York State Police representative.

    Sir?”

    What is it, Rami?”

    The chippertarians just put up a snarky YouTube video taunting you. It’s like a really bad Bollywood musical number. There is nudity. It’s going viral; over eight hundred views in five minutes.”

    Well, put it up on screen.”

    Really?”

    We’re all friends here, and have seen far worse.”

    Ramesh sat down at the crappy old computer and brought the YouTube page up on the projector.

    It’s like the Christmas pageant at a retard school.” Coyle from the Port Authority police was his usual charming self.

    That reminds me of some off-off-off-Broadway crap my wife dragged me to last year,” said the state police representative. “The theater smelled like piss.”

     

    Let Preet now come with,
    Subpoenas by the pound,
    Ken shall show that mutton-
    Head the law more sound.

     

    Someone stifled a snicker, which came out like a sneeze. Ramesh suspected the state attorney general representative.

    The chorus line mooned the camera. Ramesh looked nervously at his boss who grimaced slightly but remained silent.

    Damn.”

    Jesus.”

    Where is this coming from, Rami? I mean physical location?” asked the FBI man.

    I don’t know, Agent Waters.”

    I’ll find out. Can you text me the link?”

    Here’s the URL.”

    Got it.”

    The production number ended and the screen went to the static text “Fuck Off, Slavers.”

    A human pyramid with a swastika on top. Fucking Nazis.”

    The boss looked at Ramesh and nodded ever so slightly at the NYPD man.

    Sergeant Murphy, the swastika is an ancient Hindu symbol which pre-dates Hitler by centuries, and the gentleman wearing the swastika headgear is dressed in the traditional manner of a village shaman of Gujarat in India.”

    Goddamn.”

    As far as Ramesh could tell, Murphy’s only job was to go to inter-agency meetings and report back to his captain on what other agencies were doing without letting the other agencies know what NYPD was doing.

    Nice friends you have there, Preet.” The state attorney general representative hated his federal counterparts with a passion. “Seems like you could go all Meese on them because of the mooning – I bet a frame by frame analysis would reveal something other than butt cheeks. A hundred dollars says they don’t have any proof of age forms or a designated Custodian of Records.

    Guess what just came in to Manhattan 911?”

    Holy Shiva,” thought Ramesh. Murphy offering up anything was like Justice Thomas asking a question during oral argument.

    What is it, Mr. Murphy,” asked the boss.

    A call from a distraught young woman at Thought! Magazine. Says she’s the receptionist. And she’s batshit-crazy, or drugged. Claims someone was eaten to death by squirrels.” Murphy rolled his eyes. “Dispatch sent out an ambulance and a black and white. They are en route.”

    Today is our lucky day. Rami, get over there. If that’s okay with our NYPD friends, of course,” said the boss looking at Murphy.

    Of course, Mr. Bharara. Our federal friends are always welcome.” The NYPD might hate the feds on their turf, but the real enemy was the state. Goddamn Albany pukes trying to tell the mayor of the greatest city in the world how to run things. The mayor had more guns than the governor, but nowhere near as many as the feds.

    Switzerland, Mr. B,” said the FBI man looking up from his phone. “Those sons of a bitch are routing through Elektron AG. We could find out more, but then our state and local friends couldn’t come to the party.” The FBI man knew that the NYPD particularly hated being called locals.

     

    The grim facade of the Daniel Patrick Moynihan federal courthouse in Foley square.

     

     

    Rami, why are you still here?”

    Murphy stood up. “C’mon, kid, you can ride with me, that will be quicker.”

    Ramesh got up sheepishly and headed for the door on Murphy’s heels. So, he was to have a minder to make sure he saw nothing that NYPD didn’t want him to see.

    Where are you parked, Sergeant?”

    Down in the LEO parking spots next to the prisoner transports.”

    It will be faster to take the private elevator.” The courthouse had two small private elevators used by judges and prisoners alike, but you never saw anyone else; each elevator trip was direct end-to-end with no additional stops.

    Ramesh used his ID card to unlock the elevator call button. Murphy was on his cell phone.

    Manhattan Dispatch, this is Sergeant Murphy of Liaison, badge number sierra golf tango eight six four two zero. I’m en route to the ten sixty eight at one ten Fifth Avenue. I’ve got a Deputy US Attorney with me. Instruct onsite units to have EMS hold off on the thorazine until we can talk to the caller… about ten minutes. Thanks. Bye.”

    The elevator car arrived and they boarded; Ramesh pushed button P1.

    One ten Fifth Avenue,” said Murphy, “that’s the Vandersnatch Building, built on the foundation of the old Vandersnatch mansion that got torched back in the twenties by Frumius Vandersnatch’s crazy granddaughter.”

    You know the city well, Sergeant.”

    I worked security details there in the eighties. It’s a lotta snooty magazines there.” Murphy slicked his hair with his hand. “I was with Celebrity Protection Unit then, kid. Got some prime pussy. Perk of the job.”

    Ramesh fumed at being called “kid” by a man he suspected of being a braggart and a hack.

    I used to date Morgan Fairchild back when she was just a soap opera star here,” said Murphy as he hitched his belt up. “Met her on duty.”

    Ramesh was glad when the elevator slowed down and the car doors slid open with a ding.

    Murphy exited first and strode over to the security checkpoint.

    Hey, Chris. Here to get my pistol back.”

    Sarge, Mr. Gupta.”

    I’m taking Ramesh downtown to an unfolding incident,” said Murphy as he fished a key with a round metal tag out of his pocket and opened one of the deposit boxes for visitors’ guns. Murphy removed his Glock and slid it into his shoulder holster under his suit.

    Have fun, Mr. Gupta.”

    Thanks,” said Ramesh, already disliking Murphy’s company.

    Ramesh followed Murphy to one of the many cop cars in the deck, a white unmarked four door.

    Buckle in and hang on once I hit Centre Street.”

    Ramesh couldn’t imagine not fastening his seatbelt, and was surprised to see that Murphy didn’t use his. Murphy started the car and backed out of the parking space and headed up the ramp and onto Pearl Street, the private street for the Manhattan court, cop and jail complex. He waited for the vehicle trap to go down and turned right on to Centre Street and activated the blue flashing lights in the front windshield of the cop car. Ramesh had always wanted to be a policeman, but Professor Gupta had other ideas so Ramesh went to Hazelwood Country Day, then Woodberry Forest, William and Mary, and finally UVA Law, all on full-ride scholarship. Deputy US Attorney was as close as he could get to police work without inciting the considerable ire of his extended, degree-heavy family.

    As they approached the intersection with Worth Street, Murphy sounded the siren. A man in a wheelchair worked his arms furiously to propel himself out of the crosswalk onto the relative safety of the sidewalk outside Thomas Paine Park.

    Them wheelchair guys got some guns on them,” said Murphy. “Do you lift, kid?”

    I do some reps on the machines.”

    Better than nothing. Of course you federal prosecutors don’t collar a lot of perps. The ladies like it, though. You married?” Murphy turned left onto Leonard Street.

    No.” Ramesh was dreading the forthcoming trip “home” to his grandparents’ village in Gujarat to marry a girl he barely knew.

    Lucky you.”

    Murphy sped down the street with lights but no siren. A bike messenger rode in the right lane. Murphy eased off on the gas and drifted rightwards until his driver side tires were straddling the lane markers for the right lane. Twelve feet behind the cyclist he activated the siren for a brief whoop. The bike messenger raised his left hand with the middle finger already extended. Murphy simultaneously accelerated and did a quick wheel movement, swiping the cyclist with the side of the cop car and launching him curbward. Murphy then quickly swerved left, tires squealing, to move out of the curbside lane to avoid the rapidly approaching Jersey barrier closing the lane for a construction site. Ramesh turned to look at the speedometer, it was approaching forty and the needle continued moving to the right.

    Murphy looked out the rearview mirror, then the side mirror. “Smooches, punk.”

    When Ramesh could no longer see the messenger he turned and looked at Murphy. “You struck and injured the cyclist,” Ramesh said with a mixture of disbelief and loathing.

    Not just any cyclist, kid, a bike messenger – they’re like rats on wheels. And I personally know that the little anarchist punk once busted a cop car window with his bike lock. Few scratches, maybe a couple stitches – he’ll be fine. You have to consider the totality of circumstances. Not all justice is dispensed in the courtrooms.”

    How will you explain that?”

    Murphy said nothing and reached for the Motorola radio mic, moved it to his face and mashed in the button and started talking.

    Dispatch, this is Sergeant Murphy with Liaison, over.”

    This is Dispatch, go ahead Murphy.”

    I’m on Sixth between Prince and King and there’s a cyclist down. He was riding erratically and weaved into my lane as I was transporting a VIP with lights and siren… Yeah, an ambulance, too. Make sure they charge him with interference before EMS loads him up. And not wearing his helmet, poor kid …Probably. You can’t charge them if they’re not. Murphy out.”

    To be continued…

  • Swag Reminder

    A serious shoutout to our biggest financial supporter: Egould. Buddy, you’re keeping the site running.

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    All joking aside, we’ll always find a way to keep the lights on here, but if you’ve enjoyed something, this is one way to show the love. And generate new Tulpas. And be recognized by other closet glibertarians if you live in the Minnesota/North Dakota or LA area.

    As a reminder, it is the policy of the board who operates this website donates any money above what is needed to operate the site for a prudent amount of time (I think six months, but I forgot to check) to a worthy charity each year. Last year it was Institute for Justice and FIRE who got our money. We will run some options by you right after Thanksgiving to make donations for next year. So there’s another reason to buy swag.


    UPDATE: This page will remain up until 3:20 CDT so the afternoon links participants can all see our pitiful begging at the top of the page. After that, there will be… LINKS!

  • Shaving, Simple Luxury, and Libertarianism

    I’ve been on a bit of an article hiatus since my laptop died. I have a desktop (which I’m on right now), but I built it 8 years ago from the clearance section of NewEgg, and it sounds like it’s about to die. In the last 12 months, we’ve had 3 computers go, and this’ll be the 4th once it kicks the bucket…. fun times.

    Anyway, I know that y’all are just dying for some Trashy insight, so I’m gonna try to make the concepts of this article come together. This is mostly a “look at the cool razors I have” post, but I’ll try to shoehorn libertarianism in there somehow. I love these stream of consciousness articles because it doesn’t involve any planning!

    I started my post-pubescent life like most other men and women. I got a free version of the latest Gillette razor in the mail, and I ran that trial pack of blades until they weren’t even sharp enough to cut tissue paper.

    The best a gender nonbinary can get
    This showed up in adolescent trashy’s mailbox

    I heard the common refrain from everybody. “They’ll give you the handle for free, but they’ll gouge you on the blades.” Turns out they were right. Gillette had a virtual monopoly, with Schick in a distant second, so they could charge anything they wanted for their blades. Add in a small psychological ploy to rely on consumers’ sunk cost fallacy, and you’re set for life.

    There were three problems that cropped up. First, I was a broke high school/college student, so I was running the blades until they started to rust. Second, the shaves were absolute shit. Third, the shaves were a chore. Slather on the disgusting canned foam, scrape 5 dull blades across your face, have razor burn for 2 days. My skin is a bit sensitive, so a poor shave meant a couple days of sore face. How did I cope? By growing a beard. Yes, in high school, I had mutton chops and a circle beard because I hated shaving.

    This seems like a good time to go on a social/libertarian tangent. There’s something about products like this that irk me, and I’m not entirely sure why. You have people with 1000 different needs from their razors, and you offer the same blades and the same orientation with the same lotion bar at the top. It strikes me like the perfectly beautiful, but completely tasteless tomatoes you can get at the grocery store. Sometimes, giving up choice in favor of the lowest common denominator results in absolute shit product, and that’s what the modern cartridge razor has become. If your cartridge razor works well for you, count yourself lucky. The cool thing about the free market is that you don’t have to follow the fickle trends of the masses. You don’t get stuck with the Comrade 4 blade because Supreme Leader Bernie decides that nobody needs 32 kinds of razors. You’re free to experiment with different types of product, both from now and from the past.

    It gets all of the muppet fur, even under the nose
    Back when razor makers were artisans

    Speaking of the past, those guys really knew how to shave back then. It was a small luxury to get to shave, and it’s something that I have found immensely enjoyable, both from a “gotta do it, so might as well enjoy it” standpoint and from a “hobby that connects me to the past” standpoint. I shave with a 1957 Gillette Super Speed.

    It cost me roughly $15 on ebay, and my razor blades cost a few pennies each and last me 5 or 6 shaves before they dull. Both men and women used to shave with safety razors like this.

    Let’s dive into the hobby aspect of this stuff, and some of the nuances will start to come out. You’ll quickly understand why a single blade type at a single preset angle isn’t preferred.

    Image result for gillette woman safety razor

    At a macro level, we’re talking about wet shaving. Just as a quick disclaimer in case some woman happens to stumble across this site (because we know there are no female liberatarians) and wonders what the hell is going on… I’m talking about shaving one’s face, but my understanding is that it translates fine to doing legs, too. Wet shaving means that there is water involved. You don’t just slather canned goop on your face and start scraping. You don’t fire up some gizmo and hope it gets close enough that you look like you actually shaved today. Wet shaving is about preparing your face to get a close shave with comfortable results. In broad generalities, there are three phases to a wet shave: skin preparation, shaving, and skin protection. You prepare your skin to be lubricated enough to allow a razor and a blade to glide across your face without catching on the skin. You also prepare your stubble to be as erect as possible so that you lop it all off when you pass the blade through each hair.

    As an aside, one reason why irritation is so common with cartridge blades is because the multiple blades act to pull the hair up out of the follicle and trim it below the skin line, resulting in irritation and a higher chance of ingrown hairs. It’s a very “close” shave, but it’s really too close.

    Image result for multiblade razor pull hairs

    You will find that most traditional forms of shaving involve a single blade, thus reducing the likelihood of such . . . uncomfortable . . . consequences. There are four types of shaving. Cartridge blade razor (including disposables), electric trimmer, safety razor, and straight razorThe bolded ones are the ones closest associated with wet shaving. Yes, you can wet shave with a cartridge razor, but you’re only getting partial benefits in that situation.

    Couldn't see a pajama boy wielding one of these suckers!
    Some of the guys who make custom straight razors do some great work!

    I’m sure we’ve got some straight razor folks here in Glibertopia, but I’m not really experienced with them. Besides the barber cleaning up the back of my neck with one, and the rare barbershop shave (which is shit once you figure out how to properly wield a safety or straight razor), I’ve never really even seen one in person.

    However, the principles between safety razors and straight razors are much the same. The muscle memory is different and the stakes are higher with straights, but the process involves lubing up your face, holding the blade at a certain angle, and dragging it across your whiskers.

    I’m big on connections to the past. Things may be “better” in the present, but often the consumerist impulses of today result in bland mass-produced products. There’s nothing beautiful about the latest Fusion razor. It’s an uninspired amalgamation of neon plastic and chromed plastic. However, I’ve seen some straight razors and safety razors that are works of art! Craftsmen made the shaving tools of old. Assembly lines stamp out today’s shaving tools.

    There’s something about using a 60 year old work of art to do a mundane hygiene task that makes it less humdrum. When you add in the other components of a wet shave, it adds a small luxury to your morning. Back in the day, men didn’t mind taking a minute and enjoying their morning routine.

    Image result for wwii shaving kit      Related imageImage result for shaving vietnam war

    Pre-Shave

    Before starting your shave, it’s important to prepare. Preparation is as important as execution in wet shaving, because your razor doesn’t have training wheels anymore. You can push pretty damn hard with a cartridge razor and not be worse for the wear. Safety razors reduce the chance of slicing your face open in comparison to a straight razor, but both types of blade are very unforgiving to mistakes.

    There are two types of pre-shave preparation. 1) Skin preparation, and 2) Mapping your beard.

    Skin Preparation

    It is important to do two things to your skin prior to shaving. You need to lubricate your skin so that the razor glides along and doesn’t get stuck. You also need to get your hair follicles to stand up as much as possible to get a close shave. There’s a simple way to do both… hop in a warm shower. Many people shave in the shower to get the maximum benefit of the warm water. I’ve never found it particularly attractive an idea, but you do you. If you didn’t just hop out of the shower, a warm, wet washcloth to the face will do the trick. If your skin tends to be dry, or if you’re a beginner prone to making mistakes, you can use a pre-shave oil or a pre-shave cream to supplement the warm water. It also adds a pleasant aroma to the beginning of your shave. Like I said, small luxuries.

    In the pic, I have one of each. There’s a Truefitt and Hill pre-shave oil with a citrus scent. Next to it is a Proraso pre-shave cream with a menthol finish. I don’t really use them very much any more. Occasionally I’ll use the oil because it is the closest to real-deal citrus as I’ve ever found in a citrus scent.

    Anyway, you take a sparing amount and rub it into your skin, and all of a sudden you’ve got a slippery face.

    Mapping your beard

    Unlike a cartridge shave, where the blades are equal opportunity offenders, single blades are quite sensitive to the grain of your beard. If you go with the grain, it’s the least uncomfortable and it’s the least close shave. If you go against the grain, it’s the most uncomfortable and the closest shave. Usually people will do 2 or 3 passes in order to get a close and comfortable shave. For example, they may do a with the grain pass, a cross-grain pass, and an against the grain pass. If you properly do three passes like that, your face will feel like a baby’s ass.

    The thing is that the grain doesn’t just go in one direction. Just like your hair on your head, your beard has whorls and direction changes and all sorts of unique challenges. For example, my left cheek grain goes down, but my right cheek goes backward. Knowing which way the whiskers go helps you avoid accidentally going against the grain in some areas on the first pass.

    Lathering Up

    You can see in the above picture the two brushes that look like huge weird makeup brushes. I’m not sharing the bathroom with Mrs. trshmnstr, so they’re not hers. Those are my shave brushes. They’re made from badger hair. Yes, they literally pluck hairs from badgers to make these brushes. You can also get boar hair brushes or synthetic brushes (think paintbrush bristles). I’ve never used either of those, but I like my badger brushes. The one on the right is a normal badger hair brush. It has enough resistance to stand up to vigorously rubbing your face, but the hairs aren’t irritating. The one on the left with the frosted tips is a silvertip badger brush. These are premium brushes due to the nature of the silver tipped hairs. The hairs stand up enough to be able to make a good shaving lather, but they’re quite soft at the tips, making for the perfect balance.

    The purpose of a brush is simple, you load it up with shaving cream and you apply the shaving cream to your face. I should be more precise. You can use shaving cream (roughly the consistency of toothpaste) or shaving soap (a hockey puck shaped bar of specially formulated soap). This is where wet shaving completely leaves normal shaving behind.

    You can see in this next photo a few shaving soaps. On the left is TSE Texas Leather Tallow Shaving Soap (yes, tallow as in animal fat… the best shave soaps are made with tallow), which literally smells like my cowboy boots. In the middle is Proraso Green, which has the same menthol hit like the pre-shave cream. On the right is Gentleman John Sandalwood Soap, which is my current go-to for everyday shaving. The left two soaps are a little bit creamier and aren’t really in puck form, so I use them directly from their containers. The Gentleman John didn’t come with a container, so it’s in my shave bowl.

    There are two primary ways of lathering up, face lathering and bowl lathering. They’re both perfectly legitimate, but they yield different types of lather. The face lather tends to be more of a wet, slick lather, whereas the bowl lather tends to be fluffier and drier. Depending on your preference for lather, you can choose the appropriate technique.

    Face Lathering

    Face lathering is my go-to. It’s easier when you don’t have a ton of space, because you don’t need additional bowls and you don’t make a foamy mess all over the counter. Face lathering is two steps: loading the brush and lathering. First, to prep for the shave, you need to add a few drops of water to the soap to “bloom” the soap (meaning that the soap absorbs some of the water and the top layer softens up. Also, I like to leave the brush in warm water while I shower. If that’s not an option, just run some hot water over the bristles, because the brush will absorb some water. Then, give the brush a single shake (you want to get rid of some water, but not all), and start swirling the bristles over the soap puck. The soap will begin to foam, but you’re only loading the bristles with the soap, so you don’t want to go too long.

    Once the brush is loaded, you proceed to swirl the brush on your cheeks until a foamy lather builds. Once the lather builds, you can paint it on other parts of your face until you have built up a nice slick, cushiony lather on all the places you’ll be shaving.

    Image result for shave scuttle

    Bowl Lathering

    Bowl lathering is very similar, but instead of taking the loaded brush to your face, you put it into a bowl and start swirling. Because of the fact that the bowl doesn’t have any moisture in it (as compared to your lubricated face), the lather tends to dry out, which makes it fluffier. Once you have a good lather built, you can just paint it on your face with the brush.

    Want an added touch of luxury? Pour some hot water into a shave scuttle and heat up your lather while you make it!

    Shaving

    I’ve written an entire article’s worth of info, but we haven’t even cut a single whisker yet. In reality, once you get a hang of things, the pre-shave portion takes 2-3 minutes at most. Now it’s time to choose a razor and blades (for the safety razors). As mentioned above, my experience is with safety razors, so that’s what I’ll talk about.

    Razors come in all different shapes and sizes, but there are three most important attributes: weight, balance, and aggressiveness. The key to shaving with a single blade razor is to avoid pressing. The blade should glide over your face, and even the slightest pressure can make for a bad shave. As such, the right weight razor keeps you from having to exert pressure to get the razor to cut. Too light, and your blade will skip right off your face. Too heavy, and you have very little control and feel as you cut. Balance also influences the control and feel. A well balanced razor can be held by two fingers and you can almost feel every whisker yield to the blade. Aggressiveness is about matching your style and skin sensitivity to how much the razor tries to take off on each pass. Some folks like really aggressive razors. Some (like me) like less aggressive razors. It’s all about getting a close cut without causing razor burn. Certain safety razors have adjustable aggressiveness. You twist a selector, and the blade bends to a different angle, reducing or increasing aggressiveness.

    The blades themselves are also seen as aggressive or not. Feather blades have a reputation for aggressiveness, but I happen to like them in my Gillette Super Speed because it mellows their aggressiveness. Others are less aggressive. Most likely these differences are due to minute differences in the manufacturing tolerances, despite the fact that the blade’s form factor has been standardized for 80 years.

    One of the great things about shaving with a safety razor is that besides the initial investment in the razor (about $10 for each of mine on ebay), the blades are super cheap. I’ve gotten deals under 10 cents per blade, and each blade usually lasts 5 or 6 shaves, if not more. However, like any other hobby, you can get lost in all of the options and spend hundreds of dollars on shave equipment. There are some rare vintage razors that go for over $100.

    Shaving is very much an exercise in muscle memory. It’s quite similar to knife sharpening in that you need to find a proper angle, hold it at that angle, and make smooth strokes. You know it’s right when you can hear the blade cutting the whiskers. It’s a soothing sound. Unlike what you’ve likely learned shaving with a cartridge razor, it’s not about pushing down and dragging across half of your face. That will end with blood everywhere. With a safety or straight razor, it’s about smooth short strokes with almost no pressure. You only exert enough pressure to keep the blade from skipping when it hits the next whisker. I’ve found that when in doubt, you’re using too much pressure. The goal is to “reduce” the hair rather than “eliminate” the hair. This is why you do two or three passes. The first pass takes the stubble down lower, the second even lower, and the third down to the skin.

    Also, this is a literal razor blade. Razor blades cut you if you drag them sideways along your skin. Your short smooth strokes should be directly perpendicular to the blade’s edge. Turning corners is an advanced move for when you stop cutting yourself.

    After a bit of practice, you start to be able to feel when a blade is getting dull. Before then, replace your blade on a regular basis. Usually 5 or 6 shaves is about as much as you can get out of a blade. If you have an old house, there may even be a blade depository in your bathroom. It dumps all the used blades into your wall for the contractor to find when you decide to remodel the bathroom.

    Image result for razor blades in wall

    Finishing Up

    After you shave and wipe off the excess lather, you’re not quite done yet. Your face is in an “open” state due to the warm water, the lather, and the razor. One refreshing way to close up your pores is to splash your face with cool water. If you have a couple tiny nicks that are thinking about bleeding, sometimes this step will convince them not to bleed.

    Once you’ve rinsed your face with cool water, it’s time to apply after-product. This is purely optional, but I find that my face thanks me. I have extremely dry skin, so this is the perfect time to add some moisture and avoid redness, cracked skin, etc. In come two categories of after-shave. In front is Clubman Pinaud, which is a traditional Home Alone aftershave. It’s alcohol based, and it’ll let you know if you nicked yourself. To me, this is the smell of a barbershop, and it lingers with you for the rest of the day.

    Behind the Clubman is some Tea Tree leave-in conditioner. I forget who recommended it to me, but this stuff is the absolute best at moisturizing my face. I just rub it in like lotion, and my dry skin issues go away within a couple hours. It doesn’t linger like Clubman, but you can still smell it a couple hours later.

    Also, while you’re cleaning up, rinse out your brush and get as much water out as you can. I hang mine alongside my razor to air dry the rest of the way. I also leave the soap container open to air dry.

    But what if you got a boo boo? Bleeding is a part of learning to shave, and it sucks. Rather than sticking toilet paper to your face or bleeding everywhere, get yourself a styptic pencil or an alum block. They both contain chemicals that help your blood clot up and stop the bleeding. They aren’t magic, so don’t start rubbing your jugular while you’re bleeding out, but they’ve stopped cuts where the blood was dripping down my chin before.

    I’ve never found out the right way to clean the styptic pencil. I usually rinse it off under the faucet, but the pencil doesn’t play well with water.

     

     

     

     

     

    All of this to say, nobody needs 32 different kinds of razors. In Progtopia, we’re all gonna be stuck with shitty off-brand disposables and silly-string for shaving cream.

     

  • A Tale of Two Systems

    I’ve had both of my hips replaced with titanium implants. My friends and I joke about being a cyborg and being part-Terminator. Laughter is indeed medicine. I had my right leg done in the States with private insurance and the left done in Korea, which has universal health care. This is my tale.

    I was a few months away from being 25 when I first noticed a problem. I had been in the States visiting family and back flew to Korea to start my new contract. Literally the day that I arrived I started to feel a tinge of pain when I put weight on it. I assumed it was the stress of travel and schlepping all of my luggage around.

    I used to run 3-5 miles a day and naturally assumed it was related to that. Everyone who runs is used to little tweaks and pains. My limp increased and I just dealt with it. People kept telling me to go to the hospital. I figured it would go away and rebuffed their advice. After six months of existential pain with every step, I figured it was time to see the doc.

    It only took a simple X-Ray. The doc sat me down and showed me the film. My femoral head had a noticeable dark spot on it. He told me that I needed to have my hip replaced. With cool composure I asked about the details. Turns out that the blood vessels in my femur had closed off and the bone wasn’t getting oxygen. Necrosis, he said. The bone had literally died. The pain I felt was my body weight slowly crushing the bone into itself.

    He says the left hip has the same problem but it’s not as advanced.

    Outlook: not bright

    Most people assume that I had been hit by a car when I tell them about my hips. I tell them the docs told me it was idiopathic. This may be true, but I think I have an idea. But that theory’s for me.

    Cut and dry, it simply had to be replaced. It wouldn’t ever go away, and eventually would catastrophically shatter.

    I got into a cab and tried to digest this. I called into work to get the day off. It also so happened that that was the day my parents were arriving to visit me. I fought off my emotions in the taxi. As soon I shut more apartment door I bawled my eyes out. I’ve never cried so hard. I collected myself and then collected my parents outside. It was pouring with rain, which felt fitting.

    We went to Seoul with my ex that weekend. I walked with them for miles that day, unable to hide my limp that I hadn’t told them about. They wanted to see a palace. I bowed out saying that I was tired and had already seen it. Truth was the idea of walking over gravel for a few hours was too exhausting to think about. We later got pizza. While I was in the bathroom my parents asked the ex what was wrong. To her credit she didn’t say, per my wishes.

    I flew back to the States to get the surgery done about a month later. I had three hour-plus one-on-one visits with the doc. He explained everything that was going to happen and what to expect. Being a young patient, he took a special interest in me. “This doesn’t happen to people as young as you,” he said. Not words you want to hear.

    I had to go to group meetings to get prepared for the operation and what I need to do afterwards and what I won’t be able to do. After the surgery I wasn’t supposed to bend my hip past 90 degrees. It might dislocate, they said. I was easily 30 years younger than everyone else present.

    Time for surgery. I was the first of the day and arrived early. I was given Valium and the nurses were very sweet. I was put under and don’t remember anything for the first 24 hours or so. I awoke in a spacious, private room. My bed was a lot of fun. I was pumped up with pain killers and felt incredibly stiff but no pain to speak of. I had a menu and could call at any time of day and get whatever food that I wanted. Having good food and calories were very important and comforting. This turned out to be very different than Korea.

    Perhaps I should explain the surgery. First they had to sever three thigh/ass muscles. Then they dislocate your hip. Then they saw about 6 inches of it off. They shove the implant down through the bone marrow and pop the new head into one’s pelvis. Then they screw it in place through the bone.

    Again, I don’t remember the first 24 hours. But I stayed at the hospital for three days and two nights. I don’t remember it being too unpleasant, other than how unpleasant being stuck in a hospital bed inherently is.

    I was released home and was given a boatload of pain pills. I was encouraged to get out and about as soon as possible. The abject swelling and stiffness is hard to explain. But I dutifully would go out and walk 100 feet and back to the house. When going on stairs, the rule is: Good Leg up first; Bad Leg down first. Also—always use the cane on the opposite leg. Movies get that wrong so frequently. I notice it constantly now, just like I’ve always noticed when someone is left-handed.

    I took my recovery very seriously. Eventually I got down to the end of the street. Then I went a block further. Soon enough I got to the nearby forest and tested myself walking over uneven trails. There was a real sense of accomplishment.

    After a month the pain was still there but certainly manageable. The stretches I had to do were a terrifying new flavor of pain. It’s hard to explain. Your entire body is saying that this movement is absolutely unacceptable. It was a cold, desperate pain. It felt like something was going to rip. That tends to dampen your enthusiasm to your new regime. I probably didn’t do them enough. It’s still very difficult to get my right leg over my left knee into Newspaper-Reading stance.

    I would say after six months my walking life was pretty much back to normal. No more running, though. No more jumping. They don’t know how long these will last on me because I’m not the average patient. But because I was young and fit they were encouraging. But they had no real answer. That I will almost definitely have to have another operation—one that I’m told is much, much worse– in x years is something that I try not to think about. It brings about feelings that I prefer to push out, given I have no control over them, I get sad when I make the mistake of dwelling on it.

    I flew back to Korea. My life went about pretty normally for six months or so. My ex would help me with my grueling stretches. And then, in 2014, I started to feel the same pain in my left leg.
    That was a fun day.

    I decided to do the second surgery in Korea. My retired mother flew out to be with me. The surgeon spoke English but I only talked to him for maybe a minute at time. If I spent 5 minutes total talking to him I would be shocked. But I did have a Guardian Angel as a nurse.

    And her name was….well I forget, sadly. She had studied in San Francisco and was my English aide throughout. She was the only competent person in the building. Every room had soap dispensers. She was literally the only one who used them. The only one. I’ll get back to that.

    I paid extra for a private room, because I couldn’t handle that shit. Everyone else was in rooms with 6-8 patients. Cloth curtains, noxious smells and Korean food that even the locals didn’t eat. I was prepped for the op and I was wheeled down to the theater.

    I got gassed and I went under.

    I woke up sometime later, groggy and unfocused. They started to wheel me out. The anesthetic wore off shockingly fast. As soon as I was wheeled out into the expansive main floor of the hospital, all of the pain hit my acutely aware brain.

    Torn muscles. Dislocated hip. Sawn off bone. Titanium thrust into my femur. Screwed back in.

    I am screaming in the hospital. I’m talking taking-a-Minie-ball-to-the-leg-at-Antietam screaming. I couldn’t control it. Couldn’t hear myself. Couldn’t think. I was wheeled in front of patients, women, children….and my mother.

    My mother had to hear her youngest scream like that. I’ve never talked to her about that moment and I never will. I can never forgive them for that. Never. Ever.

    We got into the elevator. Again, my mother present. The echoes of pain must’ve been haunting in that steel box. I’m glad I don’t really remember it. We got to my room. Instead of picking me up by the sheet I’m on, they grabbed me limb-by-limb and flop me into the bed.

    Then, and only then, did they inject me with more anesthetic. Let that incompetence sink it. Infuriates me to this day. Again, never, ever can I forgive.

    That sadly, was only the beginning of my troubles. I had tons of drainage tubes attached to the bed. All in all I spent 10 days tied to that fucking bed. Shackled. They had people come a few times a day to turn me over and hit my back to prevent bedsores, which I eventually did develop, but thankfully they didn’t become a problem. Hilariously, those back-slappers were the only people that wore gloves, even when dealing with my stapled wounds and drainage tubes. I’ll come back to that, as well.

    My mother was a saint. A Subway just opened up in Daejeon and it was really busy. I wanted actual food and she would wait in line for an hour to bring some comfort to her youngest. I liked getting her out of there. I didn’t like being so helpless and needing everything done for me. My friends wanted to visit and I told them no. I would visit them when I got out. I didn’t want to be seen like that.

    My humanity was spiraling.

    One thing made me happy. I would trudge along until 6pm. That was always the goal. Deal with the shit and you can make it to six. That’s when the Korean baseball games would come on. I don’t care about the teams here—I’d flip through channels 44-48 trying to find the best game. Whatever game was the most interesting, I would watch. For those 4 hours I knew I could kind of escape myself. And at 10:00 or 10:30 when the games ended, I had to deal with reality again. Cold, painful, lonely nights.

    I didn’t take a shit for 6 days. They started to get nervous and would give me laxatives every meal. Still, nothing. Sometimes I would think that I had a shipment to deliver and I’d get the bedpan. My mother would leave and I would painfully struggle to pick myself up enough to get it under me. Usually I had Top Gear on to distract me from the desperation. I had two days of false alarms. When I finally did take a shit it was hands-down the foulest thing my body has ever produced. Had the consistency of daub. The Mississippi Indians could’ve built a duplex with that load.

    I had to give that vitriolically foul deposit to my mother to deal with. Again, a Saint.

    A week after the op came Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

    Everyday I was wheeled out into the lobby to get my bandages dressed. But on this Day of the Lord, the doctors were off. Interns and graduate students only. They were going to remove my drainage tube. I was on my side, lying away from the two kids taking it out. I felt a pinch. They had just got back from their smoke break. Reeking of Marlboro, they fiddled around this inch-long incision in my lower ass. They were not wearing gloves.

    Then, all of a sudden, a lovely surprise. It turns out that that pinch I felt had nicked an artery. So there I am, lying on a hospital bed, in relative public, with blood spurting out of my ass with every heartbeat.

    I actually had some fun with this one. It didn’t hurt and I wasn’t really concerned. They called the doc and were frantically asking what to do. They applied pressure. Again. Their bare hands smoke-infused. Pressure was applied for about 5 minutes. They pulled away and breathed a sigh.

    To my great pleasure, the spurting returned!

    I was legitimately laughing at this point in time. This felt like a bit of my revenge. I wasn’t in pain and I was gleefully inconveniencing others for a change. Their white coats were splattered with blood. Felt like justice. More pressure was applied. Eventually the bleeding stopped. I’m glad my mom wasn’t there for that one. She wouldn’t have approved of my Grinch-like grin.

    After ten days of being locked to the bed (I was still attached when they wheeled me out to get new bandages), they finally let me out and into a wheelchair. To be able to read in the sun was a revelation. I got some upper body exercise speed-wheeling myself around the hospital. And I hatched a plan. I got a hold of some crutches. “Don’t walk” they said. Well, this wasn’t my first rodeo and I knew what I could handle. At night I would get down to the main entrance and crutch-walk my way out. This was a great time to pull the Foreigner Card. No one ever said anything to me.

    I went across the street to the 7-11, bought smokes and booze. Smoked a celebratory cig worthy of The Great Escape and went back in. I got loaded in my room and had fun for the first time in a very long while. I repeated this every night for the next four days. The satisfaction I got by taking back my agency was worth everything. Also, I had been dramatically weaned off the pain killers by this point in time. I felt like I was keeping up the tradition of getting drunk before/after battlefront surgery. Shit works, yo.

    After a total of two weeks I was allowed to leave that infernal place.

    My surgery in America came on insurance and cost $80,000. With our fantastic insurance (granted my mom was a teacher with a very strong union), our family was charged $674. I was in the hospital for 3 days and was pampered and taken care of. I was given dignity. I was given the tools I needed to recuperate on my own afterwards.

    In Korea the surgery cost me $6000. No idea what it actually cost to do. I was chained to a bed, humiliated, traumatized, was treated by monstrously inept staff (save, of course, for my Guardian Angel), and was given no pain killers to help with my recovery once I left the hospital. It was absolutely the worst fourteen days of my life.

    Now, to compare the two systems in terms of policy. The actual price tag in the States would legitimately be out-of-reach for the vast majority of people. Insurance mitigated that, however. I actually benefited from Obamacare by still being on my parents’ insurance. That’s why I did it there to begin with. My mom still doesn’t understand how I can be opposed to a program that actively helped me. Because it’s my mother, and she’s a Saint, I don’t follow up with an answer.

    In Korea, $6000 is attainable for most people, even if they have to take out a loan. The quality was absolutely atrocious, and it was very easy to see how they cut on the amenities in order to focus costs on actual medicine. That’s probably a good idea with their budget, but I learned that a lot of healing and getting better is being comfortable. Having good food, being in a clean place, not being in pain, having helpful nurses and staff, fundamentally helps you recover. It relieves your stress, the stress of your family, and the stress you feel from forcing your family to feel that stress to begin with.

    I’m not going to make a policy argument of the pitfalls and perks of these two systems. The purpose of this piece isn’t really for myself to get into the politics of everything. My point was to show what the same serious operation is like in one system versus another. They both have their pros and cons and I benefited from both of them in my own way. I’ll be plain and say that the best solution would be to have an actual market, which we all know doesn’t exist when it comes to health care. If you can afford the filet mignon and lobster, go for it if that’s what you’re in the mood for. If a buck McDouble is going to sate you, then that should be available for you as well. You should always have the option to choose.

    ***** For what it’s worth, the second surgery was in 2014 and I felt back to relative-normal six months later. I have been walking pain-free ever since, after having dealt with existential pain every step for over three years. I sometimes catch myself getting bitter about the things I can no longer do and what I’m facing in the future. But then I try to focus on how lovely it is not to deal with that pain anymore, and how modern technology saved me from an affliction that certainly would’ve left me direly crippled or dead a hundred years ago.

    Here’s to hoping further innovation and a bit of luck can help me keep walking for decades to come. Please, Washington, don’t get in the way.