Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Spooky

There's no greater fad than a bad fad and the baddest mother of them all is, what I like to call, the "minglet."

Case study in point: I breezed through my two exams like a bulimic on a Taco Bell binger. Minglet Man sat ahead of me, sitting cross-legged, picking invisible lint off his granny vest. (It just so happens that he's been trying to engage me in a little tete-a-tete for some time now.)

"Lily, right?"

Yes'sum, he looked between 25 and 80. There was something about him I couldn't pin down. Maybe he was the over-Botoxed distant relative of a bespecled Paul Giamatti? No, couldn't be - his eyebrows were in working order. Then I thought perhaps it was his broadcast-style voice, which strangely channeled Madonna's uppercrust patois (straight from the cobblestoned streets of Detroit, y'all). It was like listening to Truman Capote trying to play a straight man on death row wearing chandelier earrings and a polyester pantsuit: I was picking up on an (unfounded) inauthenticity

Then it hit me like a Catholic nun.

It was his ... head. Or more specifically, the area between the ears and above ... the ears. What I saw, oh day flouted by visual pain, was his compensation for what he lacked up there by letting what's down there grow out. His ringlets reminded me of Kirsten Dunst back when she was making out with the devilishly handsome (and pockmarked) Mr. Pitt (no pun intended), except replace her crown with a carved-out pumpkin lid.

There was a hint of the Grateful Dead in him (I could've sworn I saw another Garciaphile in his vicinity). But that's no excuse for making As in the Department of Fuglonomics. Kenny G. was rolling over in his grave.

***

What do you mean, not dead?

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