Of marmots and mullets: a love story.
When I arrived home a few days ago the “psychic fair” was in full swing. Nobody was there. If they are really psychic, shouldn’t they have known that the fair sucked and no one was going to come? And what’s up with the outfits that Miss Cleo and her unidentifiably accented minions wear. If that’s the future of fashion I guess everyone will be wearing le super tutus.
I’m a little irked at my Anonymous Assistant, whom I’ll refer to as An. Ass. It thought it would be nice to divulge some private information about yours truly.
Let’s set the record straight. Being raised in a hole by marmots isn’t really a bad thing. I grew up in a city that loves marmots. They commissioned marmot murals and chased marmot-threatening developers out of town.
Feeding them was a weekend family activity and coaxing them to eat out of your hand or sit in your lap was a grand old pastime. “Marmotry,” I think is what they call our world-renowned marmot charming techniques.
Like any god-fearing rodent, marmots can get a little feisty and when it rains they develop a taste for human blood. We didn’t mind. Some people carry pocketknives; we carried rabies vaccinations.Speaking of furry things, I bet you’re wondering about my search for the mullet.
I ate mullet just last night with a rosemary aioli. The mullet is a fish. The dictionary lists it in the same family as the swordtail, which may explain the haircut I’ve become so obsessed with.
I set off on last week’s fateful journey because the mullet has a bad name, and I don’t like that. The other day I was sitting with a friend, watching people, smiling and drinking coffee.
From across the park blocks we saw a great six-inch, full-bodied mullet. This mullet, like all mullets, said, “I’m responsible, but a little wild too.” I can relate to that. This man wore his mullet with pride and seemed pretty happy. My friend began making fun of him, chuckled to himself with pride and then began pulling at the short tufts of hair on the back of his neck. “Do I have a mullet?” he asked.
He was genuinely scared of this functional and fun haircut. I felt sorry for him, and for the mullet. It’s a swell haircut that for some reason has become a mockery. All I wanted to say was, “Don’t fear the mullet, dude. Embrace the mullet.”
Driven by an unknown force, I left him on the park bench and set off on my journey. I wanted to find me some real folk. People not afraid of a good mullet and a good time. I wanted to see an American flag mullet but I wanted something else too, something deeper than hair follicles can go.I shouldn’t discuss details of last weeks vitalizing odyssey. Those I’ll save for my memoirs. Let’s just say that the mullet has taught me an important lesson that I would like to share. I learned that reality is not the same for everyone; everyone has a unique perspective and things are not always what they seem. (Is that three related mini-lessons? I apologize.)
So to make a long story short, I’ll stop right here. While you wait for the exciting conclusion, contemplate this question: How does the mullet teach us important lessons about the world while simultaneously remaining relevant to art and culture? Discuss, and stay tuned.
