At this writing, I'm happy to say that I'm alive and well and freely dispensing advice to wear sunscreen, a big hat, and a long-sleeved shirt, and to see your dermatologist regularly. In the case of old farts like myself, however, the damage was done long ago, and young people probably won't listen anyway. Health, after all, is merely the slowest possible rate at which we die.
The good news is that skin cancer is rarely fatal if caught early. I do have two little tips to share with you, both of which have worked for me. The first is to do what Michael Jackson does: Hire a guy to follow you around with an umbrella. If that doesn't work, try singing that cheerful old John Denver song, "Melanoma on my shoulder makes me happy."
A POCKET GUIDE TO MULLETS
he humble mullet has been around since the dawn of man. Modern-day scientists speculate that Homo erectus were the first humanoids to actively cultivate mullets; in fact, the oldest known mullet was rumored to have been discovered in a tar pit next to bag of pork rinds and a fossilized Iron Maiden album. It is argued that the mullet has endured where other creatures have fallen extinct because it is able to adapt to its environment, fluidly shifting and shaping itself like a Kentucky waterfall.
After deciding to acquire a mullet, the first question the new mullet owner must ask is, "What kind of mullet do I want?" Even though, like a snowflake, mullets are all different and beautiful, there are many distinct subspecies to choose from. In this pocket guide to mullets, I will describe mullets you may encounter during your hunt.
MULLET SUBSPECIES
The 10-90: The truest form of the mullet, it contains 10 percent of hair on top and 90 percent in the back. The majority of famous mullets fall into this category: Jesus, Buffalo Bill, MacGyver, Patrick Swayze, Paul McCartney, Luke Sky-walker, Billy Ray Cyrus, Captain Planet. This is the father of all mullets and from its loins sprang all the following subspecies.
The Crimullet: Favored by prison inmates, this is very similar in appearance to a classic mullet; the only difference is that this mullet will seldom, if ever, experience the sweet taste of freedom. Thumb through any prison's mugshot album and you'll find a whole herd of them.
The Drullet: The dreadlock mullet is an exotic blend of mullet and dreadlock. The Drullet is not often seen in America; the most famous one is sported by English footballer Rio Ferdinand. Acquiring one of these may prove expensive due to its rarity.
The Dykemullet: Dykemullets are intimidating and scary; known to be vicious toward males of any kind, this mullet will kill you if you piss her off. Training and socialization do not eliminate the natural-born aggression in these creatures. In many parts of the country their numbers are regulated because they are so feared. Most insurance companies won't provide coverage to homes with a Dykemullet in residence. Dykemullets should never be handled by anyone but professionals. Examples of Dykemullets are Aileen Wuornos and Darlie Routier. Know what they have in common besides their Dykemullets? That's right. They're both on death row (well, Aileen was until she was executed).
The Emoullet: Worn by self-cutting emo kids (melodramatic, depressed teenagers who write bad, whiny poetry, wear girl pants, act glum, and cry in the dark), this delicate mullet always features long bangs brushed over one eye (usually the right eye) with short (sometimes back-combed) hair in the back. It is commonly described as a "reverse mullet." They can be found at any open poetry reading or emo band concert.
The Femullet: This mullet appears on females and is often confused with the angrier, more dangerous Dykemullet. Femul-lets are generally easygoing, sporty, and paradoxically, either very quiet and docile or very loud and boisterous. Famous Femullets are tennis legend Billie Jean King, rock stars Pat Benatar and Joan Jett, Brady Bunch mom Florence Henderson, and Ashlee Simpson.
The Fohawk: Also "Fauxhawk," this style is a mutation of the familiar Mohawk. It is made without buzzing or shaving the sides of the head; it looks like a Mohawk when it is spiked with gel or spray, but unlike the Mohawk's shaved-to-the-skin sides (think Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver, or Mr. T), the Fohawk keeps the sides a bit longer so it can be worn down as well. Mullet professionals consider the Fohawk to be a hybrid cousin to the mullet. Famous Fohawks include Ryan Seacrest, host of American Idol, British soccer star David Beckham, and Bruno the Gay Austrian Fashion reporter from Da Ali G Show.
The Gullet: Inspired by the eighties band Flock of Seagulls (and in particular lead singer and former hairstylist Mike Score), this glorious mullet's identifying characteristic is the sweeping wings that make the head look like it is poised to take flight. This style depends heavily upon generous application of gel or hairspray to get the seagull wing effect. To emphasize the wings, the hair on the top of the head is sometimes allowed to grow long and then combed forward to resemble the seagull's beak. Mike Score discovered this breathtaking mullet, and he and his band are forever revered by Gulletheads everywhere.
The Jhericurullet: a mulletized version of the Jheri Curl, a hairstyle that was common and popular in the African American community in the late 1970s and throughout the '80s. This mullet works best on hair that is naturally tightly curled, like the Afro or the Jewfro; it is not recommended for beginners due to its high-maintenance upkeep. The Jhericurullet must be oiled to excess or it will die of dehydration. To help you remember its specialized care, memorize the following: "Here's a tip: it must drip." This style was worn by Little Richard, Michael Jackson (whose head burst into flames because of the excess oil and open flames during that infamous Pepsi commercial), Lionel Richie, Barry White, Pedro Martinez, and Jean Claude Van Damme.
The Mulletadon: Mainly seen on the heads of professional wrestlers, cage fighters, gladiators, and other alpha men, this pelt is often curly or wavy and is always long and flowing. Examples are Conan the Barbarian (Arnold's version) and any professional wrestler.
The Mullatino: Hispanics have done more for the mullet than just about any other group of people save white Southern males. Because of the natural full-bodied thickness of the Mullatino, these beautiful specimens can be shaped and sculpted into glorious monuments of mulletude that can be breathtaking to behold. Famous Mullatinos are Antonio Banderas, Fernando Lamas, Lorenzo Lamas, and Keith Hernandez.
The Mullitia: Worn by female military personnel, female law enforcement officers, and female astronauts, this mullet is known to be brave, loyal, and hardworking.
The Pullet: Sometimes called a Rooster, this mullet is often seen in the company of rock-and-roll stars. Its main feature is its spiky crown that resembles the feathers of a proud cock. Some famous pullets are Rod Stewart, Keith Richards, Ron Wood, and Iggy Pop.
The Skullet: This version has been popularized by American hero Benjamin Franklin and more recently professional wrestler Hulk Hogan and porn superstar Ron Jeremy. This mullet features a bald or shaved crown ringed with cascading hair on the sides and back.
The term "Mullethead" was believed to have originated from the 1967 prison film Cool Hand Luke, starring Paul Newman and George Kennedy, in which Kennedy's character refers to Southern men with long hair as "Mullet Heads."
THE FIVE MEXICAN GENERALS PLAN
he politicians talk and talk about immigration, but in Austin and in Washington, they do absolutely nothing.
Why is that? It's greed and politics, folks. Poly-ticks. Long before I offered the KISSP (Keep It Simple Stupid Politicians) program featuring ten thousand National Guard troops on the border; taxpayer ID cards for foreigners who want to work here, after criminal background checks; and socking it to employers big-time who hire illegals without the new ID cards; I voiced another suggestion to help stem illegal immigration. This was given to me by legendary Texas Ranger Joaquin Jackson. It was called "The Five Mexican Generals Plan." The people laughed when I first sat down at the piano to tell them about The Five Mexican Generals Plan. They're not laughing now.
They realize that no fundamental change in immigration policy is going to be introduced out of Austin or Washington, no matter who's in charge. The fact that the Democra
ts are now running things in the nation's capitol merely means that a different swarm of locusts and lobbyists has now descended upon the city. For their own personal, precious, political reasons, nothing will be delivered. I hope I am wrong, but common sense tells me that I'm right.
Therefore, just for the record, let me set down for you the plan Joaquin suggested to me, the plan that everybody thought was a joke but now is not so sure. The Five Mexican Generals Plan goes like this: We divide the border into five jurisdictions and we appoint a Mexican general in charge of each. Then we place a million dollars (or two million, whatever it takes) in a bank account, which we hold for each general. Then, every time we catch an illegal coming through his section, we withdraw ten thousand dollars. This will effectively shut off illegal immigration into Texas.
In 2006, George Bush Sr., the former president, invited me to Texas A&M to hear John McCain speak. Afterward, I got a chance to hang out a little with 41 and John McCain. I told them the Five Mexican Generals Plan. The former president chuckled over the plan quite a bit, but Senator McCain's response was quite different. He gave me a sort of wistful smile, then he said, "You know, that Five Mexican Generals Plan is probably better than anything we've got out there right now."
John McCain, of course, was right. It doesn't matter whether or not it's a joke, it merely points out that whatever we're doing (or not doing) now is not working. The plan may be a joke to some, but it's also common sense, the common sense of a man who knows the border and its problems more than most, Joaquin Jackson. Personally, I still strongly advocate the plan. I believe, along with a growing number of others, both inside and outside of government, that it's crazy enough to work.
Finally, let me just say that common sense is nothing new in government; it's merely something rare. Thomas Paine, one of the greatest, most significant Americans who ever lived, titled his pamphlet Common Sense. On his deathbed, Paine was harassed by clergymen demanding to know his nationality and his religion. Thomas Paine's only response was, "The world is my country; to do good is my religion."
In these troubled times, that's still a damn good answer.
BRING HIM ON
'm pals with Clinton and pals with Bush—so, obviously, if John Kerry wants to be president, he has to make friends with me. Hey, is that my phone ringing?
"Start talkin'," I said as I picked up the blower.
"Kinkster," said a familiar voice, "this is John Kerry. I haven't been very happy with you lately."
"Why the long face, John?"
"Are you aware that I'm running for president of the United States?"
"Are you aware," I said somewhat indignantly, "that my books have been translated into more languages than your wife speaks?"
There was silence, followed by a peculiar choking sound. I puffed patiently on my cigar and waited. One of the drawbacks to the telephone is that there's very little you can do to physically help the party on the other end of the line. Either Kerry would recover by himself or else he was definitely going to lose Ohio.
"I went to Vietnam," he said at last.
"I heard something about that," I said.
Indeed, it was one of the things I really liked about Kerry. America was full of patriotic-seeming people, from John Wayne to most of our top elected officials, who, when the time had come to serve their country, had not answered the call.
"I went to Vietnam myself earlier this year," I said. "Nobody told me the war was over." I heard what sounded like a practiced, good-natured chuckle from John Kerry. That was the trouble with politicians, I thought. Once they'd been on the circuit for a while, their words, gestures, even laughter—all were suspect, relegated to rote and habit. Something as natural as a smile became a mere rictus of power and greed. They couldn't help themselves; it was the way of their people. As Henry Kissinger once observed, "Ninety percent of politicians give the other ten percent a bad name."
"I'll get to the point," Kerry said. "I know you're pals with George W—"
"I'm also pals with Bill Clinton," I said. "In fact, I'm proud to say I'm the only man who's slept with two presidents."
"That is something to be proud of. But I don't understand how you can support Bush's policies. I'm told you grew up a Democrat. What happened?"
What did happen, I wondered, to the little boy who cried when Adlai Stevenson lost? What happened to the young man whose heroes were Abraham, Martin, and John? Time changes the river, I suppose, and it changes all of us as well. I was tired of Sudan being on the Human Rights Commission of the United Nations. I was tired of dictators with Swiss bank accounts, like Castro and Arafat and Mugabe, masquerading as men of the people. I was tired of Europeans picking on cowboys, everybody picking on the Jews, and the whole supposedly civilized world of gutless wonders, including the dinosaur graveyard called Berkeley, picking on America and Israel. As I write this, 1.2 million black Christian and Muslim Sudanese are starving to death, thanks to the Arab government in Khartoum and the worldwide mafia of France, Germany, China, Russia, and practically every Islamic country on the face of the earth. What happened to the little boy who cried when Adlai Stevenson lost? He died in Darfur.
"I don't know what happened," I said. "But as Joseph Heller once wrote, 'Something happened.'"
"You'll be back," said Kerry. "You'll be back."
He was telling me about his new health plan and how the economy was losing jobs when I heard a beeping sound on the blower and realized I had incoming wounded.
"Hold the weddin', John," I said. Then I pushed the call-waiting button.
"Start talkin'," I said.
"Hey, Kinkster!" said a familiar voice, this time with a big, friendly Texas drawl. "It's George W. How're things goin' at the ranch?"
"Fair to Midland, George," I said. "John Kerry's on the other line telling me about his new health plan. What's your health plan?"
"Don't get sick," said George with his own practiced, good-natured chuckle.
"He also told me the economy is losing jobs."
"What do you care, Kink? You told me you never had a job in your life."
"That's not true," I said. "I used to write a column for Texas Monthly, but it got outsourced to Pakistan."
"Kink, the economy's doin' fine. The country's turnin' the corner. We even have bin Laden in custody."
"I remember you told me that. Where is he now?"
"Time-share condominium in Port Aransas. His time's gonna run out two weeks before the election."
I chatted with George a while longer, then finished up with John. I had just returned to my chair and unmuted Fox News when the phone rang again. I power-walked into the office and picked up the blower.
"Start talkin'," I said.
"Kinky, it's Bill Clinton. How's it hangin', brother?"
"Okay, Bill. I just talked to George Bush and John Kerry on the phone."
"Skull and Bones! Skull and Bones! Tyin' up the telephones!" he chanted. "Hell, I still think about that night in Australia when you and me and Will Smith all went to that Maynard Ferguson concert. Too bad Will didn't bring his wife, wasn't it? Man, that was a party!"
I remembered that night, too. Millions of people undoubtedly love Bill Clinton, but I've always believed he has few real friends. That night he and I had talked about the recent death of one of his very closest, Buddy the dog. Like they say, if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.
"Hey, Kink. There's a big ol' white pigeon sittin' on my windowsill here at my office in Harlem. Do you recall once asking me why there were white pigeons in Hawaii and dark pigeons in New York?"
"Sure. And you answered, 'Because God seeks balance in all things.'"
"That's right. Hell, I always wanted to be a black Baptist preacher when I grew up."
"Be careful what you wish for."
"Imagine, a white pigeon right in the middle of Harlem. If the whole world could see that, what do you reckon they'd say?"
"There goes the neighborhood?"
There followed the raw, r
eal laughter of a lonely man who'd flown a little too close to the sun.
"Just remember, Kink," said Bill. "Two big bestselling authors like us got to stick together. Those other guys? Hell, they're only runnin' for president."
EPILOGUE
n January 4, 1993, the cat in this book and the books that preceded it was put to sleep in Kerrville, Texas, by Dr. W. H. Hoegemeyer and myself. Cuddles was fourteen years old, a respectable age. She was as close to me as any human being I have ever known.
Cuddles and I spent many years together, both in New York, where I first found her as a little kitten on the street in Chinatown, and later on the ranch in Texas. She was always with me, on the table, on the bed, by the fireplace, beside the typewriter, on top of my suitcase when I returned from a trip.
I dug Cuddles' grave with a silver spade, in the little garden by the stream behind the old green trailer where both of us lived in the summertime. Her burial shroud was my old New
York sweatshirt, and in the grave with her is a can of tuna and a cigar.
A few days ago I received a sympathy note from Bill Hoegemeyer, the veterinarian. It opened with a verse by Irving Townsend: "We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle."
Now, as I write this, on a gray winter day by the fireside, I can almost feel her light tread, moving from my head and my heart down through my fingertips to the keys of the typewriter. People may surprise you with unexpected kindness. Dogs have a depth of loyalty that often we seem unworthy of. But the love of a cat is a blessing, a privilege in this world.
What Would Kinky Do?: How to Unscrew a Screwed-Up World Page 2
