Tag Archives: my first mullet

My First Mullet: Along Came a Man Bun

(A Tale Told in Three Acts)

Narrator:

From the dawn of time,
To the dusk of the present,
Man has warred internal
Over matters of many,
From the depths of his wallet,
To the tip-tops of his very head,
Raging against new horrors,
Nitpicking at the mundane,
Yet feeling lost at all points
Here and in between.

This personal strife
Has not abated quietly,
For the man must fight daily
With those demented elements
That come hotly against him,
Designed to inconvenience,
Or simply to put him out
Into the cold, dark world
Of vanity.

This war internal
Has not been a lone battle,
But a war of singularity’s parts,
A test of will against the pieces,
The pieces that define him,
And the bits that form him,
Internal and external,
Of blood and mullet alike.

This war has raged
Since the beginning of time.
But today, perhaps,
Man shall, at last, see its end.
Today, perhaps,
He may put his strife to rest.
Given that nothing happens
To compromise the peace he seeks
With those pieces of himself
That have remained at war.
Perhaps, today, if all bodes well,
Man will be at peace with his mullet.

Man:

Will our madness ever cease,
This perversion of taste,
Such antithesis to peace?

Or, are we destined to skirmish,
All day, into night
Like some confused dervish?

Uncomfortable with our sight,
Steadfast in identity,
Clashing over who’s right?

We fight with the mirror,
You and me, against sanity;
O’ the results couldn’t be clearer.

Our war is attrition,
Where neither is a winner;
We both deserve admonition.

Yea, a mullet you may be,
But my hair you still are,
And baldness escapes we.

In a world where image reigns,
And respect is found in covering,
We must take our salt in grains.

Peace between us must be found.
Shall we truce then, dear mullet?
Shall we reach our common ground?

Mullet:

Oh, you wacky simpleton,
I never wanted to fight.
My job was to protect you,
From birds, bugs, and light.
It was you who hated me,
Not I who hated you.
I just wanted a chance to live,
To claim my right as hairdo.

Dear confused man, you,
So short of your seeing,
Your scalp is my dwelling place,
A canvas for my being.
Why shall I battle
Against my very home?
What purpose is it for me
To strip myself off the dome?

Man of vanity, sir of strife,
Our war is doth misplaced.
Much else demands your attention,
My aggression is but chaste.
Riots, speech, and bloodshed,
True problems in need of release.
Shouldn’t those be your sadness?
Can’t you grant me peace?

Man Bun:

Ooh, a quarrel among soulmates,
How juicy, how saucy!

I must scrutinize this drama
As one swirls a fine wine.

Analyzing the players of this story,
Shall grant me a great pleasure.

Oh, yes, the play-by-play, sublime!
How may I capture this event forever?

Behold! One of you is a vessel,
Designed to carry the other.

The other of you, a passenger,
Designed to ride like a leech.

You fight! You make up!
A narcissistic fever dream.

The spitting image of my own battle,
A battle you’ve also fought with me!

Man:

Oh, no! What interloper is this?
Has horror visited me twofold?
Has decency gone amiss?

I lie speechless at this entrance,
At this, intrusion, at this mess—

Narrator:

The mullet interjects!

Mullet:

You! Cross-pollinated monster!
Who invited you to our party?
This battle has kept sacred
Our intimate anger quarte!
The man duels. I duel.
A gentleman’s war with image.
But you, oh foul beast!
You have no place within our scrimmage!

Be gone! Be gone,
Horrid golem of insanity!
You are perversion of style,
Man’s folly for vanity!
How dare you infect it,
The sacred image of man?
How dare you supplant me,
Hair most foul in all the land?

Man Bun:

My, my, somebody’s testy today!
You say to me I’m unwelcome?

Have you the right to tell me off,
Infamous “Do” of the eighties?

I think that I think not, dear un-sir!
Cast a stone at me at your peril.

I am no pushover to hairbound justice!
I can tangle with the best of you!

The night is young and so am I.
With a twist and a pop, I exist!

Listen to me, yesterday’s news,
My physique needs no shears to shine!

All I need is a rubber band and a will,
And maybe arched shoulders and pride.

The best of men wear me, you hear me?
The best of men wear me for truth!

Man:

Oh, no! This interloper is man bun!
It has its grips set upon me.
Save me, mullet, for I am done!

Mullet:

They say the enemy of my enemy
Is my friend, ice cream scoop head!
But man is no longer my enemy,
And you, top knot, are not my friend.
I know your game and what you seek,
And this peace you shall not invade.
Reconciliation is my order of business,
Not a threat from a twisted man braid!

Man Bun:

Dear Mullet, you misinterpret me;
I do not seek to invade your space.

You see, I am the new kid on the block,
Observing a world in which to fit in.

The places around me abound in wonder,
And the joys I bring are geometrically sound.

I come to satisfy the hunger of man,
To shape into anything he shall imagine.

But that is not all that I am, Mullet, I hope you see.
No, there is more to me than meets the eye.

So, please listen, intently, to what I wish to share,
As early judgment against me will fulfill no victory.

This message, I insist, benefits us both,
And you shall know why our peace must exist.

Now, look me in the bulb, dear Mullet.
Take hold of my ponytail and see!

Do you not understand where I come from,
Or the ignorance of your lambast against me?

I have not come here to start a war with you.
No, friend, that is not the goal I keep.

The imperativeness of my clarity, I hope you know,
Is paramount to our mutual trust.

So, please understand my message, friend Mullet.
Please listen, as I do not wish to enrage you again.

Yes, I choose not to pull you into aggression, my pal;
No, no, no! An engagement of battle I do not seek.

We shall have no beef on this or any other day,
For you and I were born of the same place.

Yes, dear Mullet, we are brothers,
Like fraternal twins, but better.

Do not fight against me, or the future.
Instead, join me, and let us make this world of men stronger together.

Narrator:

Oh dear, what do we see,
But the internal war
That hair has among itself?
Is it true then, dear humanity,
That vanity is a vicious circle,
Set to fight all who oppose it,
Even when the source of vanity
Is just another victim of vanity?

Shake your heads, men.
Shake your heads in shame!
For the man bun is upon you,
The man bun has come to stay!

(To be continued…)

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Calendar of Upcoming Posts: August – September 2017

As I said last week in Friday Update #10, the four-month silence of Drinking Cafe Latte at 1pm is coming to an end, and a new slate of posts, series, and big ideas is on the way. Although this may not represent the entire span of things I have planned in the coming month, here is a working schedule of content postings you can expect soon.

August 23, 2017: The Marketing Author 001, Part 11
The emotional recovery hiatus I spent away from writing happened during the weekly stint of The Marketing Author 001 postings, and for months it looked like I would never finish the series. Well, I did, last night. The next installment about finding experts to guide you along your authorship path debuts tomorrow night at 7pm EST.

August 24, 2017: Photobucket Apocalypse
A heart wrenching story about what happened to my online promotional screenshots of a project I’ve been working on for years, wrapped in a lesson about trusting third parties to handle our content and essentially giving them the basket in which we put all of our eggs into. It’s a lesson we can all learn from.

August 30, 2017: The Marketing Author 001, Part 12
The Marketing Author 001 series reaches its conclusion, giving aspiring authorpreneurs encouragement to take a chance on the independent authoring business and have some confidence about the outcome, even if success takes a while.

August 31, 2017: New Entry into the My First Mullet Saga
Although the plot is a secret, at the end of August the next terrifying installment in the ongoing My First Mullet series will make its debut exclusively on Drinking Cafe Latte at 1pm. But to give you a teaser, this time both man and mullet are forced to confront a force that could ultimately destroy them both. Has their war pushed them into the face of a new common enemy?

September 4, 2017: The Art of Censorship
Based on a concern I’ve had as a writer for years, this likely controversial essay will attempt to call out a writer’s responsibility to show authenticity in his or her writing, regardless of how it might be negatively or positively received by people with opinions. This may or may not be split into two parts, depending on length. If it becomes two essays, the second will be released the following evening. For now I plan to keep it as one complete piece. As writers, we need to consider the truths we write about. This essay will attempt to show why that matters.

September 6, 2017: The Marketing Author 001, Part 13
The true final installment in The Marketing Author 001 series, this bonus chapter will offer a list of recommended software to use during your foray into independent authorship. This list includes Microsoft Word and Scrivener, but promises to go beyond just the word processors to help you build a toolbox for future success.

September 7, 2017: Using Scrivener for Game Design
Two years ago, I wrote a first impressions article about Scrivener, but I never wrote the second half of that piece. This isn’t that second half, but it is a new idea for how an untapped market can use Scrivener to its advantage. Even though it won’t outright say so, the theme of this essay is to be creative in how you use software to your advantage, regardless of your industry. Even if you don’t design games, you should still read this for ideas.

September 13 – 15, 2017: Write at Your Own Risk…Er, Pace
A three-part essay exploring the importance of developing quality writing versus the commonly advised approach to rush independently produced books out the door within a month or two of conceiving the idea. This will also double as my postmortem of what happened and will soon happen to my novel, The Computer Nerd. Don’t miss it.

And this is just what’s on the planner. I also aim to produce a number of book reviews for my summer reading list (and many of the books I’ve read in the last few years that I’ve never reviewed), and will hopefully post those one after another throughout the coming month.

In late September, I hope, hope, hope to be ready to launch a series I’ve been wanting to do for the last year-and-a-half, which I’ve been putting off because I didn’t quite know how I wanted to tackle it. But I think I’m just about ready to give it a whirl. I’ll talk more about that soon enough.

So, please come back each evening to see these latest posts. With the exception of “The Art of Censorship,” all of the above posts are written and scheduled for release, and will only be tweaked between now and their live dates. So, they are coming. Look for each one to go live between 7:00 and 8:30 pm EST on their respective release dates. Feedback is welcome. Looking forward to seeing you then.

Please be sure to subscribe to Drinking Café Latte at 1pm to receive alerts when new posts go live. The handy blue subscription button is located at the bottom of this page.

Cover image by Pixabay

The Epic Battle Between Man and His Hair

October 23, 2015:

And now we come to the “Back to the Future” Day Week celebration’s main event:

Working Cover for
Working Cover for “My First Mullet”

In the year 2000, I began My First Mullet, a series of poems about man’s epic struggle with his hair, the nefarious mullet that somehow becomes part of him, a four-part skirmish in which he attempts to vanquish his foe through the shear might of…well, a pair of shears. In the year 2011, I came back to finish the chronicle of the man who is now at full-scale war against his trashy shaggy nemesis, where the battle is no longer personal, but a clear struggle between good and evil. And even though I wrote well past the eight poems that told of the war to chronicle the “collateral damage” caused by the event, I wanted to celebrate Back to the Future Day with the installments that tell of the direct conflict.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you My First Mullet, parts 1-8, in their complete, unaltered forms. Enjoy and comment at the end.

My First Mullet—The Prologue

.

I thought it was a nice day to start again,

Since the past dished rough times on my head,

Blowing fierce wind all through my hair,

Tangling long locks in front of my eyes,

Blinding me to the truth that hid on my scalp;

Revelation that a jungle weeded out from within me.

.

I discovered the hard facts when my reflection vanished,

Which resulted from losing sight of my mirror,

Blocked by the curtain hanging and tangling before me,

Leaving maybe glimmers of the image I looked for,

But screaming that I was wasting my time trying,

Therefore awakening the need for some chopping.

.

I took a trip to the upscale downtown shear shop,

Where guys in white coats snipped and cut people’s heads,

Trimming former shrubs into sculpted bushes of art,

Applying buzzers against the narrow lawns near naked ears,

Dropping dead strings and body mulch to the floor,

Leaving a new kind of carpet for the scissors people to sweep.

.

I was called to sit in the chair of reconstruction,

Where the Sultan of Shears held his tool against my neck,

Asking what kind of transformation I expected that day,

Which I suggested just cut and go and maybe surprise me,

So the metal edges of the chop device began before my eyes,

Clearing out the obstruction that blinded and annoyed me.

.

I twiddled my thumbs underneath a plastic sheet,

Waiting for the job to be done without complication,

But something occurred to me in the middle of my surgery,

That I liked the length of my back and desired to keep it,

So I asked the hair doctor to leave my reverse side alone,

Just to sculpt me so that I could have vision before I left.

.

I left the building when the project became success,

Proud that my vision returned and my hair maintained control,

But my joy had depleted after going home to watch TV,

To see one of the trash talk shows coming on air with high volume,

Revealing its guests in all their bickering glory,

Each wearing the same haircut I knew I just received.

.

I looked in the mirror to discover my folly,

Shaping what should have been a normal style of trim,

Into something that was disproportional and found on truckers,

Which would’ve been okay if I drove diesel behemoths,

But I didn’t so I could not handle the barber’s new creation,

So I decided to find some scissors and remove my first mullet.

.

My First Mullet—The Transition

.

I never used to care about hair,

It was always something that was just there.

.

But when I knew it was getting long,

Ignoring it would’ve just been wrong.

.

I decided I would get it chopped,

Down at the local barber shop.

.

But when I felt the trim completing,

I could feel my dear dignity depleting.

.

I thought short was the way to go,

Since that’s the only style I know.

.

But scissors stopped above my brow,

Leaving the back of my head to grow.

.

Now my hair flows a funny way,

Stuck to the top with back blowing away.

.

It’s like a raccoon cap glued to my head,

Without the stripes or fur to shed.

.

It also makes my neck feel hot,

Especially since I sweat a lot.

.

But I’m disappointed about this no matter what,

Because I wish I never got my first mullet.

.

It forces on me an achy-breaky heart,

Tempting me to rip it savagely apart.

.

Now that I have scissors in hand,

I’m slashing the back to fit my demand.

.

I may not care a whole lot about hair,

But I know when people start to stare.

.

My First Mullet—The Aftershock

.

Why do you torment me,

Hair among hair?

You flop short of my forehead,

But flow like a cape down my back.

Waves twist around my neck,

As you are careful not to touch my eyes.

Now I know what it feels like,

To be an eighties rock star.

.

I did not expect your arrival,

Hair among hair.

Barbers informed me of a new style,

Insisting it would be cool.

Then they cut me in places,

Leaving others alone.

I demanded scissors at each angle,

But they lost their tip instead.

.

My heart is now sunken,

Hair among hair.

I wanted total hair shortness,

But must deal with shortcoming.

I used to find enjoyment,

In the way the wind touched you.

But now you’re so uneven,

And people just want to make fun.

.

You may be my first mullet,

But with these shears I must make you

My last.

.

My First MulletThe Apocalypse

.

A pile of you lies on my floor,

As I hold shear victory in my hand.

My blades scoff at your weakness,

Taunting back the curses you spat—

Curses aimed at the top of my head,

Insults you hurled from the back of my neck.

.

You thought you could hurt me,

With your devastating look of lunacy.

But your attack failed by my hand,

So now you must suffer your fate—

To be swept up and thrown away,

Like careers of musicians who once wore you.

.

You lost my respect at the barber’s chair,

But there was nothing I could do.

You convinced the stylist you were cool,

Secretly crossing your fingers and laughing—

Those strands that tangled behind my neck,

Which I could never see without angled reflection.

.

You may have won that first victory,

When the stylist ignored my plea to cut.

But the scissors in my hand says never again,

Your decimation proven by my face in a mirror—

Which reflects back a short uniform hair helmet,

Completely free of extra mullet residue.

.

Except…

.

Somehow I can see you trying to attack again,

Creeping your way down the back of my neck,

Without coming anywhere close to my eyes,

Making me wish that you would blind me.

.

My First Mullet—The Immaculate Collection

.

Ten years ago the mullet died.

Clipped from the source of life it fed upon,

Fallen to the linoleum earth,

Swept away,

Bagged and shipped to the landfill of time.

.

Fifteen years ago it abandoned style.

Gone was its fame, dying was its fate,

Missed by none, duped by some,

It lost its grace,

Heading for the wasteland of time.

.

Twenty years ago it tempted fate.

Born on the head of a Lethal Weapon,

Dancing on the head of rock star generals,

In the breeze it swayed,

Riding on the glories of time.

.

But then…

.

Caught in time’s spiraling vortex,

The mullet spun out of control,

Clawing its way to the present,

Fighting to survive its apocalyptic fate,

Vying to conquer the world again.

.

Mullet explosion!

.

Today it experienced rebirth,

Gaining new fame online.

From business in the front, to parties in the back,

The mullet returns from the grave.

Immaculately, it rises.

.

My First Mullet—Shear Brutality

.

They rise up, seeking hair.

The blades of justice,

The blades unfair.

They seek the scent

Of misshapen style;

They search for trashiness;

They invade without guile.

.

Modernization under cover

A quiet closet eighties lover,

It was a rock-born sympathizer,

A trailer park’s lucky clover;

Jeopardy, it shrieks at scissoric threat

The blades had cast from the net,

And the fear makes it sweat;

It hides, but cannot run.

.

Madness comes, chaos ensues;

The blades of shears come flying.

.

The hairnet breaks, the mullet quakes;

A hairpiece has fear of dying.

.

Tragedy falls from the gown to the floor,

A sink washes life out the door.

.

Lament the mullet at the hands of fate,

Shear brutality forces a cleaned-up slate.

.

My First Mullet—Failure of a Stylist

.

Eyes peer at me through the mirror,

While a smile feigns delight,

Her expression becomes a twinkling,

As her clippers say goodnight.

.

My stylist bounces from the chair,

To the victor go the spoils.

Does she think I want to pay for this?

She hardly even toiled.

.

“What were you thinking?” I begin to say,

Out loud in a lucid daydream;

Of course she doesn’t hear the question,

For she’s focused on her styling cream.

.

I attempt to ask another question:

“Could you take a little more off the back?”

As she squirts the cloying foam in hand,

She grimaces; do I lack tact?

.

“Oh come now,” she says with a cackle,

“The girls are gonna love it,

You’ll be the talk of this crazy town,

No woman can resist a mullet.”

.

A fear begins to grip me,

For I’ve been in this place before.

Is my stylist just an idiot,

Or does she have an agenda something more?

.

“I’d really like a shorter cut,”

But my words fall on deaf ears.

Before she gives me my chance to object,

She puts away her shears.

.

“That’ll be thirty bucks,” she says with joy,

“But here’s a kiss for luck,”

Of course she can hardly control her lips,

For her laughter becomes untucked.

.

She must know she won’t see a tip from me;

Only madmen reward a fool,

But as her fingers remove my tainted gown,

I realize I must remain cool.

.

There’s one more chance to counter, I realize,

Last one before we hit the sink,

Once the shampoo dampens what remains of me,

My heart will be in the drink.

.

As she swiftly wheels my chair around,

And beckons me forward off my seat,

My heels stamp the stark linoleum floor,

And my body whirls from my feet.

.

Once again I’m facing the cold, clear mirror,

Eyes locking gaze with reflective eyes,

Her hardened expression dares my action,

But my hand ignores her cries.

.

I reach for the dormant and silent clippers,

Taking matters into my own hands.

But then my distracted head jerks backward;

She’s taken my mullet into her own hands.

.

“Revenge,” she whispers into my buzzing ears,

“Sickly sweet, my handsome dear,

Never distrust a stylist’s rightful eye,

If you want to know no fear.”

.

I shudder to think what she’s thinking about,

And then it dawns on me.

I once questioned her on that “cool” bowl cut,

And challenged her integrity.

.

Idiot maybe, but not a fool;

She had me in her hair-stained grip.

Once again I screamed that she was right;

Then she forced me to give that tip.

.

My First Mullet—My Second Mullet Rises

.

“What’s that thumping sound, little boy?

The beating of your fearing heart?

Did you reverse your hillbilly beard this morning?

Your back hair grow upward into your brain?”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet;

You do not exist.

.

“Why are you running so quickly, little boy?

Did your barber fill your heart with dread?

You think your feet won’t trip over those locks of yours,

Do you think you can escape my grip?”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet;

You do not exist.

.

“Come, come, little boy, come listen to my tale,

You hear my voice calling, do you not?

Pounding like the thunder on an oval racetrack,

Or the roar of victory over roadkill done shot.”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet;

You do not exist.

.

“A wizard who lives in a trailer park, little boy,

That wizard gave me my super power today.

With a flick of your barber’s muddled brain,

Your history will now wash, rinse, and repeat.”

.

Go away, you wretched mullet;

You will not exist.

.

“Now, now, little boy, can you hear the pounding of your fearing heart?

I can hear it stammering deep within you,

Deep inside your chest, stammering,
Like poisoned lice wanting to escape.”

.

Go away, vile mullet;

You shall not exist.

.

“Run, run, little boy,

Feel my touch on the back of your neck.”

.

Get behind me, disgusting mullet—

.

“I am behind you, little boy!”

.

I refuse to see you, evil mullet;

You shall no longer exist!

.

“Who do you think you’re fighting, little boy?

Jheri curl? The Kid N’ Play flat top?

I will not die to your shears, little boy,

One roach yields a thousand.”

.

Be gone, stinking mullet;

Back to the trailer from where you came!

.

“Why are falling to your knees, little boy?

Can’t you take a hairy joke?

Are the people that laugh around you

Filled with a sense of humor beyond your scope?”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet!

You do not exist!

.

“Why do you scream at me, little boy?

Have you gotten rid of me yet?”

.

So help me, mullet, I’ll cut you!

I’ll cut you where you grow!

.

“Such violence, little boy.

Did your stylist teach you how to scream?”

.

I’ll suck you up in a Flowbee, mullet!

Into a void, you go!

.

“Little boy, little boy, you think you’re a man?

Little boy, little girl, cut me if you can!”

.

You’ll lie scattered on the floor, greasy mullet!

Under foot you’ll be tramped!

.

“I’ll wrap around your neck, little scamp!

I’ll make sure you never forget!

Your first mullet may have gone down the gutter,

But your second will permeate your head.”

.

Not if I shave you, outdated mullet.

Eat DHT for breakfast.

.

“You would not dare, little boy.

No man would choose such fate!”

.

You do not rule me, stinking mullet!

My fate is what I make!

.

“You would waste me, little boy?

A part of you as you’re part of me?

Would you waste me, little boy?

The way your barber wasted your dignity?”

.

I will not listen to you, mullet;

You are not of me!

.

“I am your mullet, little boy,

I am your second mullet, come to stay.”

.

You are an abomination, mutant hairdo,

A stain on history’s stylistic fame.

.

“I am your mullet, little boy!

I am your second mullet, come to stay!”

.

I do not want you, horrible mutant!

Rid me of your tacky mane!

.

“I am your mullet, little boy!

Your Uncle Mullet, come to stay.”

.

I choose baldness over mullet,

You evil, wretched, carpet brain—

.

“You’ll have both, little boy,

Both will be your fate.

Your first bald mullet,

Is what you’ll get today.”

.

Lightning’s about to strike, lying mullet,

Your strands will be fried in place.

I will not bow to you, sick mullet,

I’ll burn you where you stay.

.

“We could dance this dance all day, little boy,

Stuff the night as you wish.

But tomorrow’s a brand new day, I’ll say,

And you’ll think it’s a nice day to start again.”

.

–Jeremy Bursey