Suprural

Say it with me.  Suprural.

I just made that word up. As far as I know, or at least as far as Google is able to tell me, it doesn’t exist in the English language. It’s not in the dictionary, which surprises me. Even after adding words like 'Muffin Top' and 'OMG' to the Oxford Dictionary, the word suprural is nowhere to be found. Spell Check is even yelling at me for this one. I’m sure someone else may have said the word suprural, before. They may have even used it the way I am. But no one has officially coined the term as far as I know.

But what does it mean?

Over the years, I’ve written about growing up in my hometown and I’ve struggled to classify it among the available words for residential communities. This is a city of less than 10,000 people, according to the 2000 census. It was around 13,000 in 1940. Estimated population in 1909 was 22,000. The peak came during the coal days. Even in the 1970s there was still a substantial amount of business being done in the city thanks to the glass plant on the outskirts of the Southern part of the city. But that ended years ago and the city has sort of stagnated.

But what is the exact type of classification of where I grew up? The downtown areas and the residential areas bleed into each other with no clear definition. I can’t call it suburban because we lived on the main street.

When we built the house that my parents live in now, we moved out of the actual city limits and into a township. The residential sprawl had a patch work of houses and housing plans dotting the landscape primarily filled with farms and pastures. Over time, newer developments overtook the farms and the once rural area became more like the suburbs but not quite.

It was nice to be able to stand out in my yard on a full moon night and not need a flashlight and to be able to hear total silence in the crisp winter air. I could climb out onto the roof right outside my window and see the lights of downtown and or the various moving tail lights heading up the hill a mile away. It was a huge contrast to my college years of in the urban setting of tall buildings, hospitals, hospital transport helicopters flying over my dorm.

So, it wasn’t exactly suburban because it was more rural in nature, yet it wasn’t rural because of all the houses in the area. That’s why I thought of suprural. If suburban is a smaller classification of an urban area, usually residential, then suprural is a larger classification of an area that is more developed than a rural area.

Get Oxford on the phone. Hopefully, they won’t refudiate my submission.

Do That Voodoo That Your Hairdo Does So Well

I am truly blessed. At 33, I still have hair. Now that may seem like a hollow victory to you, but to me it's a boon. A lot of guys my age, including some coworkers and a few former classmates have joined the bald brigade. Now, I don't mean to make light of their deficient pates. That would be a follicle faux pas. Really, they don't look that bad with the way high and tight hairline, but, quite frankly, I couldn't pull off the look. I've never had my hair short enough to check out the contours of my crown, but I assume that it is not smooth. In fact, I would be better off driving a car on the roads of Southwestern Pennsylvania with a scolding cup of hot coffee perched in between my legs sans lid than to believe that my head would be a smoother surface. So, to that I thank both my parents and whatever genes they passed on to me that has allowed me to keep this head o' hair o' mine. Looking back at my life, I've discovered that my hair has changed dramatically over the years. While I fashion myself as the kind of person who finds something that works and sticks to it, much to the boredom of the girl who does my hair, I have gone through substantial styles before settling on the one I sport now.

I wish my brother George was here.

Aww, ain't he just the cutest thing? Wow, oddly enough, I remember these pictures being taken. You can see that I had quite the coif. For some unknown reasons my parents decided to keep me with long hair off and on until the age of four. From then it was your basic boy's cut, a little shaggy around the bangs, but for the most part short enough for a kid in the late 70's/early 80's. Of course that would all change once I reached adolescence. I went through a rather strange phase where long hair was what I wanted.

Call Homeland Security, quick!

Uh, oh. Yeah, I had a mullet. In fact, I was dead set on having hair like Richard Marx. If I live to be a 1000 years I will never understand what I was thinking back in those days. Why I thought that it would be cool to sport the mullet isn't as ponderous as why I would pick an 80's soft rocker to model mine after. I would have loved to been able to sport a MacGyver Mullet, but all the duct tape in the world would never help me as my hair was too thick and dark to achieve his grandeur. Meanwhile, I spent way too much time in the morning working on my hair. I would wash it and then blow dry it. I had a daily ritual of blowing it back for a few minutes, then I would pull the brush forward allowing the dryer to blow it up into place. Not satisfied with the fact that it would take me as long as Tom Hanks in Castaway to grow said hair, I began to wrap the little rubber bands from my braces, that we called bicycle tires, around the ends in order to create a pony tail. It was more like a Doberman's tail. It had maybe an inch in length and looked rather ridiculous. By the time I was in my senior year of high school I scaled back the growth and kept to off my neck as much as possible, but I had moved from Richard Marx to Fred Savage in terms of poofiness.

Yeah, don't ask about the vest and the skinny tie.

Since then, I've only had one other occasion to wear my hair down to there as I did a show in 2001 that required me to have a 1950's rich boy cut. I played Ray, a golf pro and aspiring writer in Neil Simon's Proposals. Not only did I have to bring the bouffant, I had to wear this stupid outfit that showed off my pasty white legs. It was reminiscent of a Boyz II Men outfit from the Alex Vanderpool Era of "MotownPhilly" and Cooleyhighharmony. I was not thrilled. But, in true fashion, once the show was done, so was the do. I have yet to find a reason to grow my hair to that length, but I have become accustomed to having a dirty chin.

When you're this cool,
the sun shines on you 24 hours a day.

Since 2003, I've been sporting a mustache and goatee, mainly at the behest of my wife. She thinks that because I have such a boyish face it would give me some maturity. I think it's mainly because it gives me one chin and hides the other. And while I made a promise to myself to never color my hair like a lot of kids have done since I was in high school, I can see that there is some salt amongst the pepper. At first I tried to just extract the intruders from both my head and face but it has proven too painful as where one would be removed, two more would show up in its place a few days later. At 33, I feel that I'm a little young to be getting gray hair. My father has just recently begun showing more gray than he had previously, mostly do to his recovery from renal cell cancer. Both he and my grandfather had retained their dark colored hair for most of their lives. My grandfather lived to be in his 70's. While my father is 67, he just started going gray in the last 6 years. This was something I had hoped to have inherited but I guess I should be thankful I still have hair to turn gray. I've always wondered if I would color my hair had it gone gray and I don't think I will. I have no shame in having the gray and while I'm approaching middle age more in feeling than in actual years, I still have the mind of youngster, albeit not the tolerance for teenagers that I once had. Hopefully, my daughter can save me the anguish and be a little more mature in her teen years.

In any case, over the years I've gone from trying to grow my hair really long to wanting to keep it rather short in order to reduce care and maintenance. I am truly a victim of the times when it comes to the pictures with my revolving hair styles. The fact that I'm sharing them with my 2.5 readers shows my courage under dryer. Then again, it could show how vain I am about my hair and the fact that I've kept it this long. There were times I was afraid that my forehead was employing eminent domain over the rest of my scalp, seizing up property that was reserved for my hair. Thankfully, my hair line has been as sedentary as the Korean DMZ.

I had mentioned before that I bore the hell out of the girl who does my hair. When I walk in every four weeks and sit down in the chair, she always asks the same question, "What do you want to do with it?" With that question I offer the same reply, "Same as usual." I'm as routine with my haircut as I am in the person who cuts it. When I was a kid, I went to the same guy who married my mother's stylist. He was an artist from Nebraska and quite frankly, he was a better artist than barber. While I would constantly ask him to cut my hair a certain way, I always ended up with the same style. His prowess for cutting my hair showed the same amount of skill that I did in shop class. We could be tasked with making anything from a lamp to a bookshelf and I'd end up making an ashtray every time.

Once I began paying for my own haircuts I went to who I wanted to, a woman. I'm no dummy. I hear all the snide remarks about going to a stylist or a salon but I would rather have a female touching my hair than a guy. I have friends that swear by barbers, saying that you go in, and you're out in five minutes and in between there are a plethora of magazines to read ranging from Playboy to Penthouse. While, I'm not usually a reader in the salon, I do tend to scan through the local paper on occasion. From college to graduation and beyond I have gone to only a handful of people to do my hair. There was that brief stint where I went to the salon chains that promote a $10 haircut, but for that $10, I could have had a rat chew a better pattern out of my skull. While barbers and Fantasic Super Cutups Scams are cheaper, I like the quality of the work. Now, a friend of mine used to go to only the big name mall salons that charge you $100 for a style and then require you to pay an additional $50 for product to keep it looking like it does when you leave the store. I can't see being that crazy about a hair cut and frankly, I could spend that $100 on better things and just grow my hair long. Either way, I'm still going home and washing it again to get all those bristly clippings off my person that drive me nuts. No, I'm quite happy going to the local shop, paying $20, and having my girl, Lea, take care of me. She's a hell of a lot better looking than Howard McNear, if anything. Once in awhile our schedules don't mesh and I'm forced to use someone else in the shop. At this point in my life I don't have a clear grasp on what style Lea gives me and trying to explain it is about as easy as ordering a drink from Starbucks. I guess I should have her explain it to me but quite frankly, it's over my head.

The Coffin Story

In case it hasn't become pretty apparent in a lot of my posts, I love a good story. I also love wordplay. Puns and double entendres are two of my favorite uses of the English language in writing. Mix that with a good story and even greater storyteller and you've got one of the greatest gifts that we have as human beings, the power of speech. When I was a sophomore in college I had finally broken into the ranks of the acting realm among my peers. It was a workshop production of Lope de Vega's Fuente Ovejuna. It's a tale based on the historical account of a village that turned on its tormentor and while under investigation ordered by the King of Spain, all the villagers proclaimed that "Fuente Ovejuna did it!" Kind of a 15th century version of "I am Spartacus."

The play was directed by a very talented and funny grad student who is now teaching at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. He's also been in a few movies and has written a book entitled Empire Triumphant: Race, Religion And Rebellion in the Star Wars Films.
He's a truly gifted storyteller and has even on occasion performed the entire Star Wars saga using props from a McDonald's. Being from New England, he has that ability to tell a story with a certain flair of speech. Now, I'm going to butcher the hell out of it since it was 14 years ago, but the buildup is still there. So, these are my words you're going to read.

Growing up in a small New England town we have a lot of old Victorian homes in the area. A lot of them had that Gothic look to them with the metal work around the roofs. As kids growing up in any small town we were all subject to certain hazing and initiation rituals by the older kids. In order to be considered cool, you had to bend to their whim. They usually consisted of perform some sort of task that required you to do something humiliating or even slightly illegal. If anything else it was something that was meant to scare a child, leaving them completely vulnerable to ridicule by other kids their age. Fear was something you didn't show as a youth. Fear got you marked for life.

During the summer on one such occasion it was my turn to prove myself to the cool kids. My task was to venture into an old house on the hill up from my house. The story went that Old Man Johnson and his wife lived their for years. Every so often, the old man would be seen driving his antique car into town for supplies. His wife didn't get around much and he tended her all of the time. Eventually, she died, and by some sort of weird allowance, he was permitted to take the casket home. It's said that they never spent a night away from each other since they were married and he made sure to keep his promise by bringing home her casket and placing it in the basement of their old Victorian home. After that the old man was barely seen leaving the house. They had no other family so it's unclear whether or not he had died and the house was cleared of all belongings, including said coffin. It became the stuff of folklore to the kids in my town. In order to be in the club, you had to go into the basement and touch the coffin.

This years initiates included myself and two other equally frightened kids. We made our way up to the cellar door of the old house and opened it with a creak. Carrying only a flashlight and all the courage we could muster we filed down into the dark and dingy basement full of cobwebs and whatever our imagination could scare up. We reached the bottom of the rickety steps and turned to the left. In the far corner we made out what looked to be a work bench. As we moved closer it appeared to not be a bench but an altar. There it was. Old Mrs. Johnsons' coffin lie in state for all to see. It was black and immense. Our throats tightened. The legend was true. We had to go touch it or branded cowards by the eighth graders.

We crept closer to the coffin as our flashlight beam became more visibly erratic. It was like some weird and Gothic rave with a strobe light for ambiance. Just then, there was a sound like something being dragged on dirt. We looked all around the basement but could not find the source of the noise. Then it happened again and we shook with a start. On the next sound we noticed that the coffin had visibly moved position towards the edge of the slab of which it was laying. Perhaps, one of the older boys had snuck down into the basement ahead of us and was hiding behind the coffin making it appear to move. I held my ground with that thought as the other two boys quaked in their shoes. With that thought, the coffin reached the edge of the slab and tipped on to its end straight up in the air. Ok, now I was scared.

All three of us began taking steps backwards towards the stairs, never taking our eyes or our only source of light off the coffin as it began to slide, no bounce towards us, making the most horrific of sound. This was too much for my companions and they tripped over themselves and me trying to get out of the basement, knocking the flashlight from my hand. As they ran up the steps I reached for the flashlight but the coffin had bounced closer yet, now closing the distance between us, leaving the flashlight in a position nearer to it. Had I reached down to grab it, I would have been in a prime spot to be grabbed by the bony hand of Old Woman Johnson if she decided to fling open the casket lid and do so.

I crept backwards tripping on my fear towards the steps. Without my flashlight I had no weapon available to defend myself. Another bounce. I quickly searched my pockets for anything to use. Lint was definitely not a great idea as anyone will tell you that only a fool brings lint to a coffin fight. Another bounce. Here I was at the base of the steps, frozen in fear. My feet had left the situation and my brain was just about to grab the door on its way out as well. Still searching my pockets for anything. Another bounce! Now, the coffin stood a couple of feet away from me. The sunlight was just a few steps away, but I can only see the darkness of the ebony lacquer with my own frightened expression looking back at me in the reflection. The coffin was in position to strike, another bounce and I would be its next victim. Just then my thumb and index finger located something in my pocket. From my pocket I pulled out a Smith Brothers' lozenge. Not giving Old Woman Johnson the satisfaction of feasting on my flesh I did the only thing I could do. I threw the lozenge at the coffin with all my might. It with such intensity that it shattered into a million pieces and suddenly......

The coffin stopped.

Ok, somewhere by the third paragraph, I'm sure you knew where that was going. Of course, this particular story is an old campfire tale for Boy Scouts but it was the first time I had heard it and he had me at every word. My father is just as good at pulling you into a story that has a silly ending. He has a way of making something sound so legit, that you dare not question its foundation in reality. Once we all got over the forced laughter at such a dumb story, we moved onto our rehearsal and to this day whenever I get a group of people that need instruction or direction, I pull out that old story, dust it off, and give it a whirl. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Either way, the look on some one's face as you have them fooled is enough to make me appreciate a good tall tale. That's something that we don't have anymore in this society, for good or bad, storytelling is a lost art. Flashy CGI and other computer trickery has made us lose perspective when it comes to storytelling. The magic is in what big things you can do with very little in your pocket.....even a cough drop.