On Receiving Pghone Calls from Bygone Eras

Let's see if I can use pictures with the rest of the
cast of Friends this week.

A guy came into the store today with a Flock of Seagulls haircut. It looks a little weird on someone with a receding hairline, but he still rocked it hard as possible, considering the three intervening decades.

However as he endeavored to leave, I felt the need to inform him that I had received a phone call intended for him. It was the eighties.

Contrary to what you might think, they were not–truthfully–calling because they wanted their hair back.

More to the point, they wanted this man to keep rocking their haircut, as they felt it would better serve their goal of desperately clinging to relevance.

The odd little man listened to all this and gave a knowing smile, before turning around twice and then moonwalking out the door.

Of Rachels

It is a horrible thing that I'm about as old now
as the entire first season cast of Friends.

Here is everything I've personally learned about Rachels:

1. I went to high school with one. We did not like each other, I think because she felt empathy for Holden Caulfield and I thought he was a whiny teenager who learned nothing. She thought I was an ass, I thought she was a little naive. We were both right, which is pretty surprising for 17 year olds.

2. My friend Dean dated one. Once she cold-called him for their college alumni money-grubbers scam, without realizing it was him. That was pretty funny. Recently, she applied for a job where I work, I believe.

3. If I had been born a girl, the plan was to name me Rachel, except both my parents hated the name by the time I was actually born.

4. It was at one time a haircut I actually kind of like.

It also means something in Hebrew, but all my grandfather ever said was "Shayna bubby," and later some sounds like a happy Boris Karloff Frankenstein, when his mind started to go. But the point was I know nothing of Rachels, really.

However, my mom just came back from her study-vacation at what is–essentially–Comic Con for psychics. Apparently, there's a girl named Rachel in my life, in such a way as to illicit a "Nudge nudge, say no more" winky face.

I'd say it's a load of bunk, but the same guy who said that drew a picture of my other grandfather without knowing he even existed, so … yeah.

Any Rachels looking for an asshole who hates Holden Caulfield, apply within.