Metro man

Today I woke up at 1 p.m., an early spring break start, and sleepily wandered to my garage for a hair trim. I laid out the newspaper, oiled the blades and clipped on the guard. I had grown proud of my thrifty method. Only a few years ago I paid top dollar, almost $15, to have old men run their own clippers through my hair for a few minutes. I figured going to the barber was a stupid expenditure, so I went to a Charlotte Wal-Mart to buy the cheapest trimming set I could find.

The thrift excited me. I thought I would trim outside, shirtless, in all sorts of conditions: hot, cold, raining, snowing, hailing. This kind of thing, foregoing personal comfort to save a few bucks that did not need saving, was what older men like my father did. I giddily anticipated losing my good sense.

Just as I was about to do the deed this morning, I dropped the trimmer on the cement floor. My favorite guard, the 1/8 inch that kept me militantly short and clean for years, broke. I briefly considered the 1/4 inch until thoughts of butt cuts and $100 scalp massages entered my mind. I could spin out of control. These things happened to people like John Edwards and Zack Morris.

I pondered my options and called Conair customer service. Richard, possibly Richard Simmons, answered the phone. I explained my problem while Richard fished through the database to see whether Conair had this part in stock. They didn't.

"Honey baby, I'll send you a 1/8 inch from another model," he said, "but I ain't gonna tease you. It might not fit. You'd better get your ass to a beauty store to get a one-size-fits-all guide." Conair's warehouse seemed disorganized, but their staff was sincere.

I called Sally Beauty Supply. The lady told me she had what I wanted. I went and got it. It was between the nail polish and hair extensions. They only had 1/16 inch in stock. I was sold.

Making sense of nonsense

Now the writing will flow out of me. Coming back after the chess obsession was difficult. I did not feel like I was on my game for my last post but now, after those trust fund whiners won the NCAA tournament, my writing will flow like my words flowed at Linda's not one hour ago.

First of all, before I even say a word about the children down the street, let me say that I love Carolina fans. None of my friends wanted to watch the game tonight, and I understand that sentiment. I did not watch the first half, but I could not stay away after finding out that Butler, bless their hearts, trailed by one at intermission. So I saddled up at Linda's and met my two new best friends, one to my left and one to my right. I was awfully proud of the one to my right, a Master of Arts candidate who cheered like a Butler undergraduate while he mastered the phonetics of vocal performance during commercial breaks. I ordered my drinks from Laura Taylor, a woman so named for the Tar Heel who invented the football sack. The other patrons were rowdy and supportive. We were in the Carolina boat together.

I wish I did not care who won tonight's game. I think I would be a better person if I was over it before it was over. I thought I was over it after Saturday night, but I had not yet remembered Duke's obvious shortcomings to lessen the venomous flames in my stomach. Tonight I remembered those shortcomings.

One such shortcoming surfaces in a story about the one Duke friend I ever had. Carolina lost in the ACC tournament in 2009, and this friend sent me a Facebook message that said "sorry how it ended for your team." Of course, this was a petulant lie. He was not sorry. His sarcasm resembled a disrespectful but intelligent 6-year-old because that is par for the course at Duke University. Carolina won the national championship a month later. I said not a word to him. I never befriended another Duke child. I learned my lesson.

I might be wallowing now; I understand this. But I sense some real rational thinking underneath the anger. Carolina has five championships. Duke has fewer. Carolina has a better recruiting class for next season and might win by 33 points in both games. Harrison Barnes, the most skilled and intelligent recruit in his class, selected Carolina after Duke chased him for three years. Carolina wins with class for reasons that I cannot briefly explain to those of you who do not know the Carolina way. Let's just say that Carolina invented all the great things about basketball: pointing to the passer, standing up for substitutions, etc. A guy in Kansas thought of putting a ball in a hole in the air after a Scottish guy did it on the ground, but we did all the rest. Basketball would not be basketball if it were not for Carolina, Dean Smith and Roy Williams. Everyone thanks us for these contributions except Duke. Teaching manners is one challenge of education.

My landlord, a die-hard Carolina fan, told me that Duke was a good fit for some people. I suppose it is a good idea to separate Duke people from society. Carolina would not be Carolina if Duke did not exist because some of them would go here. Duke cleans up Carolina's classrooms so that we may think freely and humbly and impact society through education, medicine, law, journalism and public policy. Duke alumni compete with each other to make the most money while they stare at computers and self portraits.

In this sense Duke's victory is sort of like aliens occupying the earth. Of course it sucks, but we cannot be upset with them in a human way. They do not have the same goals or values as compassionate people, so the best we can do is oust them to restore order for ourselves.

Order is around the corner, and Duke fans know it. They suffered through five years of Carolina dominance and wondered if they would be relevant again. They are relevant right now, but it will all be over soon. Their fate is waiting for them eight miles away.

Patzer

patzer: a casual, amateurish chess player.

When the Tar Heels disappeared like wet cotton candy in early January, I needed a new hobby crush. Poker, disc golf, writing and reading could not fill the void left behind by consecutive double-digit losses and depressing post-game eulogies.

I have played 450 online chess games since Christmas. You might think I made up that number, but my account at chess.com says it is true. If you pair those games with the dozen or so over-the-board games I coerced my friends to enjoy, you can see that I play a lot of chess. I average five games per day.

This hobby, like poker, is severely addicting. Chess.com allows me to play any level of player in any type of timed game at any moment. It's just so easy to start a game. The site also offers correspondence chess, so I can play multiple games at a time against old college friends and colleagues. If I am on the site but don't feel like playing, I can improve my game with learning tools like the tactics trainer, the chess mentor and the daily puzzle. And through all of this, I see my rating rise and fall with victories and defeats. Talk about incentive.

My friend Ryan recently expressed interest, so I gave him a playable board for Christmas. He politely said thanks without understanding he had committed to my home invasions every week to play over-the-board blitz games. Those are the games I enjoy the most because he is a friend and I get to hear the beautiful cadence made famous in "Searching for Bobby Fischer": thump, smack, thump, smack.

Those healthy moments contrast with more frustrating ones. I sometimes lose concentration when online strangers talk me into checkmates. I always lose to talkers regardless of their ratings. One young fellow from California commented on the career listed in my profile and refused a rematch because he had to do his homework and get to bed on time. Ouch. I promptly made him my friend so I could play and lose to him a few more times.

I know I sound like a walking advertisement and have not written for a long time. Writing about chess might be the way back to my old hobbies, but I doubt I'll drop chess as long as that rating continues to climb. Maybe I won't be a patzer for long. I will close with a favorite quote and a reminder that even the best player in the world makes mistakes.

Play the opening by the book, the middle game like a magician, and the endgame like a machine.
~Unknown