The Flowbee, Police Parking, and Monsters Under Beds

A five-photo narrative

Ever seen one of these puppies before? It’s only the greatest Sold On TV product ever in the history of the world…

This is a Flowbee. I’ve been cutting my hair with it for 10 years (I just checked the shipping label on the box to make sure this is true).

One end is a tube to connect your vacuum to. The other end is a high-powered razor. Strewn about the bottom of the box are attachments of all sizes — even a tapered one for the sides.

Easy to use. No mess. Precision cut. Every time.

The first few times were rough. I wore the baseball cap a lot.

But now, I’ve undoubtedly reached drunken master level with the Flowbee.

It takes me 20 minutes to cut my hair. I figure, by now, I’ve saved somewhere in the neighborhood of $5,456,654 on haircuts.

Not only can I cut/suck the top of my pompadour, but I’m to the point now where I can whip out my handy shears and taper/fade the sides and back as well (with the back-to-mirror-while-holding-another-mirror rear-vision technique).

Yes, I’ve had the same haircut for the last 10 years. I’ve tried growing it out on several occasions, but I keep coming back to this.

My hairstyle is no-nonsense. It’s the Tyler Durden look. It only takes about 20 seconds to style, and that’s perfect. It doesn’t get between me and the work in the morning.

I’m pretty shrewd about this. Anything in my life that gets between and impedes me and the work or the family is quickly and coldly eliminated.

And if I have to keep cutting my hair with this deadly vacuum hair-cutting device, so be it.


This is my favorite part of the morning.

I’m in the living room, on the couch. It’s quiet. I hear a creak of a door. I hear the increased volume of a noise maker — rain on a tent.

And then, this little crazy girl human comes running out. Usually discombobulated. Hair everywhere. Sometimes happy. Sometimes grumpy.

On good mornings, we cuddle on the couch. Maybe watch some cartoons.

On grumpy mornings, I rush to get her food, which never comes fast enough, as she points and supervises me to hurry up. She’s like a mini female version of Chef Gordon Ramsay. It’s great.


I took this photo in front of a Walgreens here in Reno.

I’m not sure where to start with this one.

First of all, you know you’re in the hood when you have a designated parking spot for the POPO.

Seems like a nice gesture from the store. But then you think of it, and you have to wonder — okay, if I was a cop storming in here, lights flaring, siren blaring, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on my sidearm (because that’s how most cops approach Walgreens, right?), I’m gonna whip into the parking lot, and the first thing I’m gonna ask myself is —

“Okay, now, where’s my parking spot again?”

NO!! I’m gonna pull up right out front of the door and barricade it. I don’t care if I’m just making a Hostess run.

This, friends, is epic Reno. Right here. You’re welcome.


I wrote on a previous post how I’m pretty sure a Swedish hitman lives here.

This house on the right is awesome. But we’ve never seen any humans enter or exit it (which explains that a hitman definitely lives here).

Every once in a while, this Mercedes SUV is parked by the back entrance (because hitmen never walk in the front door), and the lights are sometimes on at night, but that’s all I know.

Why do I think s/he’s Swedish? Because they’re very clean. Look how well-manicured this place is. This hitman knows how to live. Clean house. Clean car. Clean mind. Definitely Swedish.

An American hitman would live in a motel off of Virginia st. He’d have vices.

Plus, this house reminds me of a house I’d see on the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo trilogy, and that’s based in Sweden.

Well, today, the Mercedes was there and the windows of the house were cracked. I wonder who the hitman is knocking off this week.


Nightmares are horrible. And Rory gets them quite a bit. Tonight, she woke up screaming about an hour after she went to sleep. I went in there, and she was still laying down. Finally, she came out into the living room about a half hour later. She was inconsolable. Super sad.

We thought she might be sick. But when we turned on the TV, she relaxed and snapped out of it. Maurice Sendak’s Little Bear. Does it every time.

Or there’s real monsters under her bed. If that’s the case, we’ll have to eliminate them. I had that problem when I was a kid too.


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