Dear Bruiser,

Today, in the mail, I found the following:




I once believed--when I thought about it, which was not, truthfully, very often--that you could not read. But who knows? You're now getting mail, addressed to you. With some news for you, Bruiser!

I'm sorry to say, though, that the news is a little presumptuous. In this newsletter, there's a coupon:

I don't know what "senior" means in Dog, but around here, when we hear "senior," we demur. We protest. We flat out deny. I am speaking of myself here, obviously.

And when we were out walking today, I thought, how can they say "senior"? to Bruiser? Because you were cantering and prancing and, in fact, took me for a little drag when a small, yappy dog behind a wooden fence had a thing or two to say. It was impressive, B, I just want you to know I felt your vigor--was, in fact, moved by it--and I thought, I don't know if a so-called senior dog would have that kind of gumption.

I say, let the people keep their labels to themselves. Labels cannot contain you. (I am speaking of myself here, obviously.)

love,

htms

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to wear boy ponytails.

Lord knows I love me some comedies, and the recent Baby Mama was a rather happy surprise. Despite the trailer, which gave every evidence of being one of those where you no longer have a reason to see the movie, actually the movie had plenty of comedic surprises, one of them being Steve Martin doing a hilarious bit as one of those eco-CEOs who swims with the dolphins and believes he can save the world by selling it back to us, one organic fairtrade mango at a time. And how does a movie signal to us that he's a type? As the Bible preaches it to us: by their ponytails ye shall know them, the graying hippie men who've found a kinder, gentler capitalism to purvey.

The iconic graying ponytail: what a sad, sad thing it is, turning otherwise pretty good-looking men into sorry stereotypes. You know who you are, late-night jazz talk hosts. You already have the good navy blue suit and you know how to rock the white dress shirt, so why don't you get a haircut already? Get a haircut!

Tonight, at Red Rock before the movie, I saw yet another dejected ponytail on an aging man. (The ponytail itself looked forlorn, a coiffure adrift in an alien land.) He was wearing--wait for it:--black jeans, a mock-neck, short sleeved black turtleneck, a belt with some studs on it, and the 'tail. It was not good--so not good, in fact, that I was momentarily struck dumb, and my friends, that does not happen so often.

There oughta be a law, and if not a law, some absolute penalty: men, if you're too old to be sporting that ponytail, you shall summarily be shorn and made to wear golf shirts with tiny polo players embroidered at the breast, for a season.