welcome to the baldie stories blog.

Maybe you're bald, maybe not, maybe you care, likely not; stories here, some funny, some not.

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Stories used for publication of Baldie Stories 1 have been removed from this blog.

Monday, November 30, 2009


This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Friday, November 20, 2009


This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Thursday, November 19, 2009


     Chadwick was the dense blond muscle on the junior varsity football team in high school.
They called him Chaz, ChaCha, Chick. He drove a Jeep, a Camero, a BMW with half a paint job that looked great somehow.
     The girls called him Wick, Wicky, W and LX, because he didn’t have a proper last name, just that, LX. Anyhow, they called him W and when he smiled - wherever he was - a lilac breeze would swoop down and raise the pretty pleats on a few cheerleader skirts. In the heat of the summer it was too much for the robins in the trees, they’d catch the glint of all that toothy sunshine and pass out cold. You’ve never seen a thing until you’ve seen a mess of robins lumped out on the ground, wheezing, whistling and snoring.
     Chak, they called him, and C.C., and Kicker, “Hey Kicker!” and those slightly hulking shoulders would roll and you’d see his backpack shift, never without a little white towel tucked in the elastic X X X’s, perfectly, just above that ever-present blue-grey hound, a dog’s dog, who smiled on command at the pretty girls. “Hey Cha-Cha”! He’d turn and smile and that damned lilac breeze would push his soft blond hair, layered silk, liquid moon-glow, right into a natural frame around his wide jaw and I’ll tell you now, it was enough to make me sick.
     Wickle, or Wooz even, didn’t have to worry much about much. He’d had the great fortune of being born into money, drew great strength and beauty from the air, and was blessed with the capacity to avoid even the simplest forms of thought without suffering. In fact, Chadwick LX thrived on the simplicity of his fabulousness, and shared the bounty it brought to him evenhandedly. He was a nice enough guy. I hated him.
     Then one day in the beginning of our junior year, Chadwick LX fell off The Pico de Orizaba, on a trip to Veracruz. That mountain took nearly half of old Chicky for a souvineer. Six months went by before anyone got to see him, and then those sightings were only rumors too. about half a C.C - “Messed-up!”
     And then one cold day, just before the middle of our senior year, a hunched figure pushed a difficult zig-zag through the parking lot. It was Wicky.
     There really was little left of him, about one half of what it takes to ring a bell in a tower. The disfigurment was terrible. One leg dragged, one arm too. Cha-Cha didn’t have much a face left, but what was there was more than enough, and too much to talk about. What made matters even worse was that the top of him, the rounded shovel shape of neck and head that stuck up with every other dead-armed swing, came up with a ragged strip of hair that looked like shredded hay after a stampede. It drew itself like an illness across a scarred scalp, crooked bone and misplaced ear. It commanded attention, and that was a problem.
     What was not a problem was Chadwick’s brain. It had gotten jarred, kick-started into being. His friends he lost, his lovers too, but his brain gave him a yearning for knowledge that filled his time and took his already fair and kind spirit and fed it profundity. By the end of the year Chaz had managed to bring himself back from the brink of death, and realigned his magic. He dragged books on a rig behind him in the hallways, spoke into armpits and shoulders, and patted the air behind him occassionally without thinking. He smiled but it looked like pain. It didn’t take long before almost no one remembered Chaz - he was there but he wasn’t. It was someone else. The end of the year came, Chad had to make up another year still. It was during that year that Chadwick became Chump - that was his only nickname. They’d forgotten the beautiful man who’d drag down a whole mess of robins, a whole mess of cheerlearders. They poked fun of his hair and let the rest of him go out of laziness, embarrassment.
     Chad didn’t care. He dragged those books around until he graduated, then he went to college and graduated again. He went to grad school and got his PHD, and they call him Wicky now, and Woz, and his little mutt smiles at the girls on campus next to his wheelchair and they listen to him tell stories about the future, about the stars and the sky and they call him, they say, “Hey Roll!” and he shifts and smiles and it only looks like pain.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

my secret science project

This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Thursday, November 12, 2009


This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


     Dear God,
     Is there a lot of hair in heaven? I mean, as a comparison for example, would you say there is more rough poundage in angel wings or hair up there? Does everyone have long flowing hair? Do you have a choice in heaven? Do you have to wash and condition it? If it's really long does it get sucked down the drain like it does down here... not that I'd know how that works these days.
     If you die and go to heaven do you get to have the hair you used to have, the hair that you want to have, or are you stuck with what you drop dead with for all eternity? That's what I'm talking about when I ask about choices. It's very confusing.
     If I did bad things here on earth, let's say not bad enough for hell but bad enough to put me at the end of the line at the pearly gates, what then? Smaller wings and smaller hair? Can I trade in my wings for more hair? Without wings will I plummet out of heaven, scream past earth, and crash-land in hell?
     Do you know if they have hair in hell? I guess I should ask, cause when push comes to shove I'm not really sure I make the cut, even for the end of the line. I'd imagine there is hair in hell; hot, burning hair. It' still hair though - on fire, not on fire - hair is hair, I'm not picky.
     Does the devil have hair? Does he gloat over it? Is that why bad guys in the movies always have long flowing hair, sometimes tied back into a ponytail or draped over their shoulders?
     I find it hard to picture myself with hair again. Which reminds me; Is it bad to be cremated? Will I need this head to hang my heavenly hair on? I wouldn't think so, since you're coming up with the hair out of thin air I'll guess you're coming up with the head out of thin air as well. This notion, if you walk it down the street, would take us to another important issue; when you're coming up with that new-found hair and the new head to put it on, can you do something about the body too? With a new head of hair I'd probably need something better in the body department, better than what I have now, say maybe,the body of a world class swimmer or possibly a soccer player?
     Just trying to get my ducks in a line, in a row, stacked neatly, you know, for the future.
     Well, I'm just asking, praying, you know what I mean, for some hair...

Monday, November 9, 2009

the old lady's head

     There’s an old lady across the street who hangs her head out the window like a two hundred year old Rapunzel. I can see her from my window. She’s there every day, all day long. She’s got hair, all this long gray stuff hanging down from her head, sparkling miles of silk. It makes me sick. I’d like to sock her in the eye.
     What’s she doing? I don’t get it. What’s she up to over there? It’s always the same; she wears a big old lady grin right between those two pillars of hair. They run almost to the street. How old can that hair be? It’s not right. She’s putting it out the window purposefully. I think she knows I’m watching.
     I’m pretty sure she’s teasing me.
     I’m looking at her now as I write this; she’s less than thirty feet away. There. Head, hair, face stuck in the middle, a bit of neck, just a bit, and then the window sill: A perfectly framed portrait of a smug hair-head.
     That’s what it’s like day after day - head, hair, neck. To tell you the truth I’ve never seen any more of her. Just the head, the hair, the neck. Never seen her on the street or walking around; I’m beginning to think that maybe that’s what’s going on over there – there’s nothing more to her.
     She’s got lopped off body parts.
     Lopped off body.
     There’s nothing there but the head. I wrote it and now I’m convinced.
     Too bad for her, no body - but man oh man, what a bunch of hair. It must be at least three or four feet long. Think about it! What a rotten thing, all that hair and no damned body to walk it around.
     She’s missing quite a few teeth too. It’s a smile, sure, but I’ll say I wouldn’t like to smile with all those teeth missing.
     Missing teeth and missing body parts… Whew! That’s rough.
     She must be planted there, like a daisy - an old toothless long haired daisy. Oof! Neck stuck in a clay pot, three inches of soil, water.., push her up against the window for light.
I’ll tell you what, it could be worse than that – some old dry dirt, a plastic pot, some bugs in there - Aphids.
     Damned hair…
     Not a little cross-eyed too, if I’m seeing right. Bad complexion. Ah, what do you expect for two hundred years, just a head - no body?
     Nope. I wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t give up the rest just for the hair. I’m confident about that decision. If someone said to me, “Hey, I’ll give you some…” Nope. I’d have to say it.
     What if she got an itch? What’s she going to do about it? What if someone decides to yank her out the window, pot and all? Into the street!? There’s no recourse.
     And what if, just what if some lunatic gets tired of seeing all that hair, silver gray loveliness and figures on putting a stop to it? With a pair of shears! A big pair of hair shears! What then?
     What then?

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

the crusher

This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


     We grow comfortable with what we have, what we're used to, and hold fast those tools we find along the way that help us through hard times. We collect things, take things, steal things and hold them up or hide them. We push material around, pile it up, stretch it out and fold up mountains of the stuff. Why, if enough stuff is pushed around in just the right manner...
     Well then, maybe, just maybe, who knows what!
     Some people are comfortable in their skins, with themselves, their bodies, like so much more of that good stuff to use to their advantage. Oh sure, you've got arms and legs and a good head with some good ideas running laps just waiting to be useful. Some of us find the physicality of existence a bit more trying. We can't make an easy time of all the parts, the up and down of ourselves, the feet, the elbows - oh brother - the back, what a thing with a spine nub-nubbing its way up the middle! Of course there's no excuse for this slight of the physical. It's impractical.
     When I was young I used to worry about my hair. Is it okay? Did the wind blow it over? Is it sticking up in the back? Does it make me look nice, stupid, smart, handsome, will it get me a date, a job, a future? Is this thing working for me? It's taking up enough real estate! I patted it down, flattened it out to made it work, always with concern, never with ease, as if it were ticking - tick, tick...
     And I got used to that, living with that, that kind of tool, broken discomfort.
     And then one day; Boom!
    Now I go to my head with one hand - it's smaller now, without that hair, like touching the top of a canary - surprising, that's how small it is. I think back and wonder what all the fuss was about, how I should have enjoyed that hair, piled it up, pushed it around, folded up mountains of the stuff, just for kicks, just to see what would have happened.