- Personal -

Yes, yes, also known as a "murse." I don't consider myself normal, and yet even I don't easily flaunt entrenched cultural norms. I've flirted with the idea before. This latest urge may push me over the edge. Not that's it's a far drop: in more pedestrian cities, "messenger bags" are accepted, and only a step from handbags and the dreaded "murse." Wait, stop. We need a motivation. Let's see what's in my pockets.

• Wallet
• Keys
• Phone

That is literally all that will fit before my pockets bulge unattractively, as though filled with severed fingers. I don't want that. You don't want that. The above are the essentials, right? What more could a semi-masculine guy desire? Ooh, ooh, me! Choose me!

• Camera
• MP3 player
• Sunglasses
• Notebook
• Pen
• Book
• Kitchen sink

Those are just the items I find myself missing every day, actually. I am in the process of finding something that'll work and not look totally ridiculous. It's a trick, but here's the secret: nylon. I am certain to get flak, even if I choose a bag with huge spikes and chains covering its surface. I can deal with that. I'll whip my camera out of my handbag and shout, "Yeah? I'll take a photo of you right now, motherfucker!"

That'll show 'em.

I had to get a haircut, Saturday. My guy is awesome, technically. He's just a creep. I wouldn't want to get a haircut from him in a dark alley, y'know? I guess that's pretty unlikely. I couldn't even find him, for a while: he quit the usual salon, near my house, and nobody there could tell me where he went. My next two haircuts were far substandard, reinforcing my good opinion, creepiness aside. Then, one day, there he was again -- no explanation.

This was my first haircut with him since he returned. At first, things were normal. After the cut, he glanced surreptitiously around the room and smuggled non-salon-endorsed, unlabeled product out of his cabinet with which to style my hair. You see? Creepy. And then, once I'd admired his masterful-as-always job in the mirror, he said, "You can just settle up with me, actually." Hm? I was confused at first, and it must've shown, because he clarified under his breath: "The salon takes a ridiculous cut, man."

He wanted to cut out the middle man, eh? I was down, for sure. I'm a fan of anything out of the ordinary. There was a problem, though. I don't carry cash. "Hmm, okay. You can drop by sometime next week." That was even better. Now, I get to saunter into the salon sometime, slip him some Jeffersons, and saunter out. It'll be just like Ocean's Eleven, except in a salon rather than a casino. Maybe creepy stylists aren't so bad. You go in as a customer, you come out as Danny Ocean.

Another year, another Lunar Policy. Except this time it was two years. This one, however, is inspired not just by the desire to fiddle with a new web design, but by a seemingly-enduring new hobby of mine: mixology. The problem with past Lunar Policies was their subject matter: me, personally. I'd usually rather type that stuff up to amuse a friend in an email than post it depersonalized. For that reason, while there will be some, you won't see a lot of personal posts on this Lunar Policy. You'll see mixology.

What's mixology? Mixology is the art and history of the culinary cocktail. You see, cocktails used to be an artform on par with the culinary. These days, they're junkfood-inspired, one-dimensional, and sickly-sweet. They're candy for adults who never matured. A sophisticated adult prefers a cocktail with a subtle, often difficult, but always balanced flavor profile. These are what mixologists pursue through the rediscovery and application of past techniques. To do so, they must collect or concoct many old and uncommon spirits, liqueurs, and bitters. The hobby, then, is a pleasant mixture of research, collection, experimentation, and, of course, the enjoyment of a well-mixed cocktail. Cheers!