But the very hairs of your head are all numbered, (you dork).
     —The Bible, Matthew Ch 10 verse 30, parentheses mine


People assume that they truly grasp what is going on with themselves and in the world, that they can see the big picture without obscuration. Most would say that what they enjoy is in good taste and probably morally acceptable

For two reasons, I no longer believe this to be true.

First of all, I feel that what a person believes is largely dictated by what our nature, consciousness, body type—and get this, even our vibration – resounds with, for better or worse.

It’s not that I don’t believe in free will; I just think it’s remarkably difficult to know which part of our will is actually free. Upbringing, culture and exposure play a huge role in what an individual will gravitate towards—even down to what they will wear and what team they will root for.

But it’s the second reason—a damning piece of evidence—that proves humans possess neither a great deal of free will nor a solid grasp of what is truly logical, ethical, sane, correct or even attractive. 

Allow me to introduce you to my mullet.

To have not honestly known I looked as moronic as I did—to have not been mortified—puts into question the validity of any beliefs I have ever stood for, or worse argued for, and suggests deep delusion.

In hopes of greater understanding and compassion—and that others may be spared this humiliation—ladies and gentlemen, I offer you the archeological record of my hair.



This is about 1985, and a sort of mullet prototype. I’m actually a pin-up for a UBC calendar. There is not a chance this look appealed to any woman, and probably very few men. Well, maybe a few. The suit and shirt were on loan. Seriously. I never did play the electric guitar worth a damn.

This is in about 1989, just before I released a series of weak songs and came down with a full-blown mullet. With the right advice, maybe a warning or a threat, this could have been prevented. The thing is, nobody really cared.



This is just plain creepy, circa God knows. I wasn’t gay, but I wanted to be.

1991. This woman is justifiably shrieking to her child, “Don’t touch that wild ferret!” for fear he might catch my shoulder-length disease (whose symptoms include bad fashion, unmarketable songs and deep denial). Once again, my only saving grace is the George Hamilton tan.



Shouting at a large crowd: “Why didn’t any of you bastards tell me!” at English Bay, circa 1992. The expression on the face of the woman to the left says it all: disgust, confusion, pity. My less-than-perfect pitch didn’t help. And how about that tan?

Neither my sister or brother-in-law can hold back tears, knowing (1) I don’t realize what an asshole I look like, and (2), I will remain forever in their wedding album with a weasel attached to my head. My brother-in-law can’t even look at me. That’s my dad’s well-coifed “Man-From-Glad” hair in the foreground. Again, why didn’t he—somebody, anybody—say something?



By the mid ‘90s, with my first album due out, I’d lost the mullet (which had spread to my body), but guilt, regret and dementia had set in. I was accused of eating my brother until he suddenly resurfaced as a professor of pharmacy at UBC in the late 1990s. I was glad he did, because under interrogation, I even thought I might have eaten him.

By the mid ‘90s, I’d also written and published my first novel, the highly literate, some would say Dickensian Shelby, about a 20-year-old university dropout who masturbates way too much but hates himself for it. Can’t you already feel the similarities with A Christmas Carol?

Three years after its release (no pun intended), the yearly royalties dropped to, I believe, US$1.40 per year. You think I’m kidding. I hope you think I’m kidding. Anyway, I’m not kidding.



copyright 2006 Pete McCormack