Project GLOWWORM
We are in uncharted waters. My beard surpassed the duration of the Banzai Beard Bonanza II: Bonsai's Revenge not long after the New Year; my moustache surpassed the combined total of the B.B.B. II & the Magnificent Moustache Malarkey is early March. The beard's are, perhaps, not really comparable. I've had this beard for seven & a half months, nearly twice the interval of the Bonanza, but I've also trimmed is thrice. I have yet to establish a comfortable trimming schedule or the kind I've enjoyed for the head atop my lead for lo these many years. It is far more difficult to trim my beard than to trim "my hair," both due to the vagaries of my cheeks & chins & to the fast that I'm trimming the beard hairs to a length than the top hairs have not reached since I was a very small child & my mother determined by haircut. I haven't yet acquired the knack, though I still trust that this will develop over time. I'm curious to see how the beard will fare over the summer, the one season of the year that was totally untouched by either the Bonanza's experimental beard or the current sustained beard: I shaved the beard in early May for "Cinco de Moustache," was cleanshaven for the realization of Objective ZED ALPHA, & stayed cleanshaven throughout the rest of the summer as an Objective FINNLAND gift for Mrs. Skeeter, Esq. Will the "summer beard" be shorter? It's hard to imagine that I'll find it so arduously warm that I'll go back to the drudgery of *shudder* shaving.

As to the moustache, whatever problems I'm encountering are much like those of the late Malarkey. Symmetry continues to prove elusive, as the right-hand & left-hand handlebars evidence differing characteristics. I am chagrined whenever I must clip the far end of a hair simply because it is so far outpacing all of its neighbors; this goes against all of my instincts, but moustache hairs are much like drivers on the highway: they all have to work together harmoniously if everyone is going to get home alive. An interesting phenomenon I've noted is the tendency of hairs simply to go rogue. Every now & again a hair will simply have reached its breaking point I will no longer respond to the gentle persuasion of the comb. These hairs stand out at odd angles, won't follow the gradual curve of their fellows, & in many cases appear to be bent in multiple places. I try to comb these fellows back into place in the hope that they were slept on oddly & will behave if given the chance, but in almost every case the hair must be clipped off as near to the root as I can manage. I've kept my hair very, very short for the last half of my life & these are things I've never before encountered.

Everybody on the master debating circuit knows my moustache; if nothing else, it is very distinctive. But these does seem to be something else to it, for the compliments come fast & thick. Much of this is envy, as I am among the eldest debaters & even I, who can now clearly grow quite the moustache, could do no such thing when I was in my early twenties.

Mad as a Hatter
The more I wear a hat the more uncomfortable I feel when I'm not wearing a hat. Even on warm days something within me just insists that a man should wear a hat… something visceral & quite far removed from the practical arguments about wearing a hat so as to fend off the death rays from the Accursed Sun. Michigan's weather is so mercurial that I don't think a bright-line Straw Hat Day of the old style is feasible, but as soon as is convenient I should put away the flat cap that I wore throughout the winter (sporting my fur ushanka on only the most bitterly cold of days) & dig last summer's pioneering straw trilby out of its ad hoc hat box. I would be on the lookout for an inexpensive boater, but I never dress up enough in the summer to warrant such a hat. I'll try to have some new mugshots of me in my spectacles & hats taken soon & shortly thereafter posted to the Farcebook.

My Card
I am intrigued by the idea of carrying calling cards (I'm not yet in business, what business would I have having business cards?), but how would I describe myself? "Distinguished gentleman" seems indefensible. I do not mean to boast by writing this, but I am told with wearisome regularity that I am a gentlemen; I insist that I am not as strenuously as courtesy permits, that I am a boor & a blackguard if only they knew me better, but they insist. So, gentleman, fine, by popular acclimation if not actual gentlemanly conduct, but distinguished? In what way have I ever distinguished myself? As a louse & a failure? (A failure not for having not succeeded, but for having failed even to try.) Distinguished gentleman? Is it to laugh. Wait, a brainstorm! Yes, I've got it: M. P. "Mike" Wilson, moustachioed gentleman. Now we're cooking with gas.

Next time: your humble narrator learns a valuable lesson about being a hypocritical douchebag & vows to change his ways.

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day: SKApril
Potshot, "Mu330" from Potshot A Go Go (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: It is difficult to overstate how much I love the band Potshot. They don't mean as much to me as, say, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones or Reel Big Fish, but that is in large part because their lyrics, sung with gusto in broken "Engrish," are mostly unintelligible. (I'm not not criticizing—Potshot's English is a hell of a lot better than my Japanese—that's just the way things stand.) There is a vim to Potshot that I've not heard matched by any other band, not even the human dynamos in Less Than Jake; this is a verve that I find irresistibly appealing. I own five Potshot albums & can barely discern a word of them, but I can listen to Potshot for hours & hours & hours & never have my smile fade. Play on, you splendid maniacs!