For no reason on which I can place a finger, I'm more The Last Angry Man than usual today. That may be grammatical nonsense, but you take my meaning. By way of example, I "defriended" Frankenstein's Monster on the Facebook because I am sick and tired of his Libertarian propaganda, with its half-truths and outright lies. Life is too short to settle for "good enough" friends and comrades; if I am to retain any respect for myself I must insist upon a higher caliber of boon companion.
Happy Birthday!
Wishes for the happiest of birthdays to The Gal! The Gal is an imposing figure, and by that I refer not to her height but to her razor sharp wit and cool refusal to be swayed by the ritual wackiness and habitual ridiculousness of B.T.W., the exclusive mutual admiration of which her husband, The Guy, is a founding member. The Gal's never exasperated disapproval is like a refreshing splash of water about the neck. Happy birthday, Sarah!
The Banzai Beard Bonanza II: Bonsai's Revenge
Day 127: Over the weekend, two distaff acquaintances, unknown to each other and separated by over two thousand miles of the North American continent, complimented me on the beard by saying that it made me appear more Irish. Jeanette, one of my fellow members of the History Club, remarked during the Club's year-end excursion to Lansing that the beard makes me seem like more of a Michael Patrick, high praise since she, our tour guide for the day, had selected a bar/restaurant called Dublin Square as the site of our "farewell and have a good summer" dinner. A charming new friend to whom you will shortly be introduced under the codename of Comrade Coquettish wrote more directly, (sic) "I like the irishdom of your facial hair." Whatever is it about the beard that fosters thoughts of the Emerald Isle?
I have adored not having to shave beyond my meager power to express. My razor has not lain entirely dormant, I've regularly shorn the few scraggly hairs on my cheeks and maintained a small boundary between the moustache and my nose, to prevent the annoyance of hairs tickling the inside of my nostrils; also, I have kept the unibrow in check by shaving between my eyebrows. But, all of this is as nothing compared to the crushing routine of lathering up cheeks, chins, and uppermost neck and scrapping across the skin with a razor that's always either too sharp, leading to nicks so thin you cannot see them until the blood emerges, or, more often, too dull, grating the skin and excavating the occasional divot just to see if you're paying attention. Oh, joy, I shall be so glad to welcome all that back into my mornings. *grumble, grumble*
The truly extraordinary thing has been how very much more I've enjoyed Bonsai's Revenge than I did the original Banzai Beard Bonanza in '04. Then, I was so eager to get out from under the beard that I aborted the Massive Mustache Mistake entirely. Today, I'm eager to start the Magnificent Moustache Malarkey, but also saddened by the prospect of the beard's demise. Then, it itched, even after eighty-plus days. Today, were I to choose one word for how the beard feels, that word would be luxuriant, and such has been the case since at least early March. This second iteration of the B.B.B. has surpassed my expectations in every possible way. I have been daily pleased by the aspect of the beard, in much the same way my mood is so often brightened by the chance glimpse of my tattoo. I have been thrilled by the intensity of reactions the beard has engendered, from Mrs. Skeeter, Esq.'s withering insults to the awe of drunken jackasses from Brooklyn to Denver to Comrade Coquettish asking if she could please twirl my moustache. The beard has been a conversation piece, a trophy, a talisman. The Banzai Beard Bonanza II has been an adventure, one I am honored to have been able to share with you.
Brace yourselves for ¡Cinco de Moustache! & the Magnificent Moustache Malarkey. The adventure is just beginning!
The Queue
Recently
Ian Fleming, Doctor No
Ian Fleming, Goldfinger
Ian Fleming, For Your Eyes Only
(containing the short stories "From a View to a Kill," "For Your Eyes Only," "Quantum of Solace," "Risico," & "The Hildebrand Rarity")
Currently
Ian Fleming, Thunderball
Presently
Ian Fleming, The Spy Who Loved Me
Ian Fleming, On Her Majesty's Secret Service
Ian Fleming, You Only Live Twice
The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Dropkick Murphys, "Bastards on Parade" from Blackout (T.L.A.M.)
Commentary:
"If can you look into this old face
And try to see the young man,
I swear I once was pretty,
Not the monster you now see."
10 comments:
Oh- this reminds me. Not to be dismissive of the main point of your blog post, but a while back, I ran into an old paperback copy of *The Last Angry Man* which I'm happy to give you, if you're interested. I'll scan a photo of the cover and put it on my blog.
What a fine beard. I'll miss it, and I hardly knew it.
The beard definitely has a Celtic look to it.
http://weblogs.baltimoresun.com/features/baltimoremomblog/leprechaunGettyedit.jpg
Might you be able to elaborate, dear Dreamer? I have no objection to the Celtic description, yet remain befuddled by it.
Unfair enough, Skeet, but in the common pop cultural description of leprechauns, those gold-hoarding imps wear a Lincoln-style beard (a chin curtain or Donegal), a beard sans moustache. By contrast, the best feature of my experiment has been the moustache.
I'm open to other explanations, if you come up with any.
Hm. Well, I suppose it's mostly that, for right or wrong, I associate your robust, rusty-bearded look with some general Hollywood-y idea of Celtic-ness, insofar as it could be broadly distinguished from the look of any of your neighbors. You are not, for instance, a Turkish rug-merchant.
Admittedly, the beard didn't really do much for me in the beginning, but I rather like it now that it's matured and come into its own.
Don't listen to her, she's just after your lucky charms.
[audible groan]
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