Project GLOWWORM
I wasn't thinking ahead last night when I declared that I'd wear my principally maize Michigan ballcap today as a show of solidarity with the valiant Wolverines after the dispiriting loss to the dastardly Spartans. Today is Ash Wednesday, just about the only day of the year when I go forth intentionally hatless so as not to scrub the ashes from my forehead. I wore a principally blue Michigan button in the ballcap's stead.

It sometimes slips my mind that I sport a moustache, at least insofar as I often forget that I am now anything but anonymous. Clerks & repeat passersby recognize me at a glance. My whiskers are even more distinctive than my elephantine bulk. I suppose I miss my anonymity, though of course I cannot be sure of how much of what I perceived existed was genuine & how much was self-induced puffery.

Strangers love to compliment my moustache. This is not puffery; several times a week a complete stranger, a lad or lass I don't know from Adam will shout a compliment as we pass in opposite directions. They slow their gait, they turn their heads, their eyes pop out of their sockets. Whenever afforded more than just the time to shout "Thank you" over my shoulder I respond to the standard line, "I love your moustache!" with, "Thank you. Imagine how much I must love it!" 'Tis true. That my whiskers put a smile on the face of many of my fellow citizens is naught but a fringe benefit. The joy I daily extract from spying my reflection is reason enough for me.

Project MERCATOR
I caught The Loose Ties on stage at The Flint Local 432 last Saturday. 'Twas their last show 'til the summer & I nearly missed them. The Local, reborn & relocated, is as it ever was—barebones with precious few places to sit & no where to put your winter coat. I try not to arrive too much earlier than when the band I've come to see is to take the stage. That is not without it perils, however. I was slightly delayed on Saturday & by the time I arrived The Loose Ties were on stage & beginning to play. These old bones skanked & clapped & had a blast. Their set was over too soon, but all sets at The Local are short, though the sets of the aggressively mediocre bands seem to go on for ages.

The butterfly the two girls manning The Local's door stamped on my left hand had the stamina of Atlas. There are yet a few traces remaining as I type these lines on Wednesday evening, this despite daily showers, frequent hand washing, & at least once daily dish washing. On Sunday evening, noting that it was curiously persistent, I considered using pumice—the all-purpose arse-kicker—but decided instead to see how long the stamp would remain. I am greatly surprised to find it yet lingering, in however diminished a form. What was it about that particular hand stamp?