Bryan and I both have Spanish roots, but where his bullfighting genes give him the patchy goatee of Speedy Gonzales, mine were overpowered by the blitzkrieg intervention of Germanic hairiness. Which means I’ve been shaving since birth. At least it feels like it some days.
Yeah, yeah, guys grow beards. So, what’s the point, asshole? Aside from the fact that I apparently need to fill my calendar with more interesting things to blog about, the point is that I’ve never actually grown a beard before. Despite my capability for pulling off a stellar Grizzly Adams since the end of middle school, it’s never been attempted. I’m usually a believer in keeping a healthy amount of disreputable stubble, but today I officially crossed that line and wandered into the territory of the common wino.
How far am I going to let this go? Who knows. I don’t think I’m cut out for the mad prophet beard. At best, I’d probably look like a starved young Santa Claus. Which would really be more deserving of a Jesus analogy, I guess. But I don’t have a good set of billowing robes to pull off the son-of-God look. In reality, I’m already starting to feel like a walking Q-tip, so this whole beard thing is probably going to be short-lived. However, if Bryan and I keep getting writing news as bad as we did today, I might not have much choice in the matter. A fellow’s face can get damn chilly when he's got to sleep under a bridge at night.
Beer: Amstel Light
Music: The Pigeon Detectives
(Some men prefer to marry beards.)