Almost, but not quite. I have to admit, shortly after the photo was taken of me and my beard, I did a truly terrifying thing; I trimmed up the mofo. Now hold on, I have my reasons which are both sound and reasonable, or at least they are to me. The fetching Mrs J had a Christmas party for her employ of the which giants dream, and, as the party was among "polite society," I did the one thing that I thought I would not have done. Yup, I trimmed my companion back, by a good inch, maybe an inch and a half.
The girth is gone, likely not to return before the end truly arrives. I was indeed saddened, as you can only imagine. But the joy with which Mrs J greeted my hirsute exterior was worthy of the sacrifice. Um, that's not an entirely accurate statement on my part. The ever-graceful Mrs J didn't exactly fall out of her chair with excitement. Rather, it was a nodding approval of a step in the right direction. Baby steps I guess, but I'm getting there. The good news is that my newish, trimmed beard dries much faster and the aforementioned early morning walks with my dog are not nearly as dreadful. That being said, I couldn't help biting my lip and shedding a tear.
As I enjoy a 750 of N'ice Chouffe, as good a Christmas beverage as you can imagine, the song for this week is an easy one. Wait, maybe it's the song from last week since we still haven't caught up to this week, but you get the idea. We're going with one in homage to our used-to-be-hirsuted companion in beards, Mr S. I'm not sure why, but Tales of Brave Ulysses was in my head bouncing around before I even thought of it. Sometimes that's just how it goes. Clapton and Martin Sharp pull this one together with that, what do those cheese eating surrender monkey French call it? Whatever it is, the song rocks. Nothing transcendent or anything, but a pretty cool guitar riff nevertheless. I guess you can listen to it live, but the studio version is like a fine cabernet.
Until next week, when you'll be greeted with my considerably trimmed beard...Oh, I didn't think I needed to mention that our title is pulled from The Doors.
We lost one the other day. Last Friday I think it was. The day was sure to come, as it will be for me as well at some point in time. Actually the day is nearly upon us. If you will allow me, the ever-graceful Mr. S has been lost to the land of beards. His is no more. His bearded ship has sailed for the island of burly mustaches, where mustachioed individuals find themselves caught in ever-growing hijinks; The mustache of course being foremost among them.
Can I blame him? Of course not. His beard provided inspiration, a growing beard brigade to the legions of fans and admirers who littered the landscape with their very own facial pubes. Oops. I mean, ahh, facial fuzz. I'm talking about the ones junior high kids groom in their school bathrooms with a mean comb and steady gaze all the way up to the facial sweaters that he, himself, wore proudly.
For this Mr. S, I salute you, as do your fans that no doubt span the globe. Here! Here!As a wise man once said, ode to the beard, dawn of the 'stache.
Well, I'm glad you asked. You see, last week I took a little hiatus. You remember. it was Thanksgiving. And what, with the food, and the gravy and drink, sheesh. Let me tell you. Rather, let me only say that it was quite a feast; A most succulent turkey covered with whatever your mind can imagine. And because of all that; The food and drink and dessert, week 8 just up and disappeared. It was gone before the dessert vanished, which was surprisingly late this year.
Now that Christmas has begun its rapid approach, Mrs. J and I picked out a very nice Nobel Fir tonight and covered it with lights and little Christmas balls and other assorted odds and ends, I've come to realize that the end will soon be near for my friend of these last few months. It's been a sturdy companion, keeping an ever vigilant watch over my mug. And it received quite a reprieve. I had intended to bring my glorious beard to an end this very night, but the ever-fetching Mrs. J convinced me to push on. With surprising reluctance, I readily agreed. I am a very lucky man to have her as my better half.
So what has happened since we last met? Nothing except good stuff. My beard has taken on a life of its own. I couldn't be happier. Well, actually, I could be considerably happier, but in unimportant stuff like beard growing and getting the mail, I couldn't be happier. No, really.
Is there a song of the week from last week, or two weeks ago? Mmmm, at this very moment I haven't decided. But maybe by the end of this paragraph a tune will have jumped into my mind. Still don't have it. There are quite a few choices. The 70's is suuuch an easy decade, but we've brushed up against it already. Well, I think so anyway. I think maybe something by the Beatles. Right there, right on the tip. Got it. Get Back. The version up on the roof. Geez, what a song. McCartney's voice is that Nashville Skyline-Dylan sound mixed with Paul after a night of scotch and cigarettes. So cool. His beard is a good one. Not like Lennon's during the Hey Jude sessions. Not not like Lennon's because I thought his was masterful, but not like Lennon's because it didn't stretch to his nips. But Paul's was definitely good, the song rocks, and to top it off, George and Ringo both have mustaches. Sheer genius.
I think I'll leave it at that. Maybe same time next week?
