My Senses Have Been Stripped

There's this place on the Lower East Side. I can't remember where or when. It's name escapes me. What use am I then? Hardly any. But the place is great. I'd look it up if I were you, next time your in town that is. Otherwise, what's the purpose?

There's also this place out here, the other side, that reminds me of the place over there. The name, in this instance, does not escape me. But I can't remember the entire name, just a part. Like a puzzle with a missing piece laughing and taunting beneath the covers. It's dark, the kind of place that lends itself to anonymity. No names in there...maybe that's why I can't remember it? The green felt stretched across the pool table has stories to tell. But it's voice is scratchy, too many long ago smokes have done their damage. That just lends to its authenticity. And drinks, so many spilled to fill a mountain of doubt.

What was particularly pleasing about the place on the Lower East Side, like so many others over there, is that my 4th pint was on the bartender. How groovy is that? The disco ball spinning its excited smile at the thought. Yummy. Time to go home. I've had my fill.

See you.

Today is a Long Time Away

The trip down Newport resulted in a phantom of neglect. Vacant stares like magnifying lens' piercing the marine layer. Yesterday's sun gave rise to today's neglect. It is said that Hodad's makes quite a burger. I'm not so sure what all the fuss is about.

Tomorrow's hero will be today's villain. But what a time will be had on the run from the law. Sirens blasting through the OB night, the serenity broken for the sake of a scoundrel. Like so many others, caution is but a lost cause, thrown abhorrently into the rainy sky, hoping.

The streets are littered with the Peninsula Beacon. Does anybody know how to read? Not that I can tell. That guy standing over there, reflecting on his reflection in the storefront, is one of ours. He was lost last week and will not recover. His reflection but a memory of what can happen when the tide turns.

I'm lucky I'm looking through an open window. The possibilities are limitless. Crawling across the spectrum of the abyss into the unknown. Thank you sir, may I have another. Anything else?

See you.

I Have My Bob Dylan Masque On

Which way to Carnegie Hall? An outstretched hand, a shivering finger pointing east. I turned my attention. Can that really be the way? The streets are narrow and the buildings smoldering. The stranger had on a mask of Bob Dylan, but his hair was bone straight. I figured it was best to giddy up. No use sticking around. His assurance was puzzling, considering his lack of pants. Then again, should I expect anything less? He was, after all, wearing a mask. And it wasn't even Halloween. There's got to be some kind of lesson.

Without a second thought, I put my Richard Nixon mask back on and headed down the street. I've got places to be and Carnegie Hall is that-a-way.

See you.

When You Hear the Beep, It Will Be 3 O'Clock

The bearded statue with the obscene nose laughed maniacally at the floundering clouds filtering through the vestibule of its crowded mustache. Its monocled eye peered menacing through the vague traces of the absence of purpose. Grotesque hands caress the hilltops of our minds. His words dance as a dervish wrestling beneath the hidden confines of his own imagination.

There's a neighborhood in Seattle called Fremont. The vibe is aaaalright. There's this troll that lives under a bridge at the top of a hill. A hidden car from a long-ago accident disappears into the memory of its own purpose. I'm not making this up. I have the pictures to prove it. And because it has a beard, I figured I'd tell you about it. The mustache was pretty cool too. What to make of it all. I leave that to you.

See you.

Smoke Rings of My Mind

That last one didn't have much to do with beards, did it? I'll feign ignorance and accept that maybe there's a good reason. Another Dylan reference. I wonder where it began, and when it will end. If you can't find the beginning, but can see where the path leads, does that mean that you are within the midst? Smarter people than your humble host can try to tackle that one. Instead, I'll mention my beard from this past growing-season. In a word? Uh, how about freakin' nice. That will do nicely. It's little brother, a wild and wide-eyed cowboy, settled in.

Portland could offer a permanence of the kind that the fetching Mrs. J likely dares not consider. Can I say it? Here goes. Year-round. I'm going to let that one settle in and allow it's fingers to gently massage my brain with the tender embrace of home.

I wonder if Mona Lisa really did have the highway blues. Is there an answer to that question? Who would know?

See you.

It Takes One to Know One She Smiles...

And puts her hands into her back pocket...Betty Davis style. Wow. I really dig that lyric. It's just, sooo...cooool. Dylan at his finest lyricism as he wraps a lasso around the perfect thought and dares you to question his genius. It's not that I really intended to venture into Dylan today. There's always time for that. But this song is spinning on my record player right now, punching a hole through the silence of a Sunday afternoon that is neither sunny, nor cool. It's just a Sunday in June, much accustomed to the gloom as it settles into its neighborly reproach upon the sanctity of our soles. The waves beckon with a forceful shout as only they can, the spray shedding its skin across the limitless confines of dull.

There was just another skip on this song. How that came to bare, I haven't the slightest idea. The needle is new, beyond question. The storage is consistent, the vinyl nestled into its sleeping chamber that doubles as a colorless sleeve. Clean, spotless, yet there one is again. 180's laugh with the fright of an October night where rain casts out the shadows. Methinks there's something greater at play here.

I grab the flimsy little brother, out of West Germany, a print that has found its way across the great expanse of an ocean and 2 continents and settled into a slumber in my collection. Bob Dylan has so many brothers, they know no bounds. The sound is slightly off, not nearly as fetching nor deliberate. There is a tentative approach. Unsure of its place in the lineup. It's just not possible to help. There exist only so many, and they must be accepted with relish. I guess we have ventured into Dylan without even knowing it. That can happen when the time idly pursues its goal of finding the next hour.

Portland is a pretty cool town. The sort of place that leans in with a whisper and says, "Hey. I know you. Come. It's ok. The possibilities are...possible. Hmmm?"

Until then. See you.

Hmmm...I Don't Know What To Think

I really don't. The Black Crowes just released a new record. It's pretty cool. A little bit all over the place, but some really good stuff in there. I picked it up on vinyl. They released a limited number on nice colored wax; The first LP is on green, the second one is as white as snow. Pretty sweet. I think side 4 is the best. They harness their roots.

Anyway, my beard is back, and quite frankly, it's pretty bad ass so far. It's been stretching the surly bonds of lavender for the last 2 months. The fetching Mrs J has been amazing from the start. She's really pretty terrific. No pictures though. Why? Well, I'm just not feeling it. Posting them is all well and good I suppose, but I think I've moved beyond all that, whatever the hell the "that" is, but that's really beside the point. I don't know where this is heading right now...maybe it's only heading around the block? Maybe it's a little more than that. But my mind's eye only sees what it can, and some things are beyond the realm of possibility at this point.

Back to the beard. A mighty wind blows in off the surf, but my beard shields me from the misty confines of an ocean's breath. A hearty companion if there ever was one. This might be my best effort yet. I haven't had anything to complain about. Only a few sheltered touch of grays, but they only add to the limitless possibility of the future.

Thanksgiving is next week, we're about 8 or 9 days out. I guess it all depends on how you count days. It's frustrating, I know. Mrs J and I will cook a magnificent feast, one that the gods will surely smile upon with abandon and thirst. Too bad. It's ours. We'll talk then. See you.

Get Down, Get Down...

That's right. My beard is making a comeback. Stay tuned...

Week 10 - Day 1 - When the Music's Over

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.

And Then There Was...How Many?

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.

Week 9 - Day 1 - Huh?

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?

Week 7 - Day 1 - Too Little, Too Late

Granted, my pic was taken the first day of week 7, however, I am reluctant to say that I am tardy in its posting. I have nobody to blame but myself. My reasons are few, and excuses even fewer. I can say nothing in my own defense. Now that that is out of the way, I can move on to the latest. It was an exciting week. My beard has begun growing for warmth now. It feels like it's building up its undercoat. The part that stays wet for about an hour after you get out of the shower. That's the tough part, especially on a cool morning on a walk with my dog. But its also the best part. It can now do whatever it wants.

I think we have an update on last week's song of the week. Turns out, the song Cassidy by the Grateful Dead, was the runaway winner. It goes without saying that the song fits like a glove for the criteria deemed most favorable for the prestigious award. But the reasons for this song, beyond the obvious, are twofold. One, of course, because it goes without saying that the song was sung/written/etc when a beard was in the picture; and two, because my buddy Murph loved the Dead so much in fact that he named his daughter, yes, Cassidy; and three, finally, because Murph has a beard. So that would make it threefold, not twofold, I guess. Anyway, listen to the song. It's pretty cool. There's a ton of versions. One, I especially like, is a cool acoustic one.

I think that might be it for this week. Maybe I'll have an update later today. It's still early, so there's still time.

Really? Casey Affleck's Brother Has a Beard?

He certainly does. And it goes without saying that he looks like an even larger douche bag with one than without one. I think it's for some movie. Let's get one thing straight off the bat; I'm no real fan of the guy, but that would not necessarily imply that I wouldn't give the guy a fair shake when it came to growing a beard. Then again, maybe it would. But when that shabby-ass beard is joined by flowing hair, need I say more? Some guys can pull them off, some can't. I'd throw Casey Affleck's brother in the mix with those who can't.

So this post kind of stretches the credulity of it's afore-alluded-to-goal of railing on some dude who was pretty bad and who had a beard. If I had to stick with that script, I'd go with Casey's brother's role in Mall Rats, where he not only drenched himself in douchebaggery, but he also nailed a 15-year old girl. I think that qualifies.

That's two week's running now where the lead character of this intended post has been more of a giant douche bag than a really bad dude with a beard since, well, the last two characters haven't been bad necessarily. Well this week's is a bad actor, but last week's was more a dude who was bad in a prison scene. Who knows what will be next.

Week 6 - Day 1 - Oh the Pain

It wasn't a particularly great week for my beard. While my excitement level has not, in any manner, shrunk from its euphoric high, it did encounter a pretty high hurdle. There were about two days last week that I'm pretty certain, as in "That whale was 40 feet tall if it was a foot," certain, that my beard simply didn't grow. I chalk it up to disappointment. Beards have feelings too and, well, the Penn State loss to Iowa was hard to swallow. My glorious beard went into a self-imposed isolation. I'd say somewhere around Monday, my facial sweater finally, reluctantly, escaped from its cocoon and once again continued its journey. Thankfully we can again begin our assault in earnest.

One of the things you'll notice, if you pay as close attention to these things as I do, which means that you likely don't, is that my upper lip has, for all intents and purposes, disappeared. Where'd it go? Hidden beneath the tangled web of hair I dare say. It will find it's way out in a couple months. See you then, good friend.

It was a tough week. The song of said tough week will soon be forthcoming. Good things come to those who wait.

Oh, one thing I forgot to mention. I think we're going to have an interview or 2 in the coming weeks. It should be pretty exciting.

Bend Over...I Beg Your Pardon?

Can't quite place it? I know. It's not entirely of polite society. But it does hold to this week's title for the guy who's not good, has a beard, and in this case, is entirely bad.

Ben Dover: Take off your pants.
Fletch: I don't even know your name.
Ben Dover: Bend over.
Fletch: Ben? Nice to meet you, Victor Hugo.

It goes without saying that Fletch Lives was a far far inferior film to the original Fletch, however, the scene was pretty damn funny; And, the guy with the deusch-baggish beard and eye makeup had a beard; And he wasn't particularly good; He did molest a dead horse afterall. So, he shall be the character whom bears the sceptor and proudly, errh, carries the distinguishing scarlet letter that shouts to the high heavens that he isn't particularly a good guy, and in this case, he isn't particularly good at growing a beard. Two thumbs down in this case.

Week 5 - Day 1 - Reflections

As I sat and reflected upon the last couple weeks, and the growing that ensued, I enjoyed an extremely fine unfiltered Belgian farmhouse ale. It was, quite simply, outstanding. Something called Saison Dupont, of which I hadn't heard before, and will certainly be revisiting again. A smooth, interesting flavor, yet not overwhelming, very subtle. The nose is complex, aromatic, a number of different spices in there, earthy. The taste bursts in your mouth upon reception, rather than waiting until it reaches the back of your mouth. It explodes on your tongue and washes back through your mouth. The finish was dry, subtle, yet very tempting. Every taste was exciting.

Upon what did I reflect while enjoying this ale? Mmmm, mostly that my earlier preconceptions concerning my bespecked-with-gray-beard were unfounded. Happily, I have only about 4 or 5 grays littering the artwork. For that I am relieved. Not that I would have been devastated otherwise, but it's nice nevertheless. My about-to-be-glorious facial helmet could not have come at a better time. The air is certainly crisp. I'm telling you, once the daylight savings hit, the mercury plummets at dusk. Plummet of course being relative to my locale, but plummet it does. A beard and a hearty sweater are the only armour I'll need to make it through methinks.

While I'm adorned with yet another hat, what lies beneath is a tangled mess of woofing. I can't tell at this point whether my beard is outgrowing my hair or my hair is outgrowing my beard. All I know is that a battle has begun and it likely won't be decided until a sharp pair of shears are introduced to the picture. And we know that my beard will be kryptonite to the scissors. Be warned hair. Your day is coming.

I think I'd like to introduce a final little nugget going forward. I'm not sure if it will receive it's own lofty status upon its own post, or as is the case right now, be melded into a weekly update. For now, it will have to march in step. The post, drumroll please, will be a song of the week that was written or performed whilst the singer/songwriter/musician, is sporting a beard. I fear calling it glorious because not all of them were in fact glorious (see Dylan, Bob, circa 1973). That beard, as inglorious though it might have been, was like a touch of cinnamon. It's always that one ingredient you can never put your finger on in a dish, but you know without a doubt that whatever you're eating is better off because of it.

Anyway, our first song of the week is...well, actually before we get to the song of the week, I have to throw in the song that should be the first song covered, however, at this point, I have been unable to prove with certainty that it was performed or written during a beard-growing venture by Jeff Tweedy. The song, Bob Dylan's 49th Beard. I mean, you have Dylan and beard in the title of the freaking song. If anyone can produce definitive proof of Tweedy's beard while performing/writing this song, please send along the evidence ASAP.

After that ridiculous diatribe, on to the song. We're going to start out with the 12-plus minute version of Thorn in My Pride by the Black Crowes. It goes without saying that Chris Robinson had a ridiculously great beard, worn for multiple seasons at length. Not only that, but the dude can put on a hellacious show. The song is great. If you find it on i-Tunes or something, the acoustic version, do yourself the favor of downloading it. Sit back and listen to Robinson's searing and soaring vocals. An earthy jaunt wrought with blues and cigarettes.

That's it for this week. Maybe we'll have something special in store for next week. Who knows?

The Unabomber

Geez. That's really a pretty poor way to get things started, but alas, there's nothing I can do about it. One Theodore Kaczynski is the focus of this individual post. I thought, for something different, a taste of the unexpected, something to chew on, I would enter into the world of decrying the fact that there are some really bad people out there with some generally good beards. So the nature of what I write will entail discussing, not in too much depth, maybe with an ounce of brevity, bad beards because of the people who wear them.

The unabomber was a particularly heinous coward of a man who killed three people while generally terrorizing universities and airlines alike. On the lamb from the law, not the least bit because they had no idea who the unabomber was which is no slight on the law because no one knew who this guy was) his beard prospered in his back woods hermit cabin.

There's not too much more to say about this other than the fact that Kaczynski was a crazy nutjob. As a result, it lowered the potency of any otherwise laudable things to say about his beard.

Week 4 - Day 1 - Oh What a Night

What a week! My beard grew briskly, in my humble opinion, and began its outward attack in earnest. Within a couple days, probably less than a week, I think I'll be able to proudly say that my beard is, in fact, a beard. It's taken a couple weeks, three, and a few to get here, but we're just about there. Anyway, with the quick approach, so quick in that's it's being celebrated somewhere at this moment somewhere here at home, of Halloween, I suppose I might as well unveil what costume I chose. It's that dude from the Royal Tennenbaum's, the one with the beard. I'm pretty sure it's the Luke Wilson character; He's the tennis player one. A beard, sunglasses and a headband.

From here, we have the next week to which we can look forward. A humble Halloween night begets a weekend of merriment amongst friends. And then November. We're starting to get to the appetizer of the winter season. November will lead to cooler air and brisker days. Even here in SoCal, the smell of wood burning in chimneys can be lassoed from the air. The season has approached quickly. It is upon us.

There is something about the seasons.

Week 3 - Day 2 - Happy Days

Sorry for the delay in posting my latest mugshot. What can I say in my own defense? This is my site and it happens, that's what. As for the hat? I can't provide a rational defense for it. I slapped it on before the fetching Mrs J snapped the picture and history has become indellibly demarcated with me wearing a hat.

As for my beard? Methinks it's coming along nicely. I really haven't found much to complain about up until now, but I have only been growing this thing going on two-plus weeks, so if there's time for anything, there's time for complaint. One of the things that worries me, looking ahead, is the cold weather. Not that my glorious beard won't provide great warmth for my otherwise inglorious face, it will. What worries me is getting out of the shower in a couple weeks when this thing starts to spread its tentacles and really latches on. You see, it will become water-soaked. It doesn't dry for a good 45 minutes and with a nip in the air, my poor mug will get the willies. It's not a pleasant experience. But like most trials, a steady hand is required.

The interview from yesterday was outstanding I must confess. Mr S was both artful and thoughtful in his responses. A more compelling interview subject will be difficult to find. My brother-in-law and his fu-man-chu should he grow it? Quite possibly. If that dude knows anything, it's giving a good interview. Actually, I have no idea if he'll be a good interview. That's just a guess, but a highly educated one, though it be. You will have mighty big shoes to fill good sir.

Interview with a Bearded Gentleman

Grab a snack and fasten your seat beats. The Glorious Beard Chronicles was fortunate enough to interview a fellow-bearded gentleman, of course that assumes that I am indeed one as well, who was gracious enough to take time out of his busy schedule doing what he does to provide some profound wisdom and insight into the machinations of life with a beard. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present Mr S, the aforementioned fellow-bearded gentleman.

Now Mr S, your beard is great; it suits you well. How do you personally feel about it?
So far, I am pleased with the progress. As you know, when the beard first emerges, you're nervous about having bare spots. (Great point.) Through patience, all things come together. That's the stage I am at now. I am excited about what the beard will offer next.

Was there a particular reason that compelled you to grow your beard now?
Sure. I attribute my decision to my upbringing in the Midwest. As a youngster, the Fall season brought with it not only a nip in the air, but many scruffy-faced family members. Let's not forget about the functionality of a beard. It is there to warm the face. I assume that I am predisposed to facial hair when the calendar changes to October.

I understand that you and your wife are having a baby, and congratulations are in order. Was that taken into consideration when growing your beard? More specifically, did you want to greet your baby with a beard or a mustache?
You have done your research J. As mentioned previously, beards can be functional. As a secondary benefit, they can be celebratory. As a sign of posterity and good fortune to my child on the way, I felt it necessary to display my outward sign of jolly. I believe the beard will be there to greet the baby. (Gravy!) Of course, I will be reducing the beard to my favorite style mustache at the end (Outstanding!) similar to "The French Jazz Musician." You can Google Angelo DeBarre if you're not familiar. (I, in fact, was not familiar, and Google'd the aforementioned Angelo DeBarre.)

How does your wife feel about your beard?
Hmm. I'll start by saying that growing a beard comes with sacrifice. First off, my wife grew up with a father that sported a first rate beard. That being said, she had an unconditional love for him and never knew him without a beard. Not the case with me. She is tolerant, but you can certainly feel restraint when I pull in for a smooch. (I can certainly relate.)

Now, the intriguing part of your beard pertains to its color, a reddish shade if you will. Yet, shockingly, your hair is blonde. How do you account for this?
I tell ya J, I nearly lose sleep thinking about that one. I do have a red-headed brother and some Scottish/Irish family roots. I just don't quite understand how the beard can choose to define its color in such a defined and distinct way. In a near perfect line, my normal hair changes color at the side burn. Of course, that is the beauty of a beard. Without letting it develop and grow, you don't what you have hiding. They certainly are like fingerprints, aren't they? (Yes, they most certainly are.)

I have noticed that you've committed to your beard for well more than a month at this point. Has there been a time in the past that exceeds this? How much longer do you intend to go?
Absolutely. Few people know that I wore a beard for years in college. It started at 19 years old. At first partly inspired by the Notre Dame leprechaun and partly afraid of the cheeks not filling in, I grew my beard along the jaw line and added the mustache connector. That style suited me well at the time, but I prefer the more dignified look of the full beard now. This particular beard will probably see its end after the baby is born. This, of course depends on the baby's reaction (which will undoubtedly be a combination of excitement, wonderment and full-on joy.)

Do you trim your beard with regularity?
Funny you mention it. I have made a vow to only trim the neck line. My wife recently pleaded with me to trim around my lips and I said no. Unfortunately, as a plea bargain, I now am not able to enjoy runny eggs, stews or chili. It goes without saying that when you don't trim around the lips, your beard gets first taste of everything. That includes my lunch time yogurt.

And finally, was there anything that you'd like to comment on, specifically, regarding your own feelings towards beards and growing one?
Patience. J, people just give up to soon. In my book, give it your best effort before any drastic decisions are made to trim it up or shave altogether. Different parts of the beard develop at their own pace. On another note, I am pleased to see more and more bearded fellows. It is hard to describe the joy of sipping a good pint (like Guinness) and having the hoppy aroma linger as it sits on the mustache to someone that has not shared the experience.

Thanks for the interview J. It is always a pleasure.

(Bold italics are my own, meaning J's.)

And it was certainly a pleasure on my behalf as well Mr S. Your insight and perspective are not only invaluable, they are welcome. Well, that wraps up our very first interview. What have we learned? That I am not nearly as dilusional as previously thought. There are others out there who share my passion and love of all things, or most things, beard. We have learned that weather plays a large part in growth; that babies enjoy being welcomed into the world by a mustachioed dad; and that our wives are only so accepting of their husbands growing a glorious beard.