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?