I Shaved

With a beard, I think I sort of look East Village writer-y, like I've lived over a bar for ten years and probably smell like Old Spice and the cheapest whiskey a stolen ten dollar bill can buy. That sort of image fits well with my idealized, Tom Waits sense of self, even though it's not even true by half. So when I have to shave, because it gets too itchy or I have a job interview or something, it's totally the death of a fantasy. Me without a beard isn't anyone's idea of Bowery cool. My bare-faced self is a pair of chunky-framed glasses away from being a serial killer, but one that is so powerfully dorky, he suffocates his victims with the uncool vapors that waft from his body like the mists of Avalon. Imagine if the dude who shot John Lennon was really into They Might Be Giants, or if John Wayne Gacy wrote a lot of Stargate: Atlantis fan-fiction, or if the BTK Killer was SO into The Fantastic Four, The Fantastic Four came to life and told him to chill because he was creeping them all out. Even Ben Grimm, who's basically just made out of rocks, and do you have ANY idea how hard it is to creep out fucking ROCKS. Way hard, kids... way hard.

Anyway, my point is that all of those guys are me when I shave. Also, it should be noted that without a beard, I look twelve and sad. Like I just got carded at a Denny's or something.

UPDATE: I just realized that I'm wearing the same shirt in the picture above as I am in my profile picture. That's a special kind of blogger-centric tragic that makes plants die and butterflies burst into flames in midair. At least I had the good sense to put my juice box down before I got all crazy with the webcam. BUT STILL.