Facial hair: a trending phenomenon in 75% of men ages 18-35. Tres chic. The hipster handlebar. The full on folk artist beard. Organic vegan mange. Meathead chinstrap goatees. Whatever your preferred style, I figured I'd use it as an opportunity to take a few bearded boys from my past and put an intimate twist on my thoughts about hairy little faces. The bearded boys have been named accordingly…
-SmartBeard -
You're probably the most intelligent man I've ever known, and it completely fascinated me. I could sit for hours just listening to you talk. And I did, even when you weren’t talking to me. You knew all these things that nobody else did, and it was pretty fucking hot. But what totally ruined it for me was everything that accompanied this wise, all-knowing persona you cultivated for yourself; the dry sense of humor that offended all my friends, random remarks on obscure topics that nobody else understood, and the old man beard that served no purpose but to intensify a cliche. You even smoked a pipe and drank scotch. It was like I was trying to get with Gandolf or something. You couldn't just be yourself, you had to be this bearded intellectual guy all the time. And the beard actually made you less legit in the end, a chilly disguise that hid your good heart, a hairy strategy that made you too smart to relate to anyone. And that shit is lame. It separates you from the rest of the world in all the wrong ways. For your sake, I hope you’re a lot softer now than you were back then. It feels better. Love always, the young lady temporarily blinded by your bearded Light.
-YoungBeard -
Being fearless but timid is a really attractive contradiction of qualities. You put magic in the air around you, casting little spells with a charm you don’t even know you possess. I’m sure one day you’ll know how to use it to your full advantage, but for now you’re endearing and sweet. At first I couldn’t really understand why I kept agreeing to hang out with you. It didn’t make any kind of sense, and I knew it was weird and out of the ordinary, an unlikely pair…but then after a while I didn’t really a fuck. I just liked how it felt when you were around. We would just drive around for hours like the night would never end. And in that darkness you made me feel like the prettiest girl in the world under an umbrella of fateful stars. You had a way of erasing from existence our difference in age, like the years wouldn't quite matter if we put on the right songs and outran the sun. You knew all the books of the Bible. I liked that. I still do. And once I pulled over so you could catch a stray kitten, I still like that too. And maybe I liked your beard so much because it made you appear beyond your years. It was kind of scraggly and unkempt, and it made you look like a carefree man. A grown up man. It eased the sense of impending confusion I was starting to feel about the chemistry between us. And even though there are still things I'd like to tell you, still lots of music I'd like to show you, and still nights I miss those candy coated whispers from the driver's seat to my ear; I don’t think either of us really knew what to do with it all. And now we only have the courage to see each other when other people are around. So in another time and place that lives inside my mind, we’re young enough to give it a shot, old enough to know what it means, and forever dancing in a foggy calm that nobody else can see. C’est la vie. YoungBeards should fly high and free.
-HotBeard -
HotBeard was fine as hell. And so fucking stupid. For real, the guy was just not bright. We were both flight attendants with bigger dreams. Most young flight attendants have these "bigger dreams," by the way. It's as if we think that seeing the world will enlighten us to a higher plane, no pun intended. Sometimes it works, other times we just remain lost in the sky. But anyway, the difference between his dream and mine was that his was basically to become some sort of Derrick Zoolander. And he really fit the bill. He was the most striking construction of chiseled features and remarkable physique that God ever created. But the dumbest shit came out of his mouth - casting calls, models he’d dated, auditions. And he was way cooler when he was drunk. He even borrowed lunch money from me at the airport once, which was a complete turnoff, but totally worked for him. It really suited the insanely attractive/not so smart/struggling actor vibe he was going for. His facial grooming of choice was little more than a 5 o'clock shadow, but not yet a full-on beard. Just scruff. Perfect scruff. And man oh man, did it do it for me...for just one night in Puerto Rico. It was like his whiskers turned me into a giddy little schoolgirl, willingly handing over her lunch money, while blushing in front of all her friends. That scruffy stupidity was his hustle. Get it, HotBeard.
-FatBeard -
When we first met you didn't have facial hair. I fell in love with you immediately, and stayed in love with you for a long time. I felt like I stood before you, heart in hand, day after day after day, knowing full well you’d never accept such a gift, but always returning to try again. I really believed that you were the one for me, and I thought I'd love you with everything I had until the day I died. Even if it hurt, and even if you never loved me back. It was beautiful.beautiful.beautiful. But then you got pretty fat. And then after you got fat, you grew this thick bush on your face to somehow "complement" the weight gain. Someone even called you Kenny Rogers once at a hotdog stand. And you did, you looked like a fat Kenny Rogers with that shit on your face. But still, the butterflies in my stomach remained unfazed every time you entered a room, or bought me a drink, or so romantically asked if I wanted to see your dick. I didn't care, I still loved Kenny Rogers. For real, I really loved your fat ass. But now that everything’s said and done, I can safely say that I just didn't get the chunky ass Jesus Christ look you were going for. Kind of fat is ok. Bad beard is ok. The Messiah is always cool, but fat with a bad beard is never a winning combination. But the weird thing is that it was in fact a winning combination, because you still got more ass than anyone I knew. And you probably still do. So FatBeard, much respect, my love.
-BlackBeard -
Alright, so he wasn't really black, he was Dominican. I just couldn't really tell at first. And he had lots of money that he showed off profusely. Had he not possessed this unfortunate quality, I might have been able to disregard the teensy tiny line of black hair that outlined his face like an eyeliner mishap. But that kind of redemption is reserved for people who deserve it, and he didn't. When he shaved it off he was really good looking, it made me notice his muscles more than that unsightly distraction framing his jaw. What are dudes thinking when they style their facial hair in this manner? Despite the fact that it's hair, and being hairy is masculine, it actually looks sort of feminine. It's just not a good look unless you're one of those homothugs. You know the type, gay and ghetto at the same time. Lots of times they're ex-ravers, or B-boys, and always in community college (or an equally Chlamydia ridden state school). Like I said, this look works for them. And nobody else. Nobody else, BlackBeard.
Here’s my weak ass conclusion: Sometimes beards are sexy. Sometimes they’re a really terrible accessory. Sometimes they’re just a really good excuse to write about people you’ve cared for. Do your thing, even if it makes you look homeless, and even if it makes you seem like an asshole. But when the rug burn gets away with a little piece of me, don’t be pissed if I don’t wanna kiss you as much.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Granola and Caviar
I’m backstage at a show. Some really well known jam band is playing. I don’t like this hippie shit at all, but my friend is in from out of town and I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see her. What the two of us are enjoying most is our view of the crowd from stage left. These people are so fucking into this music, and it’s almost touching to witness. From my vantage point all I see are a whole bunch of smiles show all kinds of love. Sometimes I feel like smiles and love are all that matters, even if the music’s not your cup of tea. I’m getting drunk on top of a huge crate that houses equipment or something. Red wine in plastic cups. And I can even smoke too. Then some girl that I think might be a groupie comes and sits down next to us. She ruins my moment. I guess I don’t like groupies, but I didn’t know it until right then.
It’s brought to my attention that a billionaire is having a party for the band after the show. A billionaire? Is having an afterhours? I’ve been around some money before, but never a real billionaire with a B.
“Are you coming to this party with us?”
I don’t know yet.
“Well, have you ever snorted blow off a dinosaur bone?”
I have not.
“Then you should come. This guy has real dinosaur bones.”
Sounds kinda awesome. I don’t snort blow at all actually, I hate people who love cocaine. And even more than that, I hate people who don’t ever buy cocaine, but can’t resist it if it’s sitting there in front of them. It just seems like a weak middle ground that shouldn’t exist. Use drugs often enough to buy them, or don’t use them at all. Anyway, aside from all that, being around large quantities of narcotics always makes me feel like I’m doing something right, socially speaking. Edgy by association, and a total hypocrite.
I decide to attend. So after the show I arrive in one of the most prestigious zip codes within Chicago’s city limits, rolling up and down sidestreets of marvel. My humble resignation is that the wealth around here does not want my Monte Carlo parked anywhere near this neighborhood. Permit parking. No parking. Tow zone. More permit parking. Block after block after block of it. I finally pull up behind a Jaguar and get out. It’s not a spot, but fuck it. I’m going to this party, and I don’t care if my car’s not here when I get back. My friend seems more worried about it than I do, she’s sweet and thoughtful like that.
I haven’t even made my way through the front door yet and I’m already impressed, this guy has a whole five stories off Lake Shore Dr. all to himself. And there really is a taradactyl wing hanging over my head as I take a seat at an endless dining room table. Our host is barefoot, welcoming everyone to the huge spread in the kitchen. There’s all kinds of food: vegan dishes, stacks of pizzas, appetizers, breads, dips, salads, sandwiches, and quite a few other goodies that I can’t fully figure out. There’s beer, there’s booze, there’s a whole countertop devoted to just wine, and even the soda is high-end and organic.
I spot some tiny dancers from the show. They all seem to be familiar with each other. Everyone’s really relaxed, but I don’t know how comfortable I should make myself. I feel nervous. I need a drink. But before I have the chance to get one, the host makes his way over to our side of the room. Someone’s asking him about a military library in San Francisco and whether or not he built it. He says it wasn’t him, it was his cousin.
He turns to my friends and I, introduces himself, and shakes my hand. I didn’t think he was going to do that. I didn’t really picture a man of his stature feeling the need to acquaint himself with someone like me, but I guess I underestimated his manners. I tell him my name and thank him for having me in his home. He smiles, turns up his palm, and motions across the room at all the people as if he’s just now taking it in for the first time himself, and he says, “You’re the gracious ones, thank you so much for being here.”
And I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but I was speechless. How is it that a man with billions of dollars could be thanking anyone for being in his home? I felt like I was in the presence of greatness, a greatness that inspired me, greatness that was no longer unattainable as he brought us all into his world. The guy sent me reeling, lost in his grandeur, but then brought me back down to Earth with a few modest words. In one instant, we shared in a universal sense of pure gratitude, and for that instant we felt the same. If I could make people feel the way that man made me feel in one simple sentence, it’s probably all I’d do. I’d spend my days giving away that feeling in every way I could. That feeling of confirmation, the one that says we’re all good enough when we open our eyes to see.
I realized after meeting him what I want in life. I want to take care of you before I take care of me. I want my dreams to become a reality that I can invite you to be a part of, introduce you to experiences you never knew existed, and prove to you that belief in yourself is all you really need. I want to take you places and buy you things, just to see you giddy. I want to remove the constraints of life as you know it, show you a love that transcends finances and allows you to be who you want to be. I want to be the purveyor of intoxicating environments you never wanna leave, and I want to provide everyone I love with the freedom to be free.
I want to make people feel and smile, that’s who I want to be.
It’s brought to my attention that a billionaire is having a party for the band after the show. A billionaire? Is having an afterhours? I’ve been around some money before, but never a real billionaire with a B.
“Are you coming to this party with us?”
I don’t know yet.
“Well, have you ever snorted blow off a dinosaur bone?”
I have not.
“Then you should come. This guy has real dinosaur bones.”
Sounds kinda awesome. I don’t snort blow at all actually, I hate people who love cocaine. And even more than that, I hate people who don’t ever buy cocaine, but can’t resist it if it’s sitting there in front of them. It just seems like a weak middle ground that shouldn’t exist. Use drugs often enough to buy them, or don’t use them at all. Anyway, aside from all that, being around large quantities of narcotics always makes me feel like I’m doing something right, socially speaking. Edgy by association, and a total hypocrite.
I decide to attend. So after the show I arrive in one of the most prestigious zip codes within Chicago’s city limits, rolling up and down sidestreets of marvel. My humble resignation is that the wealth around here does not want my Monte Carlo parked anywhere near this neighborhood. Permit parking. No parking. Tow zone. More permit parking. Block after block after block of it. I finally pull up behind a Jaguar and get out. It’s not a spot, but fuck it. I’m going to this party, and I don’t care if my car’s not here when I get back. My friend seems more worried about it than I do, she’s sweet and thoughtful like that.
I haven’t even made my way through the front door yet and I’m already impressed, this guy has a whole five stories off Lake Shore Dr. all to himself. And there really is a taradactyl wing hanging over my head as I take a seat at an endless dining room table. Our host is barefoot, welcoming everyone to the huge spread in the kitchen. There’s all kinds of food: vegan dishes, stacks of pizzas, appetizers, breads, dips, salads, sandwiches, and quite a few other goodies that I can’t fully figure out. There’s beer, there’s booze, there’s a whole countertop devoted to just wine, and even the soda is high-end and organic.
I spot some tiny dancers from the show. They all seem to be familiar with each other. Everyone’s really relaxed, but I don’t know how comfortable I should make myself. I feel nervous. I need a drink. But before I have the chance to get one, the host makes his way over to our side of the room. Someone’s asking him about a military library in San Francisco and whether or not he built it. He says it wasn’t him, it was his cousin.
He turns to my friends and I, introduces himself, and shakes my hand. I didn’t think he was going to do that. I didn’t really picture a man of his stature feeling the need to acquaint himself with someone like me, but I guess I underestimated his manners. I tell him my name and thank him for having me in his home. He smiles, turns up his palm, and motions across the room at all the people as if he’s just now taking it in for the first time himself, and he says, “You’re the gracious ones, thank you so much for being here.”
And I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but I was speechless. How is it that a man with billions of dollars could be thanking anyone for being in his home? I felt like I was in the presence of greatness, a greatness that inspired me, greatness that was no longer unattainable as he brought us all into his world. The guy sent me reeling, lost in his grandeur, but then brought me back down to Earth with a few modest words. In one instant, we shared in a universal sense of pure gratitude, and for that instant we felt the same. If I could make people feel the way that man made me feel in one simple sentence, it’s probably all I’d do. I’d spend my days giving away that feeling in every way I could. That feeling of confirmation, the one that says we’re all good enough when we open our eyes to see.
I realized after meeting him what I want in life. I want to take care of you before I take care of me. I want my dreams to become a reality that I can invite you to be a part of, introduce you to experiences you never knew existed, and prove to you that belief in yourself is all you really need. I want to take you places and buy you things, just to see you giddy. I want to remove the constraints of life as you know it, show you a love that transcends finances and allows you to be who you want to be. I want to be the purveyor of intoxicating environments you never wanna leave, and I want to provide everyone I love with the freedom to be free.
I want to make people feel and smile, that’s who I want to be.
Moi
People talk about how great they are all the time. That sucks, so I’m gonna do the opposite and point out all the shit that’s really fucked up about me. I’m pretty awesome, generally speaking, but now you can call me out on my bullshit if you ever witness me displaying any of the following habits or qualities…
1). I never answer the phone. I’m pretty sure I have the most avoidant personality of any being on the planet, and not answering the phone is just the tip of the iceberg. I have no idea where this comes from, but if I do answer the phone when you call it means two things. 1). You’re the shit. And 2). I feel very comfortable with you.
2). I’m so indecisive that it prevents me from committing to any one single thing, which hinders any type of real progress. I can’t stand the thought of ruling out so many of the endless options the world has to offer, so I end up committing to nothing. It stunts my growth and makes me seem like a flake.
3). When someone doesn’t like to do spontaneous shit, I kind of write them off as boring and not interesting enough to be my friend. I wanna party and take trips and find little adventures, but I shouldn’t look down on people who are different than me in that way. There’s nothing wrong with being stable and having routines, and people who fall into those routines are the ones who achieve success. But for some reason, I’m just really turned off by the idea. This is just another indication that my attitude towards life is really juvenile. If you’re a real grown up and you wanna hang out, hit me up. I could probably learn a thing or two.
4). I set little traps for people. Like, I’ll ask a really broad question that has no real answer, and then I’ll hold it against you when you give the wrong answer. Even though there was no right answer to begin with. It’s fucked up. And it’s never on purpose, I just find myself asking trick questions all the time. Mostly to people I don’t really like.
5). I love when I see pictures of your new girlfriend and she’s way less attractive than I am. I know this is so small of me, but I’m not even gonna front, I LOVE that shit.
6). I have a small case of OCD when it comes to my handwriting. If I’ve made you a cd, I’ve probably written out the track listing at least five times. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I think there’s something really romantic about anything that’s actually handwritten these days, and I just always want it to look perfect. Or maybe I have an uncontrollable desire to appear perfect myself.
7). I pretend to like people that I don’t really like. Part of me feels that it’s just good manners and common courtesy to be kind and polite to everyone I encounter. But then another part of me feels like maybe I’m just a fucking faker.
8). My appearance implies I’m something that I’m not, and I don’t live within my means. I spend my money on nice clothes and over-priced accessories that I can’t afford, and I buy high-end cosmetics that I have no business purchasing. And perfume too, I’m fairly obsessed with fine fragrance. My taste and my budget are not cohesive, and I don’t give a fuck. I like to look nice, but as an adult I should really learn how to prioritize and be more responsible.
9). When things aren’t going exactly how I pictured they’d go, if they’re not turning out in the ideal manner in which I’d planned, I just walk away. It affects me the most when I do it to people.
10). I really like who I am when I’m drunk. I understand that this is how people become alcoholics, but seriously, all my greatest qualities come out under the influence of top shelf vodka. All the things I like about myself become amplified. I just get...better. Sweet. Funny. Warm. I don’t even drink once a week these days, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish DrunkLori was EverdayLori. This is probably really pathetic and indicates that I need therapy of some sort.
11). When I buy something, I look through every single one of them to make sure I’m purchasing the one in the best condition. I look for scratches, stray threads, snags, dents…whatever the case, depending on the object. And I do it with almost everything that I buy. It’s like I just want the best one. All the time. No matter what it is.
12). I hate promiscuous women. I for real hate them. But I also wish I could be more like them. They’re always so impulsive and uninhibited. I talk shit about women with no self-respect, but in reality I wish I possessed some of their finer qualities. What a bitch ass contradiction.
This will conclude the seemingly self-aggrandized examination of my head for today. This started out as kind of a joke. But after reading it over a few times, I realize that it really is quite a list of flawed behaviors and habits. And as I was writing it I kept feeling the need to go back and counter each bad quality with a shining one. It was hard to leave out all the potential good, I felt like I had to defend myself against myself. And it’s probably a risky assumption, but if you know me, hopefully my redeeming qualities are apparent in my everyday interactions. And if they aren’t, well then maybe I have a lot more work to do than I thought.
1). I never answer the phone. I’m pretty sure I have the most avoidant personality of any being on the planet, and not answering the phone is just the tip of the iceberg. I have no idea where this comes from, but if I do answer the phone when you call it means two things. 1). You’re the shit. And 2). I feel very comfortable with you.
2). I’m so indecisive that it prevents me from committing to any one single thing, which hinders any type of real progress. I can’t stand the thought of ruling out so many of the endless options the world has to offer, so I end up committing to nothing. It stunts my growth and makes me seem like a flake.
3). When someone doesn’t like to do spontaneous shit, I kind of write them off as boring and not interesting enough to be my friend. I wanna party and take trips and find little adventures, but I shouldn’t look down on people who are different than me in that way. There’s nothing wrong with being stable and having routines, and people who fall into those routines are the ones who achieve success. But for some reason, I’m just really turned off by the idea. This is just another indication that my attitude towards life is really juvenile. If you’re a real grown up and you wanna hang out, hit me up. I could probably learn a thing or two.
4). I set little traps for people. Like, I’ll ask a really broad question that has no real answer, and then I’ll hold it against you when you give the wrong answer. Even though there was no right answer to begin with. It’s fucked up. And it’s never on purpose, I just find myself asking trick questions all the time. Mostly to people I don’t really like.
5). I love when I see pictures of your new girlfriend and she’s way less attractive than I am. I know this is so small of me, but I’m not even gonna front, I LOVE that shit.
6). I have a small case of OCD when it comes to my handwriting. If I’ve made you a cd, I’ve probably written out the track listing at least five times. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I think there’s something really romantic about anything that’s actually handwritten these days, and I just always want it to look perfect. Or maybe I have an uncontrollable desire to appear perfect myself.
7). I pretend to like people that I don’t really like. Part of me feels that it’s just good manners and common courtesy to be kind and polite to everyone I encounter. But then another part of me feels like maybe I’m just a fucking faker.
8). My appearance implies I’m something that I’m not, and I don’t live within my means. I spend my money on nice clothes and over-priced accessories that I can’t afford, and I buy high-end cosmetics that I have no business purchasing. And perfume too, I’m fairly obsessed with fine fragrance. My taste and my budget are not cohesive, and I don’t give a fuck. I like to look nice, but as an adult I should really learn how to prioritize and be more responsible.
9). When things aren’t going exactly how I pictured they’d go, if they’re not turning out in the ideal manner in which I’d planned, I just walk away. It affects me the most when I do it to people.
10). I really like who I am when I’m drunk. I understand that this is how people become alcoholics, but seriously, all my greatest qualities come out under the influence of top shelf vodka. All the things I like about myself become amplified. I just get...better. Sweet. Funny. Warm. I don’t even drink once a week these days, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish DrunkLori was EverdayLori. This is probably really pathetic and indicates that I need therapy of some sort.
11). When I buy something, I look through every single one of them to make sure I’m purchasing the one in the best condition. I look for scratches, stray threads, snags, dents…whatever the case, depending on the object. And I do it with almost everything that I buy. It’s like I just want the best one. All the time. No matter what it is.
12). I hate promiscuous women. I for real hate them. But I also wish I could be more like them. They’re always so impulsive and uninhibited. I talk shit about women with no self-respect, but in reality I wish I possessed some of their finer qualities. What a bitch ass contradiction.
This will conclude the seemingly self-aggrandized examination of my head for today. This started out as kind of a joke. But after reading it over a few times, I realize that it really is quite a list of flawed behaviors and habits. And as I was writing it I kept feeling the need to go back and counter each bad quality with a shining one. It was hard to leave out all the potential good, I felt like I had to defend myself against myself. And it’s probably a risky assumption, but if you know me, hopefully my redeeming qualities are apparent in my everyday interactions. And if they aren’t, well then maybe I have a lot more work to do than I thought.
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