The Adventures of Weird Beard the Pirate

Facial hair.  For centuries, men have been growing, cultivating, sculpting and styling their beards, mustaches and sideburns.  Am I the only one who finds this strange?  Not that I haven't been guilty of it myself; I rather enjoy sporting a mountain-man-esque growth on my face during the colder months.  (I can't attest to it making an iota of difference; my face still feels frozen when braving the sub-zero winds of mid-January in the north country.) 

But why do we do it?  Is it a preening tactic to draw a mate?  Is it a self-image thing?  Is it a subconscious attempt to inspire beard-envy in those incapable of growing one?

The argument can be made, I suppose, that both men and women (and children, at the behest of their parents) also style hair for perhaps similar purposes.  Whatever 'do we choose, we like the way it looks.   It makes us feel better about ourselves (exception: the mullet, which only serves to make other feel better about themselves). 

The way I see it, there are countless ways to fashion facial hair.  Allow me to highlight a few:

1) The Full Beard.  This one's easy.  Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.  Usually reserved for the homeless, the I-don't-give-a-damns, and professional athletes.  Unruly.

2) The Half Beard.  Full Beard, lopped midway up.  Less wild than its big brother.

3) The Groomed Beard.  Perhaps the most popular sub-heading in the Beard category, this one is trimmed frequently, often professionally.  It is tame.  It is sometimes dyed to eliminate gray.  It exudes sophistication, confidence, experience. 

4) The Full Goatee.  Popularized in the mid-90s by young professionals hoping to give their fresh-from-the-dormitory baby face a less youthful glow in order to nail job interviews, this one is still in full swing today.  Look for it in college sports arenas, board rooms, and your local tavern.

5) The Half Goatee.  There are several sub-headings in this category.  Two of the trendier are The Splitter and The Chinny-chin-chin.  Each can work to the benefit (or detriment) of the wearer.

6) The Handlebar.  The high-maintenance mustache!  From Wild West icons like Wyatt Earp to pre-World War I leaders like Archduke Franz Ferdinand, this conversation piece usually required the use of Mustache Wax to achieve maximum curvature.  The Handlebar enjoyed a resurgence in the 1970s, most likely due to Oakland A's relief pitcher Rollie Fingers.  With its archaic look and styling time, The Handlebar always seemed like more trouble than it's worth.

7)  The Fu Manchu.  Named for Sax Rohmer's criminal mastermind, this style of facial hair has been embedded in the global consciousness since the early 20th century.  Nearly 100 years have passed since Dr. Fu Manchu first strutted onto the page wearing his infamous whippy whiskers and never has it been more popular.  (Note: I have never actually seen anyone except the good doctor able to pull this look off).

8) The Porn 'Stache.  We all know what this looks like.  Don't deny it.  Who among us hasn't found themselves completely transfixed by the giant woolly worm pasted to the philtrum?  This style emerged in the 1970s via adult movie star John Holmes, was perpetuated to great success by Tom Selleck in Magnum, P.I.,  and evolved into a popular choice for donut-chomping cops across America.

9) The WTF?!?  This is an all-encompassing category for truly odd facial hair.  These styles go beyond all sense of good taste and exist solely to draw the eye in sheer bewilderment.  Check one out here.  And here.  And, yes, even here. 

So why do we do it?  Who knows?  Who cares?  Men the world over have made their mark with their whiskers and one thing is for sure: facial fashions are here to stay. 

Now I want to know what you think of facial hair.  Guys, do you shape your whiskers?  Scrape them away?  Let them grow like weeds in an untended garden patch?  Ladies, do you like a fistful of facial hair on your fellow, a five o'clock shadow, or do you like a clean-shaven man?  What are your favorite facial fashions that I didn't cover here?  Let me know! 

Until then, Happy 'Staching!  Jolly Weird-bearding!  Merry Fu-Manchuing!

Note: I was invited recently to an event called Mustache Fest that takes place in Chicago and is now in its fifth year.  Per its Facebook page, how it works is simple: "You grow a stache, or obtain a fake, and come ready to celebrate the object that turned Tom Selleck into Magnum P.I.; the growth that made Mike Ditka Da' Coach; and the fur that took Geraldo Rivera into Al Capone's vault."  On top of that, you get to hear some great local live music.  What's not to love?  Count me in!  I guess I better start working on the 'stache.

Spellbound

Happy Friday, folks.  I just read a great piece by Elizabeth Bluemle over at PW and it served to reignite my frustration with the way people of the modern age abuse language.  There's just no respect for it anymore.  Is it laziness?  Stupidity?  Apathy?  Sorry, none of those are acceptable excuses. 

Today's blog will be a column I wrote for The Observatory that was never published.  The editor never explained why, just asked me to submit an alternate piece before deadline.  My guess is it was a touch too abrasive to be read by the good citizens of my county.  Maybe the editor thought it struck a little too close to home.  In any case, here it is now - a year later, but no less relevant.  Or fraught with frustration.

You've heard people say, "This country is going to hell in a hand basket!"  Of course you have.  And they're right.  But don't blame our fall on Obamacare or illegal immigration or soaring oil prices.  Blame it on widespread apathy toward humanity's greatest invention. 

            What is this invention, you ask?  The written word, of course.  The very foundation of civilization.   

            Imagine a world without writing, where complex instructions and documentation could only be transmitted orally.  Where would we be?  My guess is not far beyond the Stone Age, tapping out arrowheads with chunks of quartz and years from grasping the fundamentals of agriculture.  In other words, not at all civilized (which is not to suggest being uncivilized is worse, but that is an argument for another day). 

            I'm merely noting that since we are indeed civilized, we should grant total respect to the textual medium that helped us get where we are.   

            In America's earliest days, before spelling had been standardized, people paid little mind to how they wrote words (those who were literate, at any rate).  "Spelling" or "speling" would have been equally acceptable.  Fortunately, we pulled ourselves together and homogenized our language into something coherent, concise and decipherable.  And thanks to Merriam-Webster, we have concrete knowledge of how words are supposed to appear. 

            Today, though?  Today, spelling seems to be the last thing people can be bothered with.  Scanning my friends' Facebook updates, I see "to," "too" and "two" used interchangeably.  "Your" and "you're?"  Don't get me started.  "Breath" and "breathe" -- one is a noun and the other a verb.  How did these simple differentiations slip out of common knowledge?  Maybe I just need smarter friends. 

            Am I being too hard on folks?  Let me put it this way.  If you want to use our language, shouldn't you want to use it correctly?  It's the same reason I use a calculator when figuring sums; I want to do it right.  Writing is something most of us do daily, whether emailing the boss, making out bills, or a writing a letter to the editor.  Shouldn't we want flawless spelling, no matter the task?

            And believe me -- I'm not tooting my own horn.  There are loads of words that give me trouble.  But if I'm unsure, I look it up.  It only takes a few seconds and makes all the difference. 

            Ah, here it comes: the Spell Check Argument.  Word processing programs have completely superseded the typewriter, including the ability to scan documents for spelling errors.  Unfortunately, Spell Check works like a fishing net with a hole in the webbing: it will catch most of what you want it to, but a few whoppers are still going to slip through. 

            A professor once told me (after discovering a spelling error on a paper that both Spell Check and laborious proofreading failed to catch), "Mr. Gudmunson, if you can't spell correctly, you shouldn't be writing at all."  At first I was indignant, but after some consideration I concurred.  I don't worry about messing up advanced algorithms because I don't do advanced algorithms.  But I do write every day and thus feel it is my duty to ensure I write, well, right. 

            Another professor told me, "Learn to write effectively and you can have anything you want in life."  That starts with proper spelling.  And while I can't say I have everything I want, I can say I'm on my way.  

 

Thirsty Thursday

How fortunate that I began Cold Brood on a Thursday. Or Thor's Day, if you have a handle on Norse mythology. Being of Norse origin, I tend to fancy myself a distant relative of the thunder god.  Of course, my lineage is probably not so grand as that. A Viking pillager is more likely. Or perhaps a weapons master, fashioning the finest oaken clubs in the land of ice and snow. Or (likeliest of all) my ancestors were lowly fishmongers. In any case, one thing is certain when it comes to persons of Norse origin whether you're a god, a pillager, a man-at-arms, or a fisherman: we like to drink.

It's in our blood.

From the pithiest mead to the bubbliest champagne, imbibing is part of our culture. Now please don't scramble up your soapbox and pontificate on the dangers of alcoholism. How American of you. Everything in moderation, right?  I no more excessively indulge in drink than I do ritual Satanic mutilation. But there's nothing quite like pouring a cold pilsner at the end of the day. Or two. 

But my thirst does not end at alcoholic beverages. Oh no. I also appreciate the crisp refreshment of a good cola.  Pepsi preferred - it's lighter, sweeter and less acidic than its big brother Coke. I took the Pepsi Challenge and never looked back. I will admit that Coke makes an acceptable substitute in a pinch (or out of desperation for a quick caffeine infusion). 

A variety of juices are also pleasing to the palate. Orange, apple, grape, cranberry. In that order. Nothing quite cuts through the morning mouth-film than a tall tumbler of Minute Maid High Pulp. Like sunshine in a glass, it is. 

And I would be remiss if I left out water. Clear, simple, life-giving water. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats ice-cold water on a hot day or after strenuous exercise.  Out of a bottle or straight from the tap.  Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow. Delicious. Refreshing. And hopefully well-filtered from the nearest treatment facility.

So, on Thirsty Thursday, I raise my glass to your health.  Salud.

(Note: You may notice no mention of coffee as a beverage of choice in this blog. I do occasionally partake of the hot stuff, but find myself more suited to cold drinks. Must be that whole land of the ice and snow thing.)

Introduction

Having spent the better part of the mid- to late-aughts feverishly blogging on myspace.com, and considering said website's swift descent into dot-com hell, I decided today to take a bold step and start an honest-to-god, sawdust-on-the-floor, good-and-proper blog.  Why not?  There's a whole world of folks nothing at all like me tapping out their thoughts in cyberspace for everyone to read.  What's one more? 

I'll make you a deal.  In return to being subjected to the cavorting creatures in my mind here at Cold Brood, I will provide you with endless hours of entertainment, thought-provocation, debate, humor, horror, and cold-brewed insight.

Brief disclaimer: I cannot promise you will be at all entertained, provoked to think or debate, or find the least bit of humor, horror, or insight in any of the blogs to follow in this spot.  However, I do hope you'll check back every so often.  Leave a comment and let me know what you've taken away from that day's blog or just to say hello.  Yes, I even invite the occasional anonymous detractor to leave their flaming bag of doggie-doo on my cyber doorstep.

So, shall we?  Let's.