The Post That Wouldn't Die

I know I’ve babbled on about a handful of things here, from the fact that I’m a tool to some no-question-about-it bathroom humor. However, I keep coming back to the thing that started this whole blog in the first place: my goatee, or lack thereof. (You know you love it.)

As an update, I am still rockin’ the smooth chin (as much as someone wary of the person in the mirror can be rockin' a look), and I plan on waiting at least until the end of the summer to commence the re-growth. That said, some of you have asked me how people are reacting to the new look, and I’m going to tell you. So what follows is the breakdown of the reactions I have gathered through very rigorous and scientific polling.

Women

Women are split almost evenly, with approximately 52.428% preferring the clean-shaven Abs to the one with the goatee. Interestingly and surprisingly to me, the majority of these women can pretty much be broken down into two camps:

Camp 1: Married women I have known for a few years and women dating my good guy friends

These women almost unanimously preferred the goatee. They offered only a small variation when explaining their preferences. Many of them claimed that they liked goatees in general, but not on their husband/boyfriend/significant other. "It looks good on you, though. Natural." Draw your own conclusions from that.

Camp 2: Single women and women who have only known me for a short while

These women almost unanimously preferred the clean-shaven Abs. While they agreed that they liked it better, they made widely varying comments:

• “You have beautiful eyes. Not having the goatee makes them much more noticeable.” I don’t even know how to respond to that. How my eyes are related to my goatee, I’ll never know. And no, I’m not making it up. The chick who said it might be crazy, though.
• "I like it. It opens up your face more.” I still don’t know what it means, but at least it doesn’t sound crazy.
• “How did you get that scar on your upper lip?” I notice that thing all the time now, too. While it’s really not very big or coolly grotesque, it seems to dominate my face after having not seen it for 7.5 years. For the record, I got hit in the face with the blade of a shovel.
• "You look more intellectual with the goatee, but I like this look better." I had to report this because I think it's only the third time in my life that I've been accused of anything intellectual. Apparently this girl likes dumb-looking guys.
  
• “Damn! You are sexy. Mmmmm mmm mm!” OK, fine. That was in one of my dreams, but it sounds so much better than those other things that people actually said.

Since we're being scientific here, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention two outliers. One was a single girl I haven’t known for long who is not dating a friend of mine. She had “no opinion whatsoever.” The other is my mom, who hasn’t seen me since I shaved off the goat, but she “never liked it in the first place.” She hasn't told me that she's sure she'd have a daughter-in-law and grandchildren by now if I hadn't had the goat, but I'm sure she's thought it. Apparently, most things I do are part of a big conspiracy centered around depriving her of her natural right to grandchildren. I'm sure she would love to see my brother and me have kids so she could secretly teach them how to be major pains in the ass like we were. But I digress. Moving right along in the poll results brings us to ...

Men

98.5% of men surveyed had no idea that the goatee was gone until they were told.

Of the 1.5% of men who noticed, 67% didn’t give a shit one way or the other. The other 33% thought, “Why not?Change things up a little.” Even my bestest buddy pal could only look at me in wonder and say things like, “Wow. You sure do look different.” And he knew me for 8 or 9 years before I grew the thing. So there's not a lot of useful info to deal with here. Shocking.

With all of those different categories, there is still one person who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere, and it’s not just because I'm confused about where to file responses from pretty boys like him. No, the reason is that he has been lobbying for the goatee exorcism for quite a while. “The goatee’s not working. You need to get rid of it. Women will like it better if you’re clean-shaven.” (He's big on what's "working" and what's not. See Pretty Boy v. I'm just Abs, 1998.) He claimed a victory when I finally shaved it off. He would further like to claim that a preponderance of evidence has cropped up supporting his theories since The Week That Things Changed. However, there haven’t been any significant changes in that regard, and I’m just not buying that it makes much of a difference until there are. Besides, we just can’t let him get a big head. Also, scientifically, I'm supposed to mention these statistical outliers. Mention them, but disregard them. It should be enough for him that he’s pretty.

I'm not looking to draw any conclusions here, as I don't think I need to do a lot of polling of all these people when deciding what to do with my face. I just wanted to pass on the data to those of you who have been wondering about the reaction of the populace.

Have a great Independence Day.

Cell phones can do anything these days

I was thoroughly cussing my inept cell phone the other day because of how temperamental it has become. At this point, I'm pretty much paying Verizon Wireless for the ability to regularly drop calls and recharge my cell phone battery twice a day. It's not really Verizon's fault. I don't think their service has degraded over time. It's just that my phone is two years old, and the abuse it has taken in those two years has rendered it less useful. Something's wrong with the radio in it, and it just can't hold a signal, even when I'm sitting perfectly still. If I don't have a full-strength signal, the call WILL be dropped. Plus, the fact that it can't hold a signal means that it frequently has to go searching for one. That wears out the battery big time. So it's recharge, talk, drop call, curse. Rinse and repeat. Blah.

Obviously, I could (and should) get a new phone. However, my company is allegedly going to take over paying for my service and provide me with a new phone. It's pretty hard for me to pass that up, but I'm stuck waiting for the paperwork to go through whomever it has to go through to get a new phone. But I'm still thinking eliminating the cell phone bill is worth enduring this frustrating period of quasi-functionality. Besides, the text messaging still works pretty well. Once this goes through, I'll get to work on trying to get the company to pay my cable bill. That would be a major victory.

Anyway, that's not even the point. All of this frustration got me thinking about all the features that cell phones have these days. My first cell phone was an analog Motorola StarTac. It was a sweet little phone. Actually, I reckon it's anything but little by today's standards. And I only had 90 minutes of month on my plan. And no voice mail. So it was pretty much for emergency use only. And it's bland feature set makes it seem not so sweet in retrospect. At the time, though, my inner gadget geek reveled in its cachet.

Since then, my phones have gotten more and more useful. First, there was the jump to 300 minutes per month. Then 400. Then 400 plus free nights and weekends. Then, they added IN-network minutes for free. Somewhere in there, I got the text messaging action. (I don't know how I ever met up with people in a bar before I had the text action.) Also, my phone had things like distinctive rings and voice dialing and voice notes and a calendar and a calculator and a seemingly tautological tip calculator. That little gadget has lots of things going on these days.

But my favorite cell phone feature by far is one that I've only seen in action one time. Actually, I just heard it in action. I was at a wedding in the DC area when I witnessed it. Toward the end of the dinner at the reception, I excused myself to go to the restroom. As I was washing my hands, a guy came in with a cell phone pressed to his ear. I thought that was a bit odd. I mean, I can't imagine needing to talk on the phone in the restroom. I suppose it's not a particularly loud place, and that might be a good thing when talking on the phone or, more to the point, listening on one. However, it just seems like something one doesn't do in there. That's just me, though. We all have our ideas about what one does and doesn't do. To each his own, I suppose.

This guy wasn't saying anything as he came into the restroom, though. So I thought maybe he was checking his messages. Maybe it was for an important call. Maybe he needed to know whether his pet crocodile had survived the emergency surgery attempting to extricate his girlfriend's cat from the croc's stomach. That would be an important message. Maybe he was checking to see if he got that callback for some infomercial role. I don't really know, and I stopped thinking about it as I saw his mirror image close the door to a stall. I'm sure I could have continued to come up with ideas as to the uses of the phone at that point (for instance, maybe he's a toilet reader and opted to surf the wireless web in the absence of a newspaper or magazine), but I let it go.

All of that happened very quickly, of course, and I moved over to grab a paper towel to dry my hands. And that's when it happened. I heard beeping noises, surprisingly clearly, coming from the cell phone guy's stall: "Beep boop bop." I was taken aback for a second, but then I realized he was just probably doing the voicemail thing. But I was very wrong.

It happened again: "Bop beep boop." But this time it was followed by another sound, this one not likely coming from the phone: "Thbbppt."

I was taken a bit aback. My eyes sprang wide open and my eyebrows attempted to merge with my hairline. Sure that's a standard, if potentially embarrassing, bathroom noise, but I had never heard it on the heels of phone digit beeps. "Just a coincidence," I thought. "I should head back to my table."

As I reached for the door handle, "Bop boop bap beep ... thbbbppppttttt."

That's right. It happened again. I started to grin and suppressed an admittedly sophomoric giggle. "What's going on in there?" I wondered. It was too weird to describe.

I reached out again and started to pull the door open. "Bap bop beep boop beep bap ... thhhhhhbbbbbppppbpbpttttttt."

Hand clenched over my mouth, I darted out of the restroom. Once I was out of earshot, I sat down on a bench in the hallway, laughing hysterically. A couple of people asked what was so funny, but I couldn't begin to explain it to them.

If anyone else has encountered this cell phone service, please let me know. It's so advanced, and I want to know how it works. I can only assume that it's very useful for those who are trapped in public places without the benefit of a laxative or at least some good roughage. Next time it happens to you, check with your wireless provider. Maybe they have the rare Dial-a-Turd feature.

The Chronicles on the Silver Screen

Have you ever wondered what the movie of your life would be like? Maybe it's because of the disturbing number of ways in which movies infiltrate and influence my life, but the topic crosses my mind from time to time.

For the most part, I think the movie would be colossally boring, with some nondescript-looking actor spending his days in front of a computer, then spending his non-working hours doing and saying things about which nuns and priests in Catholic schools would at best cluck disapprovingly at and at worst mount entire lectures and tirades against. Sure, the disapproval of the Penguin was a brilliant artifice in The Blues Brothers, but it has no part in the movie of my life. I never went to that type of school in the first place, and I certainly couldn't put up with those types of lectures. Maybe back in the day, but not now. The closest I came to a penguin with a ruler was an Algebra and Trig teacher called Sarge who hit people with her gradebook for sport. But I digress. It might be a boring movie, but it probably wouldn't be short on slapstick or sophomoric humor. Not much romance or drama, though.

The most obvious question when thinking about the movie of your life is who would play you. Truth be told, I have no idea. The way I described the role above, Paul Giamatti seems like the obvious choice, mainly because of the roles he's played in the past. I'm sure some of you might have suggestions, but I've never been big on making the connection between celebrities and real people. My roommate is big on it, though. Recently, a friend wanted to set me up on a blind date with a friend of hers. I said, "Sure, why not?" My roommate was not willing to accede so easily. "Wait a minute. What does she look like?" he asked. The setter struggled a bit, as I often do when asked to describe the looks of a good friend. The roomie was persistent: "C'mon. You gotta give me something. What celebrity does she most closely resemble?" He never got an answer, but it occurred to me that I wouldn't have thought to ask that question. Maybe it's because I can never figure out who I look like or who would play me. It was easy when I was in my early teens. It was definitely Jerry O'Connell. But only in his years as Vern in Stand by Me. He was perfect for the part of Abs back then: chubby, buzz-cut, clumsy. We each looked a lot like a Monchichi without the thumb-sucking. Today, we both look different. He's all grown up. Some girls find him a bit dreamy (ever since his re-ermegence in Scream 2), and he's dating a friggin' supermodel. As for me, I'm different, too. My hair is longer, and I don't hesitate to suck my thumb.

Seriously, though, I don't typically get too caught up in who would play me in the movie. I do sometimes get caught up in the soundtrack. I don't remember exactly when, but I remember randomly making the following statement sometime during my college years: "When I'm getting out of my car and walking across the street in movies, you know what song is playing? Smooth Operator." That's right, I picked a song by Sade for the interlude music. Of course, in my movie, they might indeed use that song, only to have it interrupted with a record-scratching lurch as I tripped over a curb, then angrily turned around to snap my fingers and point at the offending piece of concrete, ordering "Have that removed!" to no one in particular.

Still, I often find myself wondering at odd moments what song ought to be playing. I remember thinking that Old School did such a great job with Frank's music, just using different parts of that Whitesnake song to back scenes with different moods. And there is the fundamental problem with me thinking about what song is appropriate for one of my life's scenes: "that Whitesnake song." Obviously, I don't know that much music. Sure, I'm familiar with a lot of songs, but I'm not intimate with them. I don't have the proverbial equivalent of a wine rack: "Ah, jaunty, funny... lessee ... how about Jupiter Coyote from 1991? Crazy Women? An excellent choice." I can't conjure a title to fit a mood or a situation to save my life. This scene, right now, has a jazz feeling to it, maybe something by the Horace Silver Quintet, but I have no idea which one, and I don't really know why. For the most part, whoever played me would just be sitting here looking at the screen, alternately typing furiously, then backspacing at least as furiously. Like I said, it would be a pretty boring movie. Maybe Limp Bizkit would be hollering Break Stuff when I played golf, although the constant beeping over my profanity-laced tirades might get lost with something that loud going on. (Incidentally, one of my favorite audio scenes is in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me when Dr. Evil goes absolutely nuts on Jerry Springer. All those beeps are hilarious.)

To have a good soundtrack, it seems I ought to have a theme song. I used to think that I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow would be good, in a quasi-ironic sort of way, but that's a bit dramatic, really. Besides, it was already done in O Brother, Where Art Thou? During a somewhat bitter period, I thought my theme song was the Ben Folds Five's Song for the Dumped. And it was both appropriate and funny at the time. But it has no staying power. These days, I don't really have one. Maybe you have some suggestions. I'd like to hear them (I think).

Some movie this will be. I can't come up with an actor for the lead role or even a theme song. Maybe I'll just stick with Smooth Operator. Maybe what my life's movie really needs is a producer. To hell with the movie -- I could probably put one to work in the real thing.

On Feathers, Forrest, and Eagles

Trains of thought are often strange things to me. Maybe it's just because mine seem to go careening off without a conductor, but I often find them strange. Yesterday, I found myself thinking about Forrest Gump. That's not all that strange in and of itself, as that movie is one that I have seen and quoted the second most in my life. (The Princess Bride, of course, tops that list.) That this train of thought took me to Gump station was probably somewhat appropriate, considering the beatific grin on my face at the time. I reckon it looked something like Forrest did as he stood on the dock with Lieutenant Dan and unnecessarily explained, "That's my boat."

The topic I was musing on was luck vs. fate. Are the things that happen just a matter of chance, or is there some matter of destiny involved? Furthermore, do we exert any real control over these outcomes, or is it just an illusion? That luck vs. fate vs. control thought got me thinking about the feather that leads us to Forrest at the beginning of the movie, travels with him in his "favorite book" for a time, and leaves him at the end. Sure it seemed to be "floatin' about accidental-like on a breeze," but it seemed that maybe there was some underlying design to it all. Of course, like most big questions, I have no idea what the answer is, but I couldn't help noodling on it for a few seconds.

That's not necessarily strange by itself, though. What was strange was what led me there. I was wondering if it was luck or skill -- my exertion of control, if you will -- that I had just experienced. Maybe Forrest had the right answer: "I think maybe it's both. I think both is happening at the same time."

What exactly was it that caused a high-arcing little white ball struck by a piece of metal at the end of a stick to land in a hole 115 yards away? I don't really know, but it was an eagle 2 either way, and it was marvelous.

Happy Father's Day.

Yup, I'm a tool.

"That's how you do it! That's how you debate!"
- Will Ferrell as Frank Ricard in Old School

That quote came from a marvelous moment in Old School. The moment beautifully captured the sheer joy of victory effected by serendipitous inspiration. Or something. Oddly, I've seen this type of thing work itself into the workplace. In case you didn't know it, I'm a techie. I have an engineering degree and and engineering type of job. I work with computers. (Then again, who doesn't these days? I write software and develop systems for our IT group. Don't tell anyone, but I also apparently write the occasional blog post. Anyway, it's not necessarily your run-of-the-mill work with computers.) In general, this techie work isn't the type of thing that one would expect to inspire a lot of crowing or smack-talking. One's expectations might be wrong in this case, though.

Not too too long ago I was visiting the office of a couple of co-workers. I was talking to one of them while the other one was dutifully working. In the midst of the conversation, the dutiful one proclaimed, "That's how you do it! That's the way you code!" I laughed pretty hard when I heard that. I suppose it stuck somewhere in my subconscious, too.

Last night, I was lounging on the Ass Magnet with my laptop in its nominal place, tooling away at some little POS program for work. It came together pretty quickly, and when I got it working, I was a little startled to hear myself quoting the afore-mentioned, self-proclaimed archetypical coder: "That's how you do it! That's the way you code!"

I suppose that's all well and good. No big deal, right? I should feel free to do pretty much whatever I choose in the privacy of my home without having to confess to the odd and possibly disturbing behaviors I engage in there. However, my roommate's girlfriend was walking into the living room just as I made my triumphant exclamation, which not so surprisingly stopped her cold.

She wanted to know if I was talking to myself or to the computer. I told her somewhat sheepishly that it was a little of both. I feel pretty sure that she didn't quite understand. She's not a tool.

But I don't think there's any question that I am.

The Little Things

It's the little things that make life so interesting.

For instance, I just read Jen's post about her near death experience today. Not only did it remind me that I "should just get my fat ass to the gym," but it also reminded me that walking up stairs is dangerous. This story reminds me that the invention of the elevator was an evolutionary response to the environment. It was necessary to the survival of the species. Darwin could totally be saying "I told you so" right now. If he wasn't dead and stuff. He probably walked up too many stairs.

All of that, of course, says nothing about the fact that all of this started with Jen watching a Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling. Do I even need to say anything about how dangerous that is? I shudder at the very thought.

It's those little, subtle differences between what males and females do that I find so intriguing. Jen watched Tori Spelling on Lifetime yesterday. This evening, instead of just getting my fat ass to the gym, I found myself sitting on the Ass Magnet (in case you didn't know, the living room furniture is named, the recliner being the Ass Magnet), watching Eurotrip. Jen's movie of choice featured a spoiled, anorexic, plasticized daughter of a TV mogul in a movie about an obsessed ex-girlfriend and a fertility clinic. A fertility clinic! My movie of choice featured Kristin Kreuk, a robot fight in which a Parisian robot street performer got kicked in the "robot balls", and women making out at random.

I can tell you one thing. Ya-dam-betcha that I won't be climbing any stairs tomorrow.

It's the little things.

Smooth Operator

Maybe what this really means is that I'm a sexist, but I have only ever thought of guys being smooth. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe it's because girls are typically seen as the prey in the whole dating/mating hunt. Maybe it's because I just lead a sheltered life and haven't witnessed any of the infinite times girls have suavely and smoothly hit on a guy (then gone out and watched the setting of the septuple moons of the planet Philoabs IV, where those girls must live). Regardless of the reason, I almost never consider girls to be smooth. That might be an oversight on my part, though.

I went to a party not too long ago thrown by a girl on my softball team. It was a pretty good party. No themes, just hanging out, talking and drinking. That's pretty much exactly my speed. It was a little too successful of a party, in that they kept running out of beer. But otherwise it was about perfect.

At some point - let's say around 12:30 - I found myself talking to a girl there. I'm pretty sure the conversation started because my friend, Ryan, was wearing a Virginia t-shirt, and that inspired this girl to talk about how much UVA people suck. You, dear reader, might expect me to have been offended by that. After all, she was blatantly dissing my alma mater. Still, I wasn't even mildly put off by her suggestion that people who went to UVA are, in general, completely loathsome. That's because I've heard it so much that it doesn't even faze me. This may come as a surprise to you, but some people think that those affiliated with that particular University are incredibly arrogant and pretentious, not to mention unfriendly. And they might be onto something. All things considered, a lot of people there pretty much suck. But there are still a lot of good eggs that get a bad rap because of the bad apples spoiling the soup. (Yes, I can mix all those clichés together. Engineer's License.)

But I digress. Sorry. This girl's friends were saying that they were leaving to go to the bar, and we should join them. Being the suave and witty guy that I am, I said, "Well, which one is 'THE bar?'" I even put finger quotes around "THE bar." (I love finger quotes. Sometimes they inspire people to say dumb things. Sometimes they make me feel like Dr. Evil.) One of the friends said, "Why don't you just come with us?" I obviously couldn't do that. I had peeps to deal with. We needed to discuss it in committee and decide whether we wanted to go to whichever bar they were going to. I couldn't just speak for all of us. Besides, I didn't know why they were inviting us in the first place. Then two of these girls got distracted, and I was back talking to the Wahoo-hater girl about which bar. She said, "Well, how about if I just give you my number and you can call-" at which point a "friend" interrupted and asked me a question. When I came back to this conversation the girl eventually said something about how she apparently didn't hate UVA people all that much, since she was hitting on one of them.

Me: "Oh? Are you hitting on Ryan?"
Her: "No, I'm hitting on you."
Me: [Surprised and dumbfounded silence...]
Me: "Oh."

In answer to the question bouncing around your heads at this point, I have no idea why she was hitting on me. I am obviously an idiot. At that point the girls decided on a bar and announced which one. Naturally, they picked a bar I hated. Then, the quasi-Wahoo-hater pointed to one of her friends and said, "This is the cutest girl you'll ever meet. She's engaged. I just want to pinch her cheeks!"

Trying to re-establish myself as suave and witty, I said, "You want to pinch her cheeks because she's engaged? No? Ohhhh, you want to pinch her cheeks AND she's engaged. That's different. Thanks for clearing that up."

At this point the girl, apparently not dissuaded by my idiotic bumbling, conspiratorially said, "Well, our cab's here. We're going to the bar. I hope we see you there." And she kissed the tip of her index finger, then reached out her hand and lightly touched that finger to my cheek. Then she headed out to catch her cab.

I stood there, impressed, probably with my mouth hanging open, and watched her leave.

Apparently, I was wrong about girls on this planet not being smooth.

Pun-tastic

I went out to lunch the other day with two of my favorite co-workers. It was an excellent lunch outing, even if we did skip the beers that seemed like they should go with our burritos. When we got out of our car on the way there, we passed some men refacing the brick on a building. To keep pedestrians from messing with them, they had put up a couple of those flasher barricades. (Aside: I had no idea those things were so cheap. I figured they somehow cost $1k+. Also, did you know that there's a Flasher Barricade Association? I certainly didn't.) When I looked at one of them I started chuckling almost immediately. One of my compadres asked what the hell I was laughing at. I pointed back at the barricade and said, "See what's printed across the bottom cross-piece?" In block letters on the bottom cross-piece, someone had painted "NEIGHOFF." It's probably the name of the company who sold it or the one who owns it, or some other equally plausible explanation.

"Yeah. So?" She said.

"Well, I'm just wondering if that's what horses say to each other when they're irked."

As you might imagine, she groaned. BUT, she couldn't help but chuckle for quite a while about that one. The best puns always bring out the groan and the chuckle. I loved it.

That incident made me think about what was perhaps the best pun delivery I've ever witnessed. What's odd is that I can't remember exactly when it was. It was either in my late high school or - more likely, since I might not be able to remember back that far - early college years. I went out to dinner with one of my auxiliary families: Lawton, his mom (codename: Marcia), his step dad (codename: Don), and his sister (codename: Jen). This was a common occurrence, as I was under foot enough at a few friends' homes (especially both of Lawton's) that they didn't even notice if I tagged along for dinner. And before you ask, yes, I was quite the mooch.

Anyway, Marcia was telling a story about some woman she encountered somewhere sometime. I have no idea of the details about the woman, other than that Marcia said the woman was wearing a sari.

"Are you sure it wasn't a sarong?" Don asked.

"No, it was a sari. I know the difference between a sari and a sarong, Don," Marcia replied, somewhat testily.

"Well, I don't," Don explained. "I always get them confused. I thought a sari was just a little skirt."

"No, that's a sarong," Marcia said.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I was so wrong."

Wait for it. Wait for it. There it is. Yes, it was marvelous. I had only seen it coming just before it was delivered, and Lawton was blindsided by it. The whole table groaned quite loudly. Then, we chuckled for quite a while. It was pun-tastic.

Maybe not so "only"

So it would seem that my comments in my previous post about it possibly being the only installment of the Chronicles that I would ever write were incorrect. In fact, I set this site up so that I could update you all without spamming everyone. Of course, it will now be up to you to check for updates, but there's nothing I can do about that. Well, that's not exactly true. Because I am so generous, I've provided an Atom feed that you can subscribe to, if you're down with the whole syndication thing. If you're not, you can just check back here from time to time.

There are a few things I should tell you about this site, as well as a few questions inspired by The Week That Things Changed that I should answer. I will do so in the ever-popular question and answer format:

Why in the world did you create this site?
When I wrote the email about shaving my goatee, I received a surprisingly large number of emails requesting more of the Chronicles. I also received a surprisingly small number of requests to be removed from my mailing list. So those of you who would rather read about my boring life than think about your own boring or exciting lives are welcome to whenever you like.

You keep calling it a site, but it's really a blog isn't it?
I suppose this is technically a blog, but I doubt I'll update it enough to be a real blogger. I certainly can't imagine being as prolific as Lawton's sister. Still, I can already hear one person saying, "Now Abs is in the blogosphere." "Blogosphere" is a very important word to this person. You know who you are.

Do you really think people want to read about your life?
Umm, no. At least I didn't until some of you clamored for more. Truth be told, I'm sure it was less the story and more the powerful prose and bons mots in my message that left you aching for more. Nonetheless, we aim to please.

Why didn't you include a picture with your email about shaving the goatee? And why don't you have one on this page?
The reasons are many. When I sent out that email, there were as yet no new pictures of me without the goat. Those of you who knew me before I shaved it can probably look at some old pics to get an idea. Those of you who don't are completely SOL. As of right now, there exist a few pics of me with the smooth chin, but none of them are really worth crowing about. Finally, I think you should make an effort to see me in person if you want to experience baby-faced Abs. I feel sure it's been too long anyway.

When you shaved your goatee, did you find more than one chin?
Ha, ha. Very funny. Yes, I'm chubby. Thanks for noticing. Of course, I prefer to be thought of as sexy chubby, but there's no getting away from the chubby part. I was quite curious as to how the chin(s) would look sans goat, and I was happy that there didn't appear to be 2 of them. However, there is definitely more chin material there than I would like, and it shows up when I position my head in certain unflattering ways. So I can't claim to have the ideal 1.0 chins. I think what I'm really dealing with right now is about 1.5 chins.

My God you babble! Do you ever shut up?
Sadly for you, no. But I will wrap this up, because it's getting out of control. To sum up: new blog, less spam, bons mots, no good pictures, 1.5 chins, sexy chubby.