#94: Grow A Mustache A.K.A. The Evolution Of The 'Stache

A mustache, as I have come to learn, is a far more complex attribution than just hair on your upper lip. To many it is a way of life, a way to communicate to each other just the type of person you are. Growing the sacred 'stache is not an endeavor to be taken lightly. You may make a statement about yourself that is entirely unaware (as I was).

The word 'mustache' has a pervasive history. The English word comes from the French word 'moustache', which comes from the Italian word 'mostaccio', which comes from the Latin word 'mustacium', which comes from the Medieval Greek word 'moustakion', which ultimately comes from the Greek work 'mustax'.

The first thing to consider when thinking about growing a mustache is the type. Yes, you may be thinking (stop doing that) to yourself, How many ways can there be to put hair above your lip? The correct answer is over 15 (we also would have accepted 'a bushel'. Though not actually a correct measurement, we give points for pizazz). Each one says something distinct about the type of person who would wear that on their face.

We have the Fu Manchu. A mustache stereotypically common in the Orient with mustache hair that grows long down the side of the mouth, typically past the chin.

There is the Dictator which rose to fame with the infamous Adolf Hitler and the famous Charlie Chaplin.

(Seen often on Nazi Sympathizer Babies)

Others include The Zappa, Pancho Villa, Imperial, Horseshoe, Handlebar, Pencil, English, and the list continues on. For more vital information on furthering your education on mustache issues visit the facetious website American Mustache Institute.

I decided on whatever would actually grow above my lip. A bold choice as I had no say in what my mustache was going to say about. I fear that my decision has changed me into the dreaded 'h' word. Yes, my friends, I'm talking about a 'hippie'. A tree hugger, dirt worshiper, flower child, greenie, dead head.

Since the growth of The 'Stache it seems as though my hair has taken on a new life choice (no, I do not mean it's started shacking up with it's 'good friend' Anton). It loves to catch the light and glisten in an greasy, unwashed way. It always looks like I just rolled out of bed, but not in the I-just-took-two-hours-completing-this-look sort of way. Even my clothes look hippie now. The plaid shirts that used to look ironic now look like I'm the sort of person who wears plaid seriously. Even my $100 T-shirts appear cheap and second hand-ish.

(hippies are only seen in their natural habitat, nature)

But I blaze ahead. Columbus didn't discover America by giving up when the salt water wrecked havoc on his hair. Lewis and Clark didn't stop exploring once they realized they wouldn't be able to shower. And it didn't stop Ke$ha from becoming an international phenomenon (if you listen to the lyrics carefully, after washing her mouth with Jack, she doesn't stop to condition her hair. She just straight, hits that city).


But if anyone tries to get me to go to "Love Your Mother Earth" or asks me if there's a good sale on organic asparagus I'm shaving it off.

P.S. I do have to admit that by the AMI criteria the little mustache that has come in is not considered a mustache at all owing to my goatee. All my facial hair gets lumped under the label 'beard.'

Sur Les Ailes D'amour

In most facets of my life I have been extremely fortunate. I grew up in a firmly upper-middle class family. My parents are still happily married. Everything in my life has been intrinsically easy. I'm sorry (no, I'm not) if it sounds like I'm bragging, though (if it makes you feel better) I have so far had a less that ideal love life. Growing up in Butt Fuck Egypt (this is an expression, so I've heard) full of rednecks, opportunities for romantic relationships (a little man-on-man) did not arise often in my adolescence.

Part of my 18th birthday present my father took me on a tour of London and Paris. We participated in a tour group that seemed to consist mainly of middle aged couples trying to rekindle the fire that was snuffed out years ago (around the time they became comfortable shitting without the door closed). Not the most romantic bunch in the world, but in the City of Love and Lights it does not take much to get a blue balled high school male in the mood (bow chica bow bow!).

Our second day in Paris we made a trip to the Eiffel Tower. After we had made our ascent and descent of the famous piece of architecture, my dad, who like to think of himself as an amateur Ezra Stoller, took leave of my company to take photographs. I was left to wander, taking a few pictures, but mostly people watching (one of my favorite pastimes).

"Excuse me," my guard instantly went up (like the windows when you're about to get stuck at a red light right beside a homeless bum). We had been educated extensively on the ways that Parisian Gypsies attempted to pick pocket you. The most prevalent method was to get your attention (commonly using an "excuse me") and in almost flawless English ask you if you spoke English. The less informed tourist would answer yes and the Gypsy would then begin to ask if you knew directions to somewhere they would show you on a map. All the while your altruistic behavior is being repaid with thievery. Having already been solicited multiple times in the hour we'd been there I was on guard for another bout of unintelligible gibberish (I sounded like a retarded R2-D2) to get them to back off.

But what I saw instead as I turned around was not a gutter rat in hand-me-down hippie clothes (you would think with all their stealing they could afford a douche), but a towering hunk of a man dressed in his pilot's uniform. Tall, dark, and handsome is the perfect cliche. And any man in uniform is guaranteed to get me wet (I know not entirely accurate) This is where the music would swell, our eyes had met. Suddenly all of Paris would be empty and it would be only me and Mr. Pilot.

I have always been cynical of love at first sight. Truly I'm just cynical of love, period. But put me in the most romantic city in the world, under the Eiffel Tower, with a sexy man and these are the things that corny (and horny) romance movies are made of. It would have been a perfect addition to Paris, Je T'Aime. Two Americans from different coasts who find each other in Paris at the Eiffel Tower (ka-ching! And Craig Horner play my costar).

"Do you speak English?"

I was flustered. What did he mean? Did I speak English? Yes, yes I did. Answer, god damnit! "Yeah, yes. Yes, I do."

"I was wondering if you could take my picture?"

"Sure." (that's not the only thing I would do to you)

He handed me his camera and stepped back. "This should be good."

I held up the camera. 1... 2... 3... CLICK!


"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, it's a good one." Like someone with a face like his ever had a bad picture.

He came back over and looked at it. "Thanks, I'm Daniel." (Daniel, I just want to motorboat your pecs)

"Leo." We shook hands. His hands were big (you know what they say about big hands) and his grip was firm.

We chatted for a little bit about where we were from. He was from Chicago, on a layover in Paris (this script practically writes itself). We were working the conversation closer to a possible one night rendezvous, when my dad came up behind him. Of all the timing in all the world, his is the worst (or from a parental perspective, the best). Completely clueless he had interrupted a beautiful moment between me and the man I should have married he introduced himself and effectively drove him off within 30 seconds (CUT! Let's try this again. Everything was perfect except when you came up and killed the moment).

We made our au revoirs and I missed out on the perfect movie love scene in Paris, France. How many chances like that come around in a lifetime? (don't answer that)

Post-Eucharist Watersports

It seems as though most of my earliest memories involve church. Not a surprising consequence due to the amount of my formative years that was spent within a church. It was there that I can remember so vividly my first encounter with an activity I would learn much later in life is defined by Urban Dictionary as 'watersports'.

It was a Sunday in early spring. Exact day is a little fuzzy as other events, naturally, take precedence in my mind. It was nearing the end of communion, a ritual (for those readers who have been fortunate enough not to have been subjected to organized religion) that involves eating stale, unleavened wafers and drinking a thimbleful of grape juice. To every child who attends church this magical moment is the epitome of adulthood.

As a 6 year old my bladder instinctively knew the moment that would be the least convenient to have the urge to pee. Trying to avoid the wrath of God, I held it. And held it. And held it. But it was soon going to become a choice between God's eternal displeasure or a leaky bladder in old age (I still pride myself on having a pristine bladder). And once I chose long term urinary stability, so did my friend Eric and we would hold it no longer. So with the urgency that only two 6 year olds can express, we were allowed to get up and go to the bathroom.

We B lined it straight for the facilities. I, being the responsible child I was, relieved myself and was urging Eric to hurry because we were missing vital hell-damning information. As I have never asked Eric what divine inspiration he had for doing what he did next, I'm going to apply Occam's Razor here and deduce that God probably did not inhabit him or speak to him through the urinal, but in fact there was no inspiration and he was just being an immature bastard.

He looked at me with a mischievous grin on his face and turned his 'disco-stick' in my direction and proceeded to empty the contents of his bladder on me. As an adult, unless it was consensual (as it so often is these days in public restrooms), if that ever happened to me I would probably shove his head into the urinal (given he didn't surpass me in weight) so we at least would both being leaving that bathroom covered in his piss. At 6 the reaction is a little different. In all honesty there really wasn't much of a reaction. I stood there unsure of what etiquette would dictate I do in this situation (always the stickler for manners). Do we genially shake hands and leave? Should I have held mine longer to reciprocate? Would he forever think of me as the boy who didn't know how to respond to being peed on?

(This moment got framed and sits prominently on the mantel)

Thankfully I was saved from having to make that crucial decision (heaven forbid it wasn't the right one!) by someone else's excretory system (or more likely, he was just sick of listening to Pastor Dan ramble on). When he saw Eric standing there with his dick pointed in my direction and me drenched, he knew exactly what to do (probably had a run-in like this himself. Learn from your mistakes, that's what I always say).

"Stay right there, I'm going to get your dad." (Thank God I know now the correct response to watersports is to get some paternal involvement)


A few minutes later my dad came in carry a towel that was normally used for drying off Christians after being baptized (God must really hate me). He wrapped me up, stuck me in the car, drove me home, and I had a bath.

Needless to say, we didn't invite Eric back to church. (That'll show him! While he's burning in Hell he'll rue the day he peed on me)

#68: Write a successful blog

My reaper list is full of wild, crazy, or impractical things that I hope to achieve-certainly before I die-but even more ambitious, before I turn 30 (I'm 21). Technically, I know this makes it not a reaper list and more of a pre-middle-age list, but it sounds better. One of the less insane, but possibly just as impossible, is #68: Write a successful blog. Voila (like it's a magic trick! Alakazam, you find this interesting), here I am explaining to you the origins of the desire to begin this blog. But it's not just writing a blog; I want it to be a SUCCESSFUL blog. Dear reader (hopefully plural), it's only due to your fascination with hearing about other people's lives that I have a prayer at crossing one thing off my reaper list.

Personally, I have never found my life all that fascinating, but while brainstorming what I could write about, it dawned on me that my life has had some exceedingly interesting moments. The possibility of posts are limitless (or up until the point that I die, which hopefully would have been post-worthy).

(This is my obligatory taken-with-a-cell-phone-in-the-bathroom-mirror photo)

To come are completely true stories told through the completely fictional life of Leo Pearce (you think he's attractive, you should see me). I sincerely hope that someone finds this blog entertaining (abracadabra!).

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