Twice As Close, Or Your Money Back!

Embracing the dynamic spirit of the American dream and throwing caution to the wind, I recently decided it was time for a change. Just a little change, mind you. An insignificant one at best, but substantial enough to raise the eyebrows and lower the expectations of those around me, at least so far as their perception of my age is concerned. I didn’t set out to take a few years of the clock and pursue that most elusive and costly of American ideals by chasing the dragon of eternal youth, but what I did to myself seems to have had that effect. Like I said, it was a minor thing and nothing to write home about, but even the tiniest of pebbles and all that…

I shaved. That’s all. I didn’t go under the knife for cosmetic surgery to reduce the signs of aging, and I didn’t inject botulism into the sensitive folds of my delicate epidermis. I merely grabbed a razor and cut away the facial hair that has defined my face for a solid decade now. I don’t know why I did it, other than the fact that I found myself standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, freshly showered and preparing for the day when it dawned on me that I was tired of looking at my beard every day. A few moments of quiet contemplation brought out the realization that facial hair has become quite trendy of late, especially amongst the vapid wasteland army of the hipster crowd, not to mention the ever-growing throngs of men so emasculated by society that they cling to their whiskers like scruffy life preservers drifting along in an ocean of estrogen, sensitivity and regret.

The beard, the mutton chops, the soul patch. The cop stache, the youth pastor goatee, and the permanent five-o-clock shadow. All of these variations on the theme of A Man serve as outward signs of masculinity, but all are nothing more than the vestigial whispers of something long ago lost and all but forgotten in this hideous contemporary world of the now in which we all live and work, and try to love. The role of the man has changed in this brave new era of politically correct behavior and marketing-driven expectations. Teamwork is the name of the game today, and the rules are simple. Everyone is equal, no one is special, and success comes from the equal cooperation of every member in the hive. Never take anything, always ask permission. Never initiate, always participate. Never conquer, always negotiate. Don’t hit, don’t punch, don’t kick. Don’t fight. Accept. Fall in. Follow.

However, traditions of blood die hard in the deep, dark places of a man’s soul and these new ideals of a defeatist and apologist society come at a price. We all know something isn’t right, that the world around us is slightly off-kilter and teetering on the precipice of something we can’t identify or even see – but it’s there. It’s all around us, in the soft and doughy eyes of a bleating hipster struggling to assert control over his body and live a life he’s never known and that was never really his, anyway. He wears ironic t-shirts and retro clothes that harken back to a time of unclean men doing unclean things, a time he has neither known or ever understood, but that he senses was somehow better than our time is now. He grows his sideburns long and styles his hair with expensive products designed to make it look disheveled, unkempt and natural. He strives to be a man of the past in outward appearance, whilst still willfully accepting the unnatural order of the day. He is a hypocrite, a poseur, and a liar to both himself and everyone around him. He is the modern man.

The teenager stricken with the blight of puberty cultivates his facial hair as it bursts forth from the baby fat of his face in splotchy patches of horrific irregularity. He tries the mustache first, perhaps toys with a goatee, and eventually returns to shaving once his girlfriend tells him how awful he looks. Later, once completely free from the shackles of adolescence, he goes to college and “finds” himself. Typically, this involves lots of alcohol and innumerable sexual encounters of random and delightful frequency until he figures out who he is and what he wants to do with his life. In a perfect world, this young man would subsequently set goals and formulate plans, then spend the bulk of his adult life working to realize his dreams. In the real world, however, he usually just gets an MBA and becomes an enormous douche.

Not all facial hair is some sort of unconscious reaction to emasculation and cognitive dissonance, of course. Sometimes, a guy just looks better with some scruff than without. I know I did – or at least I thought I did – for years. At first, the beard existed merely to help deflect some of the Kiefer Sutherland stares I’d receive from random strangers as I went through my days. Later, though, it just became part of my face. Time slipped past and I grew so used to it being there that going without it seemed foreign. I didn’t think it made me look older, although I knew that without it I looked younger. I didn’t even think it attracted women, as the fairer sex seems to have an aversion to body hair that no doubt comes from the demands of a still-sexist society, but for which I have no complaints. No, the only reason that the beard stuck to my face for so many years was because it had already been there for so many already. It was a part of me and I of it, until I finally realized that I forgot what my face looked like without it.

So I was standing there in my bathroom, staring at my face and thinking, and I understood that I was part of the problem. I was another bearded guy in a growing crowd of bearded guys, and I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to associate myself with the connotations that facial hair brings with it. I wasn’t trying to find my lost manhood or assert my masculinity over an increasingly feminine world. I had simply grown used to something I’d had on my face for years, and that I’d originally put there to help make me not look like someone I’d never met. It was stupid, and I was stupid for having done it. And, with a razor in one hand and a can of shaving cream in the other, I amputated the wretched thing from my face. I felt free. In control. Confident. Wise.

Unfortunately, I also looked like a twelve-year-old boy with freakishly long legs and an overactive growth hormone. Everyone around me instantly commented on it, taking care to stress how much younger I suddenly looked and about how I had a baby face with great skin, smooth and fair and hairless. Trey even commented on the whole thing, scrunching up his face and grabbing my chin with his little hand. “Where’d your chin go?” he asked, puzzled and genuinely confused. “Where’s your brown chin? You cleaned it and throwed it in the trash?”

Out of my entire circle of friends and family, only my wife insisted that I didn’t really look any younger. Bolstered by the numerous reactions I had that expressed the contrary view, I protested and insisted that I did, in fact, look like I was twelve years old. “No, you don’t,” she said, rolling her eyes and sighing. “At best, maybe you look thirty.”

That’s still almost five years gone, so at least it’s something. Still, so loathe to admit defeat am I that I challenged her to prove that I looked any older than seventeen. She suggested we go to a store so that I could try to buy a pack of cigarettes. If I got carded, I’d win a massage. If I didn’t, she’d win gloating rights. I accepted the challenge!

I lost the challenge. Horribly. I had to admit that I was wrong and that she was right. I had to accept the sad fact that I am constantly aging and have been for some time, it seems. Brittany, however, will always be eight years younger than me and, currently, still looks as though she’s about fifteen years old. She denies it, of course – but she still gets carded all the time, to the extent that some places suspect a fake ID and run her though the paces before letting her buy so much as a lottery ticket.

I’m not sure if I’ll let the beard grow back or not. I know that shaving every morning is a pain in the ass, and I’m already tired of doing it. I also don’t like the idea of shelling out hundreds of clams each year on razor cartridges and shaving cream, although Santa Claus can remedy that by bringing me a straight razor for Christmas. Still, I hate being part of any type of trend to such an extent that I’ll probably endure the daily shaving for the foreseeable future, or at least until the facial hair fad dies down a bit. It seems you can’t throw a Schick these days without hitting at least fifty goatees and thirty or so chin straps, so until the men of the nation start walking around bare faced again, I’ll probably keep my mug whisker free.

And you never know – that guest spot on 24 might finally materialize one day, and I want to be ready. It’s about time the world learned the seedy truth behind Jack Bauer’s long-lost love child, and with a clean shaven face and a little All-American charm, I could be that bastard! Oh yes. I could.

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
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The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
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This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.