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My Name is Hef
So I think I'm gonna hit up Renaissance Faire for the first (and perhaps only) time this year, come Sunday. While I still have shaggy hair and my mighty muttonchops, I think I'm gonna bust out the Bill the Butcher costume once again. I know it's not appropriate period, but damn it all, neither are half of the other people there!
The mustache experiment was fascinating indeed. Really, I think it kinda worked for me, but only with the muttonchops. Without them as a facial buffer zone, I kinda look like a sandy-haired Freddy Mercury. The problem with the mustache was its natural unruliness, and refusal to stay put after long, no matter how much goop I put into it. My daily mustache routine would go as follows:
Phase 1: Bill the Butcher by way of Sinestro. A pointed, twirl-ready mustache. If I grew my beard the right way, I could totally rock the Ollie Queen. Snazzy and unusual, it went very well with the bowler derby (whereupon I became Dum Dum Dugan).
But then the gel would wear off, and the mustache would unravel. Whereupon, with my hair and sideburns, we come to:
Phase 2: Ron Burgundy.
And let's face it, I've been flirting with 70's fashion between the 'chops and my shirts for a while as it is. But just when you think it can't get worse, I go to the gym, whereupon I totally get all greasy and sweaty, my hair mussed from several wipes of a towel. In my beardless days, this resulted in my "HEEEEEEEEEEEEERE'S JOHNNY!" Jack Nicholson hair. But with the mustache, the result is rather different and horrid.
Phase 3: MY NAME IS EARL.
Photogenic evidence possibly forthcoming. Weep for the children.
Psst,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
civilbloodshed: now that I'm beardless, I'm temporarily back to looking like that Fall Out Boy singer again. One of these days, I shall confront him, and then assume my rightful place as Crown Prince of MySpace and occasional coverer of Danny Elfman showtunes!
LINKS OF NOTE:
The Dan Didio Advisory and Warning System. An essential guide to surviving today's DC Universe.
And this story is one of the reasons I love comics. I think I first discovered this story in the New Yorker, of all places. The fact that it's from 1955, that alone makes this fucking amazing, particularly when you keep in mind that it dealt with the Holocaust more frankly than most other "mainstream" media.
And leave it to Bernie Krigstein to incorporate cinematic techniques into sequential art, only to create a story that could not be told nearly as effectively in film. If I personally heard someone say that comics aren't art (and people still do), this is what I'd show them.
The mustache experiment was fascinating indeed. Really, I think it kinda worked for me, but only with the muttonchops. Without them as a facial buffer zone, I kinda look like a sandy-haired Freddy Mercury. The problem with the mustache was its natural unruliness, and refusal to stay put after long, no matter how much goop I put into it. My daily mustache routine would go as follows:
Phase 1: Bill the Butcher by way of Sinestro. A pointed, twirl-ready mustache. If I grew my beard the right way, I could totally rock the Ollie Queen. Snazzy and unusual, it went very well with the bowler derby (whereupon I became Dum Dum Dugan).
But then the gel would wear off, and the mustache would unravel. Whereupon, with my hair and sideburns, we come to:
Phase 2: Ron Burgundy.
And let's face it, I've been flirting with 70's fashion between the 'chops and my shirts for a while as it is. But just when you think it can't get worse, I go to the gym, whereupon I totally get all greasy and sweaty, my hair mussed from several wipes of a towel. In my beardless days, this resulted in my "HEEEEEEEEEEEEERE'S JOHNNY!" Jack Nicholson hair. But with the mustache, the result is rather different and horrid.
Phase 3: MY NAME IS EARL.
Photogenic evidence possibly forthcoming. Weep for the children.
Psst,
civilbloodshed: now that I'm beardless, I'm temporarily back to looking like that Fall Out Boy singer again. One of these days, I shall confront him, and then assume my rightful place as Crown Prince of MySpace and occasional coverer of Danny Elfman showtunes!LINKS OF NOTE:
The Dan Didio Advisory and Warning System. An essential guide to surviving today's DC Universe.
And this story is one of the reasons I love comics. I think I first discovered this story in the New Yorker, of all places. The fact that it's from 1955, that alone makes this fucking amazing, particularly when you keep in mind that it dealt with the Holocaust more frankly than most other "mainstream" media.
And leave it to Bernie Krigstein to incorporate cinematic techniques into sequential art, only to create a story that could not be told nearly as effectively in film. If I personally heard someone say that comics aren't art (and people still do), this is what I'd show them.
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How the fuck does THAT work?!
One of these days, I'm gonna have to meet him. But we shouldn't touch; I'd be afraid of us melting together and destroying one another, like TIMECOP or something.
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