You are quite wrong about the addiction thing, or perhaps less right than your words would have us deduce: we are all suckers, addicts. The fortunate souls among us are those who know just what substance/experience it is that they cannot do without as well as when and where to procure their next glorious fixation. Might I suggest Avishal Ronnel’s Crack Wars for a worthy exploration into the strangely close correlation between literary and pharmaceutical indulgence.
That said, thank you, stranger, for bringing the present furry nature of Tom’s uppermost lip to my attention…
Tom, I just returned from a stroll, through the droll Denver afternoon, to a grocer. Upon return to my friend Seamus’s apartment, I put the PBR in the fridge and the toilet paper in the closet, with the exception of one roll of two-ply which I installed next to the throne of productivity. Then I inspected the can of Barbasol I’d also purchased. It cost a buck twenty. As a younger youth I’d purchased the same stuff. Then I was using it for any manner of adolescent delinquency. Now I intended it to lubricate a razor’s travel over my (not so) ugly mug.
I ran some hot water in the sink and applied the lather. As I did so, I meditated on the merit of my own mustachio. The thing isn’t a paragon of health, but hell neither am I. What it does do for me is start conversations in near weatherless places like Denver or Los Angeles where that subject is so static that its existence is in perpetual doubt.
My mustache, as odd as it is blond and thin, asserts my perception of humor in all interactions; without it, I’d need a red clown nose to achieve the same end. But a red clown nose I don’t own, so the stache remains, and when folks ask me when I first started granting it safe haven I tell them all about the marvelously spectacular tradition of the Saint Lawrence University Outing Club occurring every fall: the campus-wide mustache ride.
In parting, Tom, keep your lip warm and never use mentholated chap-stick to wax that thing: Pippi Longstocking-ish blush burns will result. A.C., if you are still scanning this rather pointless correspondence, correspondance, correct-sponge-trance, I encourage you to drink some beer at the Pound and Pence.
Peter Nichols is a poet, rock climber, and vagabond originally from Toledo, Ohio.