My Beard and I go to New England

Beards don't like chowder.

Beards hate New England Clam Chowder.

They like good coffee and long walks, but not long walks on the beach.

Beards hate sand.

Beards love mirrors and dancing.

Never, ever, under any circumstance make a Beard mad right before bed. You'll wake up with more knots than a boy scout.

Here's something you need to know about me. My heart belongs to Providence, Rhode Island.

My Beard, however, is bit more of the back woodsy type. I thrive in coffee shops listening to Iron & Wine, and catching up with NPR. For my Beard, he's happy anytime he's got a backdrop of flannel and the grease from a once alive animal carcass collecting within the confines of the his curly abyss while a ten point deer mount is looking down on him with a majestic sorrow.

It took some convincing, two try's at a new pair of shoes from Berks, and the delightful fanfare of Beirut before he finally felt like he could enjoy himself in the city.

So we went. Me, my Beard, and Shannon Rupp spent Thanksgiving in Providence. Shannon turned 21, we had great food and fellowship at my good friends the McLernons (thanks again by the way,) and as mentioned we enjoyed an incredible evening of excellent brass instrumentation by Beirut at their concert. And of course, we had coffee.

I love coffee. My Beard loves when I spill coffee into him. Shannon loves coffee (I just got a two-for with that last statement because both the Rupp and my sister enjoy a well crafted cup of joe.) Bar none, Seven Stars (where I'm sitting above) has the best all around coffee experience in all of Providence, probably even in New England, and perhaps even throughout the whole world. Maybe that's just an opinion, except that it's not.

Well, New England is in my rear view mirror now, but my Beard is sold. He's already counting down the day's until he can once again shake his luscious curls in the crisp, sweet air as he exit's Trinity after a fulfilling, and fun filled evening. Until next time Providence...

my Beard. The beginnning

This is the story of a boy and his Beard. First of course is the story of how his Beard and he met.

At the start of it all, there was a Mustache.

For awhile, the boy and his Mustache were friendly. But the Mustache was strong willed, and hard to get along with. You see, the Mustache felt very proud of it's heritage. Among those on his family tree were the Salvador Dali, the Einstein, Hitler, and Magnum PI, Prince, Yosemite Sam, Ron Burgundy, Frank Zappa, Clark Gable, and most notably he was a distant cousin of the Jeff Rush.

Because of this noble line, the Mustache began to grow haughty and proud. He felt entitled. He started demanding thrice a day groomings, high end wax, and cheap wine. Because of this new found neediness, the boy felt the need for a better friend, a true friend.

Enter the beard!

Sparse was the Beards presence at first, and not much of a threat to the Mustache. But as the boy grew fonder and fonder of the Beard, the Mustache realized that something drastic had to happen. A fateful day came when the spite of the Stache reached dangerous levels.

But too strong had the Beards friendship with the boy become, and there was only one thing the Mustache could do.

He went down in flames and took the bead with him. For two years the boy mourned the loss of two of his dear friends. If only he had known just how far the Mustaches mental stability had gone. He blamed himself, and for two years he could not bring himself to meet anyone new. He holed himself up in depressed hermitage. Occasionally he would allow himself to flirt with various hair styles, but never did anything fill the void on his face, the his Beard left behind. Never, that is, until June 4, 2011.

After much proding, and encouraging the boy was pulled out of his hermitage to attend an old friends wedding.

For the first time in two years, the boy felt the familiar itch that he remembered from two years earlier. A flood of memories surged through the boy's mind. The boy approached this new beard with a tepid reserve. Understandably, he didn't want to get hurt again. The Beard understood. Without a word, the boy was offered a Sam Adams by the Beard. The boy blushed, taken aback. The Mustache had never allowed such things to touch his lips. Again, the Beard understood. The boy felt at peace for the first time in a long time. And so began the story, on June 4th when a boy met his Beard.

My beard.

When I met my beard.

This is the story of me and my Beard.