My apologies to your browser--there are a lot of pictures in hurrr.

I know most people express their love for facially-based follicles in November, so you can accuse me of being behind the times or unfashionable or whatever. That’s okay. I can take it. My current celebration of the scruffy stuff is inspired by Christmas.

No, that’s not why.

Wrong again.

One of my oldest friends was my Secret Santa and, knowing me a little too well, gave me this fella’.

His name is Valentino. Swoon.

He loves Christmas, Spanish reds, and sweet potato pancakes.

Back on track.

Valentino’s glorious arrival comes on the heels of a discussion among my housemates about facial hair. Specifically, the fact that beards seem to be considered trustworthy and lovely, while moustaches are only for men who want to tie you to the train tracks or worse.

I tried to defend the moustache by listing all of the trustworthy and wholesome ones in the world, but my struggle to do so pretty much proved my opponents' argument.

So what does this mean?

Probably not a whole lot in the grand scheme of things.

I am almost positive, however, that there is a mathematical equation that explains my particular relationship with facial hair. That is, the more questionable and unsavoury a man's facial hair is, the more likely I am to trust/be attracted to him.

Exceptions:

Starburns from Community.

Neckbeards.

'Prove it, Liz! You can't just make these wild statements. Back up your thesis. See, this is why you'll never succeed as an academic. You make me sick.'

Okay. Ouch, but I get your drift.

Exhibit A: John Waters

The pencil-thin moustache is associated with general creepiness the world over, and matching it with a Santa hat for a mugshot isn't likely to endear one to the PTA any time soon. Knowing that this type of moustache is so reviled should be enough to dissuade any man from cultivating one for himself. But he's John fucking Waters. Man gets the joke. I appreciate that. I'd much rather leave the kids with him if I'm out for the night than with that snotty girl from up the block. Psh. Charging me twelve bucks and hour so you can sit on my couch and eat all the Pringles? I don't think so.

What I am trying to say is that I trust him because he can laugh at himself. And I kind of adore him anyway.

Exhibit B: Tom Waits

Not a moustache, I know, but a soul patch is just the worst. We all know it. If we go back to that old math equation, though, it holds true.

It's the most hated of facial hair formations.

And he is the hottest thing on two legs.

Do the math.

Exhibit C: Sam Rockwell

Mr. Rockwell has made a career out of being skeazy-but-endearing, so it stands to reason that he would have something awful on his upper lip at some stage. He makes people feel the need to shower. Whether those showers are hot or cold, however, depends on the person. Heyyyo. But, really. The man looks shady enough without the 'stache, so it's addition should be the proverbial cricket bat to the skull. And yet, dear readers, as I sit here all schnuggly in my jimjams I find myself wishing I had his number so I could invite him over for a movie night. Because he looks like a solid guy. And he'd probably bring a few of the remaining cans of Four Loko in the area to make it a party. He's a good friend.

Exhibit D: Zachariah Hickman

There is nothing to defend here. This moustache is the stuff of legends.

Plus, there's the song.

Follower Love-Fest #16: Gazel M

Were it not for the fact that she does, I'd be convinced that Gazel is too cute to function. Her blog, Bonjour Gazel, is a dreamland of cute smiles and fantastic clothes. Not gonna' lie, kids, I kind of want to be her. Or, at the very least, to live in the Narnia of her wardrobe. Just cardigans and blouses and ruby shoes all day. And, I know this might be creepy, but Mr. Waters would support me in saying that this girl has the most perfect mastery of lipstick in the history of lip rouging. Oh, and you should buy things (for me) from her.

When I said that I would start reading for my classes, I don

't think I was very clear.

What I meant to say was, 'I am going to carry around my copy of Metamorphoses, read about twenty pages, then get distracted, reread all of my Vonnegut books, try to organize my bookshelf, and make iced tea.' Sorry for any confusion.

Yep.

As with last time, the internet ate my newest Fringe post. Cue combination of me feeling like a douchenozzle and hating technology.

I might hop in the car and take advantage of those stress relievers labelled 'Free Windows' in front of a house up the road.

In other news, after a year of being sweaty and cranky, we finally got the air conditioner fixed. HIGH FIVE ME, INTERNET.

That is technology I can get behind. I know, I know. It's a luxury that our ancestors got along without just fine. But our ancestors also thought that maggots came from dirty rags and that mercury could cure venereal diseases. And that's just science.

Goddamn right, Azrael.

Oh ho ho. I made a funny.

Plan for the day:

-Call up jobs to check in again. (Are you sick of this yet? Tough break. So am I.)

-Unpack properly. Oops.

-Call the camera repair shop to see what the damage is to the Hammer and my wallet.

-Buy glitter.

-Run some other sundry errands.

-Make veggie burgers?

_

Follower Love-Fest #9: Min

Min's blog, Don't Say Stuff Like That, is an eyegasm. Don't look at me like that. It's a delightful mix of film screencaps, fashion, fantasmagorical shoes, and sexy people. You don't know it, but I took a ten second pause there to be distracted by the pictures of Tim Roth just chilling on the main page. Are you still here? I can't for the life of me understand why.

Meant to be a music post, buuuuut...

...that's just not going to happen.

My first full day home, my parents and I saw Jeff Beck in concert.

It wasn't religious experience, but it was certainly better than any mass I've ever been to.

That man is magical. No lie.

Also, his opening act was a big surprise.

I almost died of excitement over seeing that legend and this sexy betch on the same night.

And then performing together.

My gushing would be intolerable were I to go on.

Trying to keep this in the vein of music schtuff. I'm seeing the Goo Goo Dolls in two weeks.

I know that this will do nothing for my street cred, but I love these guys and I will not apologize.

The only thing that upsets me is Johnny's plastic surgery.

I mean, with his bone structure and highlights, he was the man of my nine-year-old self's dreams.

WHYYYYYYY?

I'm not sure my achy breaky heart is going to be able to cope with seeing my pre-teen dreamboat so low.

Let's console ourselves, dear readers, with those who have aged well.

Really well.

Get out of my dreams, and into my car.

Well, we all saw this one coming.

Where are you hiding, Thora? Your public misses you!

In fairness, he was thirty when he played Cameron.

And, for my own personal delight, please note how much RDJ looks like a young Ezra Pound when he rocks that skeazy facial hair.

_

Follower Love-Fest #7: Lodi

Huzzah for a profile I can actually get to! Not that I need one, as I've been on this lovely laydeeee's blog quite a few times, creeping like it's going out of style. That wasn't meant to be some kind of pun/joke thang because she writes a style blog, but there you go. It happened. All the same, I often want to kill her and steal her clothes and garden, but then there would be no more blog or Lodi and I would be very sad. Also, I'd be in jail, and I just couldn't cut it in the clink. What I am getting at is that you should check her out. And marvel at her hair.

In the spirit of this post being all over the place, HAPPY FATHERS' DAY (even though it was technically yesterday)!

Home.

I forgot what humidity was until I got home.

My hair's not a fan, but I really like it when there's so much water in the air that you never quite feel dry. It's kind of like a security blanket.

For the past three days I've been waking up to chirping birds and rustling leaves and all of those stereotypical summer sounds.

My favourite, though, is the sound the plaster and wood of the walls make as the sun heats everything up. They groan and knock on all sides of every room.

It's not subtle either. I think that these sort of hazy descriptions are supposed to be more part of the scenery, but the creaks are loud and don't stop until I get out of bed to start the day.

Actually, they don't stop until nighttime, and then it's time for cicadas.

I miss college and everyone there already. Still, I am glad to be home.

I haven't seen any of my friends yet, but that will change in a few hours when people come over for pizza and movies.

FearNet is a distinct possibility. Awwwww yeah.

Vair, vair excited, even though I've been running around on the job hunt all day, everyday since I arrived back and have failed miserably at reestablishing any form of a sleep schedule.

Oh, and the Internet has contacted me.

Time to call Will Smith.

What else, what else?

Went to a concert with my parents, but that's for another time.

Because I am le tired.

And I'm watching The African Queen.

I love this movie way too much, and not just because of Humphrey Bogart.

Well, he doesn't hurt.

Um. My new Fringe post is up. I'm doing some ~research~ for the next one.

That was my attempt at creating suspense.

Aaaaaaaanyway...

_

Follower Love-Fest #6: Chelsey

Okay, I'm pretty sure that this whole not-being-able-to-click-through-to-profiles problem comes from my own poor understanding of technology. Every time this happens, I'm just going to make up things about my beautiful readers. And then I'll have to go to confession for lying. Or something.

Chelsey and I met on a cruise to Barbados. Originally, the trip was meant to have gone to Alaska, but there was a sudden tax on Bugles that year. The ship's captain, a big fan of the salty treats, had quite a stock on board and refused to pay the tax on principle. So, we changed course. The two of us met while trading our jumpers for sundresses when we docked. We've been pals ever since.

'You're not such a bad volcano, Eyjafjallajokull.'

I am halfway done with exams now and it feels pretty damn good. I'm still in a Panic Mode of sorts, but nothing that can't be managed with tea.

And this guy.

I think that Josh Ritter is one of the greatest musical artists of whatever you would call the time period we're living in now. This is not going to devolve into a creepy love letter about how he is the voice of our age or any of that other mawkish bullshit. But I really adore his music and he just seems like a lovely person. Not a god. Not a prophet. A talented artist and a decent human being (a Good Man, you might say--har har) and his music has made my world a more enjoyable place to live. Be prepared for a lot of links and embedded songs.

My only beef with him has been that he has always had the inability to be in the same place as me when he is performing. As in, less than a week after I flew back to Dublin he played twenty minutes from my home in New Jersey. Similar instances have occurred--on both sides of that infernal ocean--for the better part of five years. This past Tuesday, all that changed.

Did I care that the venue wasn't built when I bought the tickets? Nope.

Did I care that the concert was the sandwiched between two exams, one being at 9:30 the next morning? No way.

Did I care that the tickets were well out of my price range and I knew that I would probably wind up stuck with extras when my more sensible friends couldn't go because of the exam schedule? Not in the least.

And I regret nothing.

Correction: I regret assuming that I wouldn't be allowed to bring my camera in, leaving it, and then spending the concert hating every flashbulb that went off.

Back to the concert. It was amazing. I am using short-ish sentences and words to contain my overflowing joy at the memory of it.

First off, we were a couple of minutes late getting in for the opening act, which we all felt awful about because he great. It could be argued that I'm just a sucker for 'that kind of music', and I wouldn't fight back. It's true. Anyway, his name is Joe Pug and he is tops.

Mr. Ritter and the band were fantastic. It is not a matter of debate or opinion. Every member played wonderfully and they all seemed to be having such a great time that you couldn't help but smile through the whole performance. I am actually typing this with a huge smile on my face and I probably sound like a gushing idiot. Don't care.

The most energetic and giddy-energy-inducing number was definitely this baybeh.

So much of his music is melodic and close that the livelier songs like this are startling in the most pleasant of ways.

He also played one of my favourite songs, Harrisburg, which definitely needs to be experienced live. Wow. That's a douchey thing to say. What I mean is that it's one of those songs which is wonderfully strong, but has a flexibility in it for the best kind of ad libbing, if you can say that with music.

Kind of selfish on our part, but it makes the audience feel special.

A fair portion of the night was songs off of his new album, and that is not a complaint. So Runs the World Away is nothing short of an achievement and I'd be lying if I said it has not been racking up a significant play count on my iTunes. Overused as the phrase is, I'm in no headspace to think of a better one to describe The Curse than 'hauntingly beautiful'. It is that. Simply.

The amazing thing about the performance, especially this song, is that it was scarcely a performance at all. A talented songwriter and singer though he is, Ritter is not much of a showman. The audience is undoubtedly entertained and, more than that, enthralled while he and the band are playing, but he doesn't have the gaudy, pleading insistence of a showman, which I really appreciate. When he sang this song, though, he grew kind of stiff and curled into himself, his movements laboured and slow, like those of a mummy in a silent film. Not frightening or comical, but just right.

The rendition of In the Dark was done in silence. The band left the stage, all of the instruments were turned off, he stepped away from the microphones, and just filled the theatre with his voice.

Okay. I think I should cut myself off here. You get the picture. I had a fanfuckingtastic time and hope that it won't be too long before I can see him again.

Website: JoshRitter.com

Blog: Book of Jubilations

New CD: So Runs the World Away (Not out until the fourth in America.)

Oh, and he did dedicate a song to everyone's favourite plane-stopping volcano.

~

Follower Love Fest #3: Lillian Boren

What can I say about Lillian? More importantly, what can't I say? She knits the the best fake stoles this side of the International Date Line. She is a really talented gal. Not just a master in the art of wielding big fucking needles, she has fabulous hair, a contagious smile, and enough cardigans to start a family/kill a horse/sell water to a drowning man. And the wit on her. I've gotten many a dirty look in the library while trying to hold in teh lulz that she provokes in her entries at L is for Lillian. You should head there while supplies last!

There will be no capering nimbly.

I am now blogging for Fringe, sort of. I put that 'sort of' there because is one of the coolest things to happen to me in recent memory and I'm really nervous about jinxing it. Anyway, my first write up is here and it makes me smile

My first exam is in five hours.

No, I am not panicking.

Yes, that was a lie.

I've gotten to the point where I hoard any books that seem relevant to my needs and use them to make a fort around me. When I get around to figuring our which ones are actually worth anything to me I have to bring the rest back, shuffling around like Richard III.

Yes, that's what I'm studying.

I could use this as practice for getting all of my (uninformed and unoriginal) ideas out there, but I'll save my word-vomit for this afternoon.

Instead, let us take this time to appreciate how sexy Ian McKellen is as Richard. We are ignoring the fact that McKellen doesn't like girls, is much older, and that Richard is a creeper of the highest calibre.

Oh, and RDJ has a slight role in this film version, for those who don't appreciate McKellen's obvious appeal.

You should be converted now.

Follower Love-Fest #2 : V. SIRIN

I'll be honest, I don't know a whole lot about the saint vitus blogger, but what I do know is enough. She makes delicious-looking (and, I'm sure, -tasting) pies and is shares my talent for chronically destroying the elbows of sweaters. She is also a brilliant artist who creates images combining gorgeous lines and startling attention to detail.

Now, back to panicking.

"...you can't be so friendly, kid."

This could almost be a follow-up post to my last.

Everyone's favourite sexual teddy bear, Liev Schreiber, will be on Broadway in A View From the Bridge.

Click that link.

When you click it, you might hear the distant sound of your grandmother's prized china tinkling as it meets the harsh reality of a hardwood floor.

This, coincidentally, is also the sound of my heart breaking.

I fly back two weeks before this opens and will not be over again until June.

Ow ow ow ow owwwww.

Perhaps it's for the best, though.

When I saw what turned out to be Jeremy Piven's last performance in Speed-the-Plow, it was his last for a reason.

That shit was a disaster.

The acting wasn't the issue, though you could tell the actors' hearts weren't in it.

I knew I didn't like the play ahead of time, but it was a Christmas gift because Jeremy fucking Piven was in it.

With this, however, I love the piece and have high hopes for the performance. Ahhh well.

I am not too disheartened, dear readers.

In keeping with what is fast becoming an annual tradition, I saw Gogol Bordello at Webster Hall with one of my best friends.

Sufficed to say, it was a religious experience.

My unimpressive height left me battered and bruised by the flailing young men and shimmy-rocking skanks while I bopped up and down for a glimpse of these modern gods.

At the beginning of their forty-five minute encore, like clockwork, a broad older gentlemen stepped to the side and became my human shield for a few songs.

Alas, when the crowd was invited to the after party it took me several seconds to comprehend that I would not be among the chosen few.

Nahhhh biggie.

I had an amazing time and we saw Batman on the Path. It was pretty sweet.

Didn't manage to get any good shots this time around, so here is my favourite from last year's joyfest/of all time.

Come, all ye faithful

I hope you all had a lovely Christmas.

Y'know, the kind with hot chocolate, fuzzy blankets, and minimal family awkwardness.

Even if you don't celebrate, I hope it was good anyway.

Rather than post about the presents I got or just how full of peppermint bark I am, I wanted to try something a little different.

After celebrating the birth of of the world's most famous mensch, I thought we might celebrate a commodity which, due to my time in Ireland, has been missing from my life.

I mean, of course, sexy Jewish men.

Eli Roth

Let's get the giant cock in the room right out of the way. Yes, he is a skeazeball who spends most of his time getting drunk and demanding a personal viewing of girls' boobs. Yes, his most notable roles include violence. Yes, he is remarkably hairy.

I am okay with all of this. Because he is sexual and looks damn good when killing Nazis.

Liev Schreiber

Also falls under the category of "big and abusive" that I will be teased for enjoying. In our most primal and basic moments, ladies, we want this. You Tarzan. Me Jane. We bone.

You know this one is a teddy bear anyway.

A sexy, sexy teddy bear.

Jeremy Piven

I would do terrible things to this man and his v-necks.

End of story.

Jeff Goldblum

Let's try to keep our minds out of the gutter.

Nobody ever listens to Jeff Goldblum. From dinosaurs to aliens, people just don't take him seriously.

Keeping his shirt open for most of Jurassic Park was a good way to deal with what could otherwise have resulted in an inferiority complex.

Not to worry, Jeff.

Nature, uh, finds a way. (Into your pants.)

Coen Brothers

Two for one deal. That is, the two of them for the one me.

Guys want blonde twins who split their hours Hooters and the Dallas Cowboys.

I want these two.

Yes. Please.

Perhaps I'm projecting the wrong image here.

Raw sexuality and unbridled genius are not the only admirable qualities in a fella'.

I'd be happy to light the menorah with any of these gentlemen.

Because funny is sexy.

Seth Rogen in particular, though.

Even with the weight loss, he is my schlubbly, curly-haired dreamboat.

I could take him home to mother and we could smoke up to make said meeting bearable.

Perfect combination of adorable, funny, with the possibility of being an asshole from time to time.

To finish us off...

Only half Jewish, but only half-dressed as well.

Thank you, Lenny.

Oh, and you too, Baby Jesus.