Should I stir the pot and lose the mustache? You decide
January is a mother of a month, leading up to our most-sonorous holiday, the Super Bowl. I’m hoping we can all spend it together. Here’s to health, happiness and Hail Marys. Bet the underdog and the cheese blintzes.
First on the to-do list for 2017, the holiday lights have to come down — we usually let a blustery north wind do that. Meanwhile, my mustache has reached its expiration date. Time for it to come down as well.
There are two schools of thought on my mustache. The first is that it doesn’t look so good. The second is that it’s a hideous throwback to those ’80s detective shows that co-starred some sort of car.
The third school of thought, just emerging, is that we don’t necessarily know what resides beneath the 35-year-old mustache, now whiter than a Mormon ski trip. I’ve had it for so long, it may be holding my face together.
At the office potluck, amid talk of artichoke dips and virgin births, it was suggested that I at least trim the stupid thing. Left untended, it has developed a Wilford Brimley scruffiness that wasn’t as flattering as hoped. Indeed, in the mirror, I looked like a rockabilly bass player. Or a roadie for Reba McEntire.
So we have that to look forward to in 2017, a more contemporary look. Fortunately, the lovely and patient older daughter bought me plenty of new duds for Christmas — lots of flannel and a snappy tweed cap. I leave the house now looking like a wealthy English traveler.
A new year is a natural point for this sort of reflection. Adding to that is an abundance of winter rains. I am one downpour away from becoming a French surrealist.
Here in La La Land, we are not a pale people. No matter the season, we are usually tarnished by the sun. When winter rains come, we are at first charmed by them, but by Day Three cabin fever sets in and folks rush to adjust their meds. By Day Four, civil panic has ensued, and the governor calls out the National Guard to restore order.
In L.A., we always wrestle with a sense of lawlessness anyway. Starlets seem to do whatever they damn please, and even the cops don’t bother with turn signals in heavy traffic. This is the American West, after all.
Still, I welcome the rains. I like the way they glisten the streets and refract the brake lights as I sit for hours on the freeway, plotting my escape.
Admittedly, I am at a pivot point with this cozy little city; I either have to fully commit or move out. Marriage seems out of the question — L.A. is not a one-man town. Besides, there are so many places I have still never lived.
Berlin, for one, where a buddy is going to make a movie, so I may spend five months there as his personal chef and chocolatier. The other day, while making jambalaya for the potluck, I substituted a ramen noodle spice pack when I ran out of bullion. So naturally, my services as a high-end chef are in demand.
Of course, I only make the one dish — jambalaya — and have brought it to the office potluck now for 23 straight years. Nobody much complains. A couple of co-workers are convinced it’s some sort of paella.
If Berlin doesn’t work out, then I may try Dublin for six months, or maybe Milwaukee, which I see as the only U.S. equivalent.
Yeah, Milwaukee. I like the sound of that. Rush hour is lighter and the population less enhanced. In Milwaukee, I’ll have what’s considered “a nice, warm smile.”
“Keep the ’stache,” the folks there will insist. “We all have them, including many of the moms.”
With the new year, a certain restlessness has overcome me, maybe you can tell. All I need now is for Milwaukee to make me a fair offer and maybe erect a small statue.
On Craigslist, I’ll announce my intentions:
“Cranky columnist seeks new city to mock. Must shamelessly adore children and dogs. Must acknowledge the existence of a Lutheran God, and wonder still, after all these years, why ABC took “Happy Days” off the air.
“Serious inquiries only.”
Twitter: @erskinetimes
Trash the ’stash? Keep the ’stash? Vote on whether the mustache should go by emailing the columnist at [email protected]. Results will be subject to Electoral College review.
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