Not the Face! Not the Face!

Shortly after my twin brother, Steve (top photo, yes we are wearing the same shirt) and I arrived in the little south Florida town of Jupiter he was accosted by a gang of toughs on his way to junior high school.

One stepped forward and threatened my brother:
"Stay away from my girlfriend or I'll kick your ass," he explained. My brother didn't even KNOW the girl. Apparently she had remarked that he was "cute" and it was instant "Capulets vs. Montagues.

"I'll kick your ass, " he explained.

In a fistfight, my brother led with his nose which could projectile-bleed on command. It was a defense mechanism- like a porcupine or blowfish. His tormentors would recoil in horror at the sight of nose blood spraying their stupid "Ford, the Breakfast of Chevys" t-shirts. Most of his "fights" ended without a single punch thrown.

The easiest way to tell us apart was knowing that it was he who walked the school hallways, with his head tilted proudly back, chin up and nose thrust regally in the air sporting a bloody tissue dangling from one nostril.

I simply started throwing punches immediately when challenged which put the bully on defense. Invariably he'd go in to wrastling mode to get out of the way of my merciless windmilling fists of fury and the fight would end in a draw.

Most importantly, it left my face intact.

The Hunt Club

My artist's studio- The Hunt Club, is normally closed to everyone. Few people, even members of my family, have ever been inside. It has nothing to do with modesty. I'd rather that people imagine fine art masterpieces inside than see the cold practical reality of the mostly commercial art on display.

A few months ago I turned my keys over to a visiting relative in need of a stay. A dinner party broke out one night and The Hunt Club was abuzz with friends and relatives. Food and drink was served followed by the requisite tour and ended with (more) drinks on the patio. Little comment was made about my paintings.

"Did you notice all the framed pictures he has of himself?" slurred one.

"He doesn't even know who the other
people are!" managed another.

Dewey Defeats Truman!

I never expected to be recognized as a "Senior Superlative" in my high school yearbook though I thought I had a shot at "Best Looking."

I didn't play organized sports, dressed poorly and was graduated from the bottom of my class. Small objects and toys were a choking hazard. My academic history was summed up in a handwritten note tucked in my "Life's File" that the Guidance Counselor kept. It read "Grades below average but passing. Likes to keep his hair long."

So when the yearbook came out it was no shock to me that I wasn't named "Most Likely to Succeed" and crowned "Wittiest" instead. A bit of typecasting as I had been humiliated with the "Class Clown" moniker in my sophomore year. My hapless twin brother was named "Friendliest" which was another way of saying "not as dangerous or sexy as his twin."

To my chagrin, a popular athlete was named "Best Looking" probably because "Most Athletic" went to someone else. He looked okay, I guess. He had a decent car and dressed better than I. Since I counted surfing as "taking a bath" he probably beat me on personal hygiene as well.

I demand a recount!

Facebook- the Living Obituary

At first I uploaded old pictures to my personal albums out of pure vanity. It's common practice on Facebook to upload old pictures of yourself posing with old friends who you dutifully tag and share. Common sense dictates that you look really good in the photo- preferably better than your dear old friends.

Before Facebook, the only place we had this much control over our public image was on the obituary page in the local newspaper.

Radio Handsome

The great Phil Hendrie's funniest character - Chris Norton is constantly getting into trouble because he's "so good lookin."

In this clip- Chris' family is in an uproar after they caught him having "sess"  (while wearing a "tuss") with his cousin at a wedding reception in his uncle's home.

Phil Hendrie is the funniest, most original performer in the history of radio.

But not the handsomest.

Go, Baby, Go!

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