I wish I was a handsome man, I really do. But I’m not and that’s all there is to it. Not all of us can be. If I were, I might even post a picture in my profile instead of various ravens. Again, I am not, so don’t expect to ever know what I look like. Unless I decide to post one very old, specific and flawed picture taken more as a lark than intended to be representative of who I am. Several people told me I looked like Glen Danzig back at that time. I could have cared less, honestly. Long black and candy-red hair and biker jacket. I still really love leather biker jackets, but no one seems to make them the same way they used to, which is a shame.
Actually, I really hate pictures.
Always have, honestly. I think it goes back to the days my mother used to make us stand out in the backyard, freezing out tits off, so she could send out Christmas pictures with Christmas cards in the Christmas way of doing Christmas things in our house (I wonder if part of my humbug attitude about Christmas stems from these loathed photo sessions).
We’d stand out in the backyard, everything dead or dying, sometime in late October or early November so she could snap a polaroid [correction: “instamatic”] to mass produce. And, back in those days, flash bulbs were hinky things that came in cubes and burned out after each picture, so the lighting had to be “just right”, meaning it was usually very clear, windy, typically below temperatures known to freeze water (see: tits — plop plop) and she would get the luxury of the sunlight to her back while we would have to try to not squint into the sun (“No squinting! Open your eyes!”).
Inevitably, we’d get some dorky picture that totally looked like we were trying not to squint as the sun burned out our retinas. Plus, I never got to wear what I wanted, but always had to wear some godawful polo shirt that was most definitely NOT Polo and of a material thin enough to make twin Eiffel towers under my shirt. Before… you know.. plop.
Don’t get me wrong. I like pictures of other people. Especially of lovely women who overlooked my ugly mug in the past.
Actually, I have about three pictures I don’t mind showing of myself. But not to be shown here…
Aside from the apparent Danzig impersonation I was unaware I was cultivating, there is another grainy-as-fuck picture of me wearing a Bauhaus shirt (with Minnesota Flannel (TM)), my hair all Van de Graaff and apparently black, posing with my science-math-technology classmates (STEM in today’s vernacular). It is an excellent picture to play “one of these things is not like the other” (Sesame Street reference), although I was the only freak in the group and it isn’t a very challenging game for the picture. I like it because I am all pissy looking and obviously disinterested in posing for the picture. They made me stand in back because my hair covered up everyone’s faces, though I should have by all rights been lower down on the stands. I really should have flipped the Vs to complete the look, but didn’t think of it at the time. A major regret, in retrospect.
Finally, there was the picture of me in a graveyard done up all ren-fest-hippy-eskimo, with my natural-colored dirty blonde hair with who was my fiancé and first wife. When I’ve shared that with folks a bit back, I got the Michael Hutchence comparison. I didn’t consider it insulting, but I was quick to mention that I’m not all that into asphyxiation while jerking off. I prefer to breath.
I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, you know.
But that picture wasn’t half bad, mostly because it covered up my face with my long, dense, obnoxiously curly, hair. The hair is obnoxious because it really belongs on a woman, not on some ugly-assed guy. Do you know how many crimping irons I burnt out trying to get rid of those curls during my Bob Smith phase? And the cases of Aquanet? FUUUUUU…. I should own the rights to the Aquanet line.
But, of all the pictures out there, that was one. Maybe it made me look good because my ex made a good distraction…
Maybe if I worked out again, I’d at least look healthy, if not still ugly.