It may be time to get a new photo taken to run with this column. The current mugshot, though devastatingly handsome (I think we can all agree on that much, right?), just doesn’t look much like me.
That pic is nearly 10 years old, for one thing. Also, it was heavily “massaged” in Photoshop to remove eye bags, wrinkles and the cowlick that pops up, Alfalfa-like, from the top of my head no matter how much product I use in my ongoing and fruitless attempts to beat it down.
But mostly, the problem stems from time, and its inexorable passage. When that picture was taken, I was still reasonably young and possessed all the best physical characteristics of Brad Pitt and Tom Selleck, with maybe a little David Bowie thrown in, just to keep in touch with my feminine side.
The point is, I was drop dead gorgeous. And incredibly humble, to boot.
These days, however, if they were to make a movie of my life, Jack Nicholson could play the “current me,” but only if he were willing to pack on an additional 20 pounds for the role. Whatever fleeting good looks I may once have possessed have fled indeed and show no signs of returning anytime soon.
In fact, if I understand this “aging” thing at all, odds are I’m only going to get UGLIER from here on out! And despite my earlier comments (the unkind might call them “lies”) about resembling Brad and Tom, I was never really all that attractive to begin with.
The way I have it figured, if I live as long as I plan to — 127 — at my current rate of decay, I will look a lot like Quasimodo by the time I celebrate my final birthday.
But I’m getting off topic here, which is my column photo. I know it’s time for a new one, because of something that happened last weekend.
I was playing with my little weekend band, The Guinness Brothers, at a bar up in Newaygo. The Driftwood is a nice joint and we play there a lot, especially during the summer months.
Following our second set, a fella introduced himself and commented on how much he liked the band. He asked for a card, since he knew of a club in Spring Lake that was looking for new bands to play there. I gave him one.
“Thanks,” he said, glancing at the card. “Oh, Mike Taylor. Like the guy who writes that column.”
“Almost exactly like him,” I said.
He looked at me intently. “It’s you!” he said. “I read your column every week. I even have some stuck up on the refrigerator.”
Now, believe me, in the world of newspaper columnists, getting stuck beneath someone’s refrigerator magnet is high praise indeed and no, I am not kidding. I’d take that over an Associated Press award any day of the week.
I was flattered. But then the guy ruined it by saying, “I’ve seen your band a dozen times. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.” He gazed at me piercingly again, trying to reconcile the reasonably presentable column photo with the ruined Troglodyte monstrosity hunching before him.
“It’s an old photo,” I said, finally. He nodded. I could tell he was mentally trying to assess how many decades had elapsed since the pic was taken. I’m glad I’m not a mind reader; I don’t think I would have been happy knowing his final tally.
At any rate, I’m planning to get another mugshot taken the next time I’m wearing a dark jacket and having a good hair day at the same time. Could be months from now.
Meanwhile, if you want to get some idea of what I really look like, all you need is some Silly Putty. Make a Silly Putty transfer of my mugshot from the newspaper (if you don’t know how to do this, you were never a child), then stretch it horizontally. Using a Magic Marker, add dark circles under the eyes and a cowlick to the hair, maybe a few wrinkles.
Voila! A preview of my new column photo! Coming soon.
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