Great Odin's Beard

This weekend I embarked on a feat of monumental minority so fervently fun that the very existence of this task filled me with a sense of purpose, determination and wonder.
I am of course referring to the fact that I trimmed my beard.
Irish genes being what they are, I never had enough facial fur to warant such a chore. But age being what it is, I've now passed the threshold of fuzz and delved headlong into hair territory. All this means is that my beard was gettin' scraggly.
Unfortunately the cheeky patchiness still prevails, and the sides look a little pekid. But I rock a mean moustache to compensate.
My dad didn't get to grow a beard until well past age 26, and even then his military career required certain facial hygiene requirements. As I hacked at it inch by inch with an electric trimmer, I came across a troubling strand that I saw a couple weeks prior, but chose to ignore as if that might make it go away, or convince it not to bring any friends along. A grey hair made its way on to the chin. Marcy tells me it could pass as blonde, and that's comforting, but we both know the truth.

A blog twofer:
This weekend the battle between me and the entire year of 2002 took a tragic turn against me.
I purchased my very first iPod.

(In case you were confused, I put obtaining a first iPod as an achievement worth
note in 2002, not six years later when everybody's got em. But I gotta do all I
can to convince me to keep going to the gym - that's why I bought new sweats,
new shirts, and yes, an iPod. Maybe new sneakers too, but Larry at the gym told
me about a 67-year-old who decided to climb Mt. Rainier and did it by training
in ratty old tennis shoes. The theory was he made his workouts as physically
demanding as possible so that he'd have an easier time down the mountain.)

So I got a cute little shuffle. I was going to hold out and save my money until I can get a big monster iPod, but I'm happy with what I got. If anything, I've put most of what I intend to have on it for my trips to the gym, and it's less than half full. Or more than half empty, depending on how you look at it.
Damn you 2002. I still struck a big blow with the fact that it was the year I quit smoking, but I'll never forgive you for this: