I guess I must have stopped with the cowboy gear some time around ‘59. The Wild West scene was taking off in movie theatres all over the country, and I needed to make my mark as an intern with a more distinctive look than a checked shirt and matching stetson. So when I broke my razor plucking breakfast one morning, and went a whole week without a shave, that’s when it all started, that whole Evil Editor chic.
My fledgling muttonchops were unruly at first, like when Arooooologong lost most of her fur the one time I fed her a live chimpanzee*, but this was back in the days before shredders, remember, so I’d already mastered chopping stuff to pieces with scissors.
Like all the guys back then, I wanted to look like Elvis. But hey — by the time I was done grooming, the guys all craved face fuzz like mine. After a couple months, the New York Times sent a reporter down to check out this weird neighbourhood where the guys all looked like Roman legionaries. And the chicks hobbled round like they had rickets.
* Don’t try this, even with ordinary pets. Especially for a party piece at Thanksgiving.
--Whirlochre
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3 comments:
This must be near the Passaic swamplands in New Jersey. I drove over them once and remember the strange smell floating up from the hoi-polloi.
Good bio.
This was great, as usual, per Whirlochre. Evil Editor chic? Who knew?
Meri
Excellent life event to lay down for us, my future is now richer for gaining this understanding.
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