This is a tale of a beard.

It has been the opportunity of a lifetime for many of you to experience my beard's majesty. Whether by seeing it, fearing it, kissing through it, or hanging things from it, it has changed the lives of many. All for the better. Don't argue with me about that, or, I will know, for a surety, that you suffered head trauma either as a child, recently, or both.

I had grown a little slovenly and haven't trimmed or shaved my beard in a couple weeks. It was already awe-inspiring to many. I kept having people tell me I should audition to be in the new LDS movie about the New Testament. Of course I was unemployed so naturally I thought I was off to a pretty good start for becoming an actor, and decided to let my beard flourish. And flourish it did. It flourished so much that my eating habits had to change. Sandwiches were off the menu. I would end up with my mustache than turkey. Soup was off the menu, and in my beard. I started carrying a straw with me. Which actually made sense in the grand scheme of things. Pro-tip: When you have a nose as big as mine, sometimes you just can't drink from a glass. Shampooing my mustache and beard twice a day became part of my routine. When I left my house I would grab my wallet, my watch, my keys, and my mustache comb. But it was all for the greater good, I was going to become..... A marginally unknown Arab-looking guy, so I soldiered on.

However, as I said before I was unemployed. And I was unemployed for about 4 months. Which essentially boiled down to me not only looking homeless but fast approaching that status. Luckily the beard was warm. I was growing my own sleeping bag! It was getting to be crunch time (not the beard, it was soft, because as I previously mentioned I would groom it. I'm not a slob.), and I needed a job. I applied to what seemed like hundreds of employment opportunities, and was called for almost as many interviews. Now we come to Act 2 of our tale.

When I would go in for a job interview, always felt like they went well during the actual interview process, but they all started the same way. I would be sitting in the lobby, waiting room, solitary confinement, or whatever, and someone would walk into the room, "Hello. Nick?" I would stand up, straighten my suit, assume a cocky, yet adorable posture, and say, "That's me." The other person would always start at my feet enjoying my fantastic taste in shoes, and move upwards and absorb the grandeur of my suit, then my fantastic casual, yet practiced tie knot, all the while growing more and more impressed. Their eyes sparkled with the promise of a job.

Then their gaze landed upon my beard. What happened next, was nearly universal. A race and gender crossing human nature. Like smiling, or laughing. It was like there is a natural reaction hard coded into our bodies to react a certain way when presented with a dashing, well dressed man...with a homeless person beard. The expression that unified all these different people was like a mix of that feeling you get when you feel something tickle your neck and you aren't sure if it is a bug or a loved one. Or the feeling of tasting new cuisine and not being sure if what you just ate was actually nasty or just looked like it. It all happened in a split second. A slight, quivering frown. Nostrils expanding and contracting, carotid artery pulsing, a quick glance for the nearest exit or phone, not sure if I was going to open my vest and have lined with C4, or invite them to come outside to see my camel with my many many wares and rugs...not sure whether to shake my hand or call the FBI

Needless to say I never got any of the jobs. No one wants to hire someone that looks like they got voted off of Al-Qaeda Island. So I finally gave up on the actor's dream and the beard went the way of all things. Off my face. The very next job I interviewed for, I got. After about 4 months of working there I get an email from the movie people, telling me they are considering me for a role. The only caveat, is that I will be mostly naked for a whole day.

Or rather, I should say the biggest incentive is, I get to be mostly naked for a whole day! There was another catch. In the email I was asked to take pictures of myself in very little clothing, so they could look at my body. Well hey, there is nothing new, so I was on board. Basically I was asked by the church movie studios to send in nudie pictures. So of course I got my roommate, who was only more than happy, to take the pictures and sent them in (as an aside I am now looking for a new roommate. Text me!). I was also offered a significant chunk of money for the role, and was asked if that was satisfactory.

Satisfactory!? Of course, I would have done it for a Twinkie and some Kool Aid.

And this was the story of how growing a beard will get you into a movie almost naked. Take note folks. It's the road to success.

    I think my employers are trying to kill me. I don't know what I have done to offend them so that they have risen up, banded together, and are seeking swift, or rather...semi-swift, well....really more like slow, painful retribution. Here is something I don't get. The kitchen staff where I work are all Mexican, so why can't they cook Mexican food? I know they haven't been Americanized since they can't speak English yet. I understand that cooking for upwards of 220 people can be daunting, but hell...they are Mexicans. Aren't they accustomed to preparing food in bulk for their family get togethers? The fajitas they cooked two nights ago resembled leprosy more than the delicious treat fajitas should be. Being adventurous, I tried it anyway. Turns out I don't like leprosy.

    The meal last night was a baked potato. Yes that's it. What a feast! I think I should have prepared for this kind of bounty. You don't believe me? Ok fine, I exaggerated slightly. There was snot cheese, runny chili sauce, a half-spoon of sour cream, and 3 chunks of broccoli. For desert, neatly laid on top, was a Rice Crispy Treat. So these culinary geniuses decide to throw it all together in a styrofoam container, while the broccoli and baked potato were still hot mind you. One doesn't have to be a physicist to know what is going to happen there. Let's just say my Rice Crispy treat had a flavor reminiscent of old broccoli and dead people and leave it at that. Nevermind how I know what dead people taste like. Obviously, after that first bite of Crispy treat, I didn't partake of the rest of the meal. My appetite was soured. *Chuck!* Into the garbage it flew.

    I know what you're thinking. No really I do. Starving kids in Cambodia or Ethiopia. Yeah, yeah, I'm selfish and wasteful, or so says 4 out of 5 ex-girlfriends in the exit poll.

    Well do you know what? Even if I mailed this "meal" to one of those fly-in-mouth kids, he would say "What the heck is this??" and pass. Ok, so maybe he wouldn't say heck, since that's what Mormons do. And if he was mormon he wouldn't need to ask what it was because he would already be an expert on poorly made Mexican food. And he wouldn't be starving because he would be an expert on eating. Maybe he wouldn't even be able to speak Engligh. It would probably sound more like "Nyah-ha-ninny-noo *Click* *Click* *Pop* Nihn-go sequa-sooli-seh *Click*". Regardless, we all would know what he meant when he flung the mockery of a meal right at our unprotected facial structure.

    Now you're thinking that you have never met anyone who can be so racist, such a culinary snob, and completely unfeeling to the naked kids in Ethiopia, all at the same time. I am rather impressive.

    It just seems to me that if you are going to be employed and paid to cook food, when it is supposedly ready for consumption it should at least appear to something edible as opposed to a contagion of pandemic proportions.

    While I'm on the subject of cooking. Why is it that every single person who has ever cooked, eaten, or even looked at lasagna thinks theirs is the best? How dumb is that? There could be lasagna out there laced with heroin. Bet yours can't beat that! Go ahead and try it, but caution...blindness may occur. Before you lose consciousness and fall asleep on your bathroom floor, that lasagna will change your life. Perhaps Heroinagna is really not the best, but neither is yours. I'm sorry to crush your dreams. Actually, no I'm not. It makes me feel better. Which I need, especially after eating your lasagna.

    Anyway, I think that the kitchen staff should either recieve training in how to make food, not poison, or acquiesce to a suitable punishment for their crimes against food and nature...and me. Everyone knows that my favorite consequence for bad behavior is a good flick in the eye ball, but I just don't see that as being effective or even warranted in this situation. This crisis calls for more drastic methods, I believe. I really just don't appreciate being poisoned slowly by a bunch of vengeful kitchen Mexicans. I think my employers should foot the bill for skin pigmentation altering therapy, and have all of them go MJ on us. At least that way their inability to cook ethnic foods could be rationalized.

    So off I go, in search of a solution to the dilemma. In the mean time, I make the best lasagna ever, you should come over and try it.

And you're not a horse, or deer, or whatever... Ok I don't know exactly what a salt lick is, or what licks it. But my face isn't one, and your not a whatcha-thingy either.

I suppose I should declare this has nothing to do with current events. In my hobby of people watching I once again witnessed a kiss. Lucky me right? WRONG! This kiss...it was a kiss to end all romance and make celebates of us all. Well at least for like fifteen minutes because, really, who are we kidding. As I watched this tremendous, fatal-train-wreck of a kiss I remembered some of my own experiences with kissing partners.

There was a girl once who I attempted to make out with, that was the inspiration for the title of this blog. She spent more time licking my face than kissing me. I left her apartment feeling clean like a cat, and incredibly unsatisfied. Keep that tongue of yours in your mouth for at least some of the time. This leads me to another experience that is related. A little nibble on the ear or kiss on the neck is nice from time to time, but there is absolutely no reason to turn my ear into a reservoir. I don't care if the waters are like glass in the morning. I'm not gonna let you wakeboard there. Keep your tongue out of my ear canal.

In contrast, it is ok to separate your lips once a while. There is no need to turn your lips into the gates of fort knox. Does fort knox have gates? There was a girl who kept them pursed so hard, I had to open my eyes to make sure she hadn't pulled some sort of bait and switch. Sure enough she was still there, pressing her head into mine as if she was some karate master breaking a giant block of ice. She was asian though...hm...

If breathmints themselves run in fear of your breath, something is wrong. Practice personal hygiene before you practice locking lips. Everyone will enjoy it more.

Kissing isn't silent. That's cool, no worries. Sometimes its good to give your roommates a little bit of warning before they walk in on you and your lady friend. But if you have to make a loud annoying smackey sound after every single kiss...you're not going to be kissing for long. Everyone hates that, so just stop it. Stop it. Its not good for anyone.

I'm probably in the minority, but gum doesn't bother me. Bring it along, I don't mind. What I DO mind, is when you shoot it into the back of my throat. My uvula doesn't need the company.

Don't try to swallow my face. You're not a xenomorph facehugger, don't try and become one. Look if you're hungry I'm an excellent cook and can make you some food. Mi cabesa should not be your next meal.

Now girls, I am going to make a promise to you right now. If we are kissing, and your entire mouth envelopes mine, or you make that annoying smoochie sound after every single kiss, or if you just sit there with your mouth wide open and consider yourself making out. I'm going to flick you in the eye. Or at least something equally as terrible. I swear it.

The last piece of advice I'll give is not to kiss and tell. C'mon girls, I understand I'm quite the trophy that you would like to put on your shelf, but its just disrespectful to go around telling everyone we hooked up. Besides, I may want to make out with your roommate and my chances of that go down if she knows you and I have done so. Really, its just common courtesy.

I understand everyone can't be a pro at it, like me, but hey you can practice. Everyone starts somewhere.
Until next time. Muah!

   I witnessed one of the most peculiar things I have ever seen yesterday. When I say peculiar, I need you to understand that I grew up in a family full of bizarre, so for something to strike me as odd is the real deal.

   I was eating lunch in the fine, fine establishment of Wendy's when I saw a couple sitting and eating together. I, being the nosy-psychology-freak that I am, was inclined to watch them. My delight and reward for choosing to do so would come shortly. They soon decided that it had been far to long since their lips had touched, and with the passion that only a Wendy's Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger could fuel, they leaned towards each other and locked lips.

   Awww. Cute. Wait? What is that?

   She leaned forward for their future nuptial of the lips, and the back of her shirt lifted up, which is a normal and natural occurance. I being the heterosexual male that I am felt my eyes pulled downward. What I saw there boggled my mind.

   Before I let the cat out of the bag, let me share a little bit about Utah. My beloved state of Utah will always be home to me, wherever I go. I love almost everything about here. I am not even one of those individuals who says they love the environment but can barely tolerate the people and only do so for the excellent opportunities for hiking, biking, camping, etc. My main attraction to Utah is the people, but of course the wonderful scenery doesn't hurt.

   The inhabitants of this wonderful state, despite what many may claim, are surprisingly varied. Yeah, there may only be like twelve African Americans, thirty-three middle easterns, etc., but the fact of diversity still remains. Utahn's each have their very distinct mannerisms, fashion, and ways of life.

   I contend that there are few better places to get some good people watching in, than Utah.

   Where am I going with this? Get to the girl and her scandalous moment? Soon. I assure you it will be soon.

   I only bring up Utah and it's magnificent display of the myriad of oddities that I get to enjoy on a daily basis because of some of the bizzare thinking errors I see happening every day. Does this mean that I think I'm smarter than them? Probably. I'm probably smarter than you too, but that's beyond the scope of this little blog.

   Let me just bring up one example, and I promise it will all come full circle to the girl and her tender, loving moment with her beau that so rocked my world. I was walking into the gym, with my best friend, to dominate him in a little game of racquetball. The sun was shining high and it was most likely hot enough to melt him. He is a pale fella, after all. I, being the incredibly beautiful, dark, epitome of masculinity, was unaffected by the blistering heat.

   We saw a guy walking into the tanning salon that neighbors the Gold's Gym that we attend. I thought to myself how absolutely ridiculous this behavior is. We spend all day inside running, only to leave and realize how white we are, and go next door, inside of course, to get some 'sun' to make up for lost time. Why not just...go outside? I suppose that behavior isn't quite idiosyncratic to the valley, or even Utah, but it is pretty idiotic.

   Now, back to the girl and her shirt. I'm not quite sure what I must have done in a past life to deserve this particular honor of witnessing this event. I have to say it sure beats being reincarnated as a butterfly though.

   As she leaned forward for the intimate, fast-food restaurant kiss, and her shirt lifted ever so slightly, I saw not just one very distinct tan line, but three. Multiple swimsuits I suppose? The answers to this mystery will forever elude me, as I contemplate what I saw next.

   Her underwear. She was wearing a thong, to which under almost any circumstance I would say, "No thank you." and be about my business. But this particular gem of a Utah fashionista was wearing said thong over another pair of undergarments.

   What. The. Crap. Is. The. Point. Of. That? My mind is officially boggled, but I'm still willing to laugh at it.

   From where I sit, in my six pairs of underwear, I just think Utah is pretty funny.

I was having lunch with a girl recently and offered to go refill her drink. As I picked up her cup and stood to go get the refill she said, "TY". I thought about stabbing her after that.

Don't worry, you won't be seeing my face in the news, at least not for the murder of this young woman, but needless to say I won't be calling (read as:texting) her for another date.

Seriously, is this what the use of the English language has come to? I text. I text a lot. I go through around 7-8 thousand texts a month. I'm even guilty of using the occasional emoticon, acronym, or 'haha'. But I adamantly refuse to make it a common occurance, or worse yet, use it in the spoken word.

If this trend continues I don't know that I can be held responsible for my actions. If my roommate says, out loud, "Lawl, fuh-tah-wuh (FTW=for the win), rah-full-stomp (roflstomp=win so excessively you laugh out loud), or no-buh-duh (NBD=no big deal)" then I may just have to put a pillow over his face while he is sleeping and press. Hard.

Isn't techonology supposed to set us free? Make life easier? While it may do this, the shackles of stupidity are firmly being locked around our wrists and ankles. I received a three page text today, without a single capitalized letter or puncuation mark, and at least three 'haha's or 'LOL's. After wiping the vomit from around my mouth, I struggled to conjure a response that wouldn't show my disgust. Even more difficult, however, was formulating a reply that would fit my audience without resorting to a "zomggg lol".

In order to make my life easier (because, really, it is all about me) I submit that we abolish either text emoticons and acronyms, or the english language and revert back to pictoglyphs scratched on the walls of our abodes.

Sound good to you? Sounds freakin' awesome to me! LOL.

    For the following I will be telling a tale and making a confession. I seem to be finding myself in a minority. Before you start talking about my ethnicity and the threatening size of my nose, let me be clear. The minority I'm referring to is men who know what a diffuser, crimper, flat iron, and setter are, as well as how to use them.

    You may be asking right now, "Nick, first of all, if your confession is coming out of the closet, this is sure a bizarre way of doing it. I mean we have suspected for years. We love and accept you. (Thank you for that by the way. Your acceptance and understanding is both admirable and appreciated.) Second, what does your confession of homosexuality have to do with anything?" Well, before you go making wild assumptions, let me make a statement and explain. I'm not coming out of the closet, nor will I ever be.

    I just felt that scrap of information is relevant to my message. Besides having knowledge of hair styling accessoriers isn't any gayer than the enjoyment I derive from things like decorating, shopping, watching chick flicks, and treating myself to occasional manicures. Ok that may have not been the best defense I could have constructed. Look...can we just move on? Thank you.

    The reason I know what those items are for, is that your hair is my opiate. Long or short, curly or straight, light or dark, hour-long-styling effort, or feeble-get-rid-of-bedhead attempt, it doesn't matter. Your hair can make me swoon like I just stood up too quickly from the couch. I think I suffer from a tragically terminal case of HOD, or Hair Obsession Disorder. The criteria for diagnosis of said disorder can include, but is not limited to, instantly falling in love with someone because of their hair, and having an unconscious impulse to play with hair. The list could go on. Naturally, I'm sure you understand the seriousness of this affliction.

    I recently saw a very pretty girl with the most astonishingly beautiful hair I have ever seen. This, of course, reduced me to a catatonic state of a drooling, slack-jawed stare, inept in the use of the spoken word. Luckily I managed to control my near overpowering impulse to, as my uncle would say, "run over to talk to her" and therefore avoided demonstrating my incapacitation.

    Before I proceed, that leads me to another note I would like to address. It is an occurance that I have witnessed, here in the valley, frequently, and have had the misfortune to experience a time or two. Let me narrate it for you. Man sees woman. Woman looks pretty. Man compliments woman. Woman is surly and gives man stinkeye. Man wanders away confused. Just because a guy approaches a woman with a simple statement of her excellence does not mean that he must want her number, and has dating her as his motivation.

    So girls, when a guy comes up to you and mentions your hair is pretty, don't immediately give that poor gentleman the "Um, I have a boyfriend you creep!" stinkeye. Each of you know exactly what I'm talking about, and you all know that look could stop the 'running with the bulls' and using it on just one man is downright malicious. Their comment to you, really may have no ulterior motives and the guy just wanted to brighten your day.

    Back to the topic at hand, my addiction to your locks knows no bounds. I appreciate you and your hair, and all you do to make it look so awesome. That's it.

    Oh, and can I have your number?

    Apparently I have finally experienced the Change. Before you start rejoicing at my ascent through puberty, let me assure you, that has already occurred, at least a week ago. I'm sure of it. The change I am referring to is more metaphysical in nature.

    I'm not sure, even, what served as the catalyst for my miraculous metamorphosis, and perhaps it isn't a sole cataclysmic event that is to blame.The accusation has been leveled, and the gauntlet thrown. I have been dubbed, at least indirectly, as a Pretentious Literary Elitist.

    To some it may not come as a world-shattering shock to think that my ego has inflated enough to earn me the said title. However, like I said, I'm not sure when this development of snobbery happened. I had always just imagined myself as as sci-fi, fantasy, and horror geek. Albeit, one of impeccable discerning tastes, that are most likely superior to yours.

    Now just because your favorite authors have no conception of the architecture needed for an engaging plot, lack the necessary social understanding to make believable and interesting characters, and have, let's be honest, downright hideous pictures of themselves in the 'About the Author' section, there is no reason to believe that I'm being an elitist because my favorite authors are not only incredibly attractive, but masters of their craft. That doesn't mean I am a book snob. Or does it...?

    Have I become the critical emo-music-freak-with-an-attitude equivalent for the world of literature? If so, I won't bother with excuses, denials, or defenses. I suppose I'll simply locate a tweed jacket as soon as possible and revel in my obvious superiority.