Ouch, Scrappy!

Poets Ranked by Beard Weight

A little-known leaflet by Upton Uxbridge Underwood circulated in 1913 judges men in a different way, not by their works, but by their fabulous facial hair.

His masterpiece, The Language of the Beard, an epicurean treat confected for the delectation of fellow bon vivants, vaunts the premise that the texture, contours, and growth patterns of a man’s beard indicate personality traits, aptitudes, and strengths and weaknesses of character. A spade beard, according to Underwood’s theories, may denote audacity and resolution, for example, while a forked, finely-downed beard signifies creativity and the gift of intuition, a bushy beard suggests generosity, and so on.

See 15 poets and their beards described and rated. Pictured is the highly-rated beard of Sidney Lanier.

If they are tastier than HFCS Coke that might do me more harm than good in the long run though.

This is probably true.

Can you get Mexican, Canadian, or Kosher for Passover Coke? All have beautiful beautiful sugar.

So is the new Pepsi Throwback. It tastes like good fountain soda.

We had some of the Kosher for Passover Coke at Easter, and god, was it sweet. The boys all loved it, but as someone who switched to diet a long time ago, it tasted like that coke syrup I used to get as a kid sometimes when my stomach was upset.

I forgot to stock up on my Kosher for Passover Coke this year. Total bummer.

I cannot wait to try that Pepsi.

That picture just makes me pine for the Russian/Turkish baths which I have been to twice, both with Buffistas. (First Jessica and Elena, then Kristin and Cass).

They only have Women Only hours on a weekday or I would SO be there as soon as this bug is through so I could get scrubbed half to death by Masha. Masha, oh Masha, you darling of the steam.

Oh Masha! How I have longed for your scrubby strength!

I dunno about baths, but I'm just waiting for everything to finish completely healing so I can get a deep, deep tissue massage, preferably by some 6'6", heavily muscled behemoth named Lars.

There is nothing like ivory soap, scrubby gloves, and a Russian woman of indeterminate age (because she lives in a steamy steamy world and her skin remains marvelously hydrated)to make everything all better.

There's an awesome spa in Northwest London that rocks with a series of steam rooms, hot rooms, whirlpools and an ice cold plunge pool.

You can get a massage, etc, there and a killer pot of tea.

I still dream about it.

I really want to sit in a sauna right now.