The pix that Aaron Farrington took of me the other week arrived at last.
He’s a great photog, they’re lovely photographs. I’m happy to say that I’m comfortable in the presence of the lens–I don’t have that harsh, intimidated, frozen look on my face–but, as ever, it’s a shock to see myself. Who is this man, and where’s the guy I see in the mirror? I’m balder than I thought, more haggard–I keep thinking I’m Kiefer Sutherland and there in the frame is a Teutonic Maynard G. Krebs.
Thank God I’ve lost some weight–20 pounds since January 2004–and I don’t suffer from Howard Dean neck anymore. Or Neckface, as the great NYC graffiti artist puts it.
So I’m a man in my thirties. How did that happen?
I want to embrace my age and my looks, especially in publicity pictures and such–it’s a stupid disease in our culture, this anxiety that drives one to cling to youth–and people in their twenties have enough angst without having to fear the onset of life.