Wherein I Turn 30 and Become an 18th Century Hot Air Balloonist  

It seems necessary that I take a brief respite from my hiatus* in order to answer the question that's been burning a hole in your lobes since I last posted over two weeks ago; what the hell happened with the birthday beard? Well my friends, take a moment to absorb the greatness that you are collectively responsible for -- the Franz Josef:


Here's a different angle, with my bearded life mate McLean and his arm candy Nikki down at the Seattle waterfront, preparing to throw back some bivalves... the perfect foundation for a night of drinking.


One final angle of my manicured face:


Three important things to note in that last picture; 1) I think my beard and that shirt were made for each other, 2) That is a homemade bacon-beer cupcake I'm inhaling [sidebar: my wife is awesome], and 3) Moments after this photo was taken, my friend Jesse punched me in the ear and stole the rest of said cupcake.

All in all it was a great birthday. Did I drink myself to the point of embarrassment, opening a floodgate of compromising pictures with which the internet can torture me indefinitely? Thankfully not. At least not the second half anyway. And any embarrassment I may have suffered was overshadowed by the fact that I pretty much drank everyone under the table that night. Compelling proof of what I'm capable of doing when I put my mind to it (and happen to outweigh the average person by 100 pounds).

*I did remember to drop the H bomb on you guys, right? No matter, as we return to our regularly scheduled irregularity starting Monday!

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