Wow.

So I write a long, heartfelt post on gay assimilation and almost all the feedback I get is about … my mugshot. Which I guess is better than no feedback at all, but still.

For the record, the face I was making in that mugshot reflected nothing more untoward than the act of tying my shoes while wearing running shorts that are so short they look like underwear. But somehow when I cropped the shoe-tying and the shorty-short short shorts out of the picture you-all saw something base and vulgar. Shame on you. Shame!

But I was starting to get worried; I was running out of mugshot-worthy pics that were both recent and able to fit pleasingly within the technical specs of blogger’s mugshot window—and every new pic I did post generated tons of scathing mockery helpful feedback from you, my loyal reader(s). Fortunately, my friend Drew is a fledgling photographer who has a lot of equipment, a lot of free time, and the burning desire to practice with light and composition and all those other artsy things that photographers think about.

In addition to a photography series he’s working on for an exhibit, he has a few connections for some actual print work, and he asked me to model for him on Sunday in exchange for a bunch of free pics of myself that aren’t taken with my ghetto camera that was made during the Civil War.

The print job he specifically asked me to model for is the football-themed (don’t laugh!) cover of Boi magazine (stop laughing!), one of Chicago's trendy gay rags. It seems they needed someone who looked like a football player (seriously—I’m going to have to ask you to stop laughing now) to wear football gear (this is your fourth warning) and look all sexy and appealing and relevant to the young gay party crowd. (That’s it! You and your laughing have gone too far. You are no longer my friend. And you don't get to borrow my football.)

And this is one of the many bazillion shots he took of me. Notice the black smudgy stuff under my eyes. Can you smell the street cred? We weren’t sure what real football players use for black smudgy stuff, so we used mascara (on sale at Walgreens for only $4!). Also notice how limp and lifeless and mousy-blah my hair is. That's from wearing the helmet. Honestly, I don't know what they pay football players nowadays, but for the havoc those helmets wreak on their hair, it can't be enough:


We also took some interesting shots in other funny hats. I like this one because I didn’t have to hold my stomach in:


For headshot options, we took the basic Serious Face And Black Shirt shots, though this one seemed too serious for my blog:


And we did some Serious Face And Black Shirt shots with interesting poses, but if we cropped this one for a mugshot, it might look like I have a fleshy bow in my hair:


This one also seemed too serious for the blog, but I liked the way it made my eyes look Mel Gibson matinee-idol-who-is-NOT-batshit-crazy blue:


And this is the mugshot pic I settled on. I like the half-serious-half-smirk thing Drew captured that will float effortlessly between posts about poop, Ann Coulter, pooping on Ann Coulter and killing hookers in the basement. And marathon training. The shirt around my neck seemed like a fun idea at the time, but now it looks like maybe I dislocated my shoulder or I need to go back for remedial donning-a-wifebeater training:


In other weekend news, we ran a whopping 23 miles on Saturday—in blessedly cool, overcast, breezy weather. I felt fabulous when we got done, but I got home and crashed HARD for four hours. Then I talked to Romantic Date Guy (who is still on his long-ass business trip) for a couple hours. Then I had some dinner. Then I went back to bed. Which is exactly why I qualify to represent the young gay party crowd on the football-themed cover of Boi magazine:


(And stop laughing already!)