JN: Well, as my father said when I lost my virginity, it's about damn time! Reginald's progress has finally gotten to the point that he can actually be considered a beard, both by the standards of others as well as my own. While grabbing at hairs to twist them in between my fingers is finally possible, I have to reach way down to the neck section where the hair is longest and thickest. This has helped my thinking, writing, and personal well being immensely. And there's lots of comfort in the fact that it's only going to get better. The possibilities are are pretty damn endless. Hell, we're just getting rolling on month two! From the desk of Jeff Newman:
Just another Tuesday night. Another day in the week that wasn't the start or even the middle. It just was. But Tuesday brings with it a weekly tradition of writing, drinking, and music. A block down Lunt and a right on Glenwood will bring you to the Red Line Tap. A watering hole conveniently located in a wall just off the Morse stop on the red line. A pool table, an old arcade game, and a dark haze that makes the cold street outside seem bright by comparison. Evan at one in the morning.
But it wasn't the $2 Hamms or even the $5 Fighting Cock bourbon that brought me into this charming dive every Tuesday. Oh, no. It was the Mudflaps. James, Justin, and Brentley make up the three-piece bluegrass band that fills my Tuesday with beat, grit, and purpose each and every week. Sometimes after putting this baby to bed, sometimes feverishly trying to finish, but always with a cold beer and that heart pumping music filling my veins with a kind of life unknown to me six days out of the week. Often stumbling home refreshed and in good cheer, but no worse for the wear. But tonight was to be different. Oh, yes. This night would end very differently indeed. 
Having finished the blog earlier that evening, I was in very high spirits. I filled my lungs with the green buds, pulled on my heavy boots, and made my way through the fresh fallen snow to my Tuesday night refuge. Mickey, at the bar as usual had my favorite beer open and waiting for me when I sat down. Tonight I asked for a short glass of the Fighting Cock to sip on. It was to be a night of loud music, strong drink, and contemplative contemplation. It most certainly was just that. It was during my second bourbon that I noticed problems. Sweet Jesus, the stuff had gotten right on top of me! One minute, I'm hearing the dulcet tones of a Willie Nelson song, the next I can barely hold my head up. Nothing was spinning. Spinning only goes in one direction. This was more akin to being stuck inside a giant cotton ball. Unable to move properly, think straight, or focus my vision. Feeling much more isolated than usual by the unfamiliar chemical composition coursing through my system. Smoking cigarettes in the last seat
And trying to hide my sorrows from the people I meet
And get along with it all
But no. This wasn't a night for sorrow. It never was. This was a night for jubilee. This was Tuesday night at the Red Line Tap. And the combination of a dark bock, a fine bourbon, and full-flavored mary jane was nothing new to my system. 103 proof or not, something else was at play here. That's when it hit me. Reginald. The fuzzy follicle bastard! Isn't it possible he's been planning this all along? Watching me. Quietly noting my schedule. My routine. Patiently waiting for the moment he could seize. Slip me a mickey, and take over. And why not? He knew the score. He was fast, smart, capable, and ready it would seem to fly solo. Had I done something to offend him? How did we arrive at this moment? Should I have seen this coming? And just what unspeakable method had he chosen to employ in disposing my body? These were the questions wracking my horribly struggling mind as I leaned against the bar shoving chunks of a pizza bagel into my mouth. Surely some food would slow the process of whatever terrible drug was overtaking my system. Devil Reginald! How could I have been so blind? All this talk about his fascination with human culture and the stoic wisdom of the mighty beard. It was all a ruse, and I had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Tuesday was unraveling before my very eyes. The decision to flee came suddenly. I paid my tab in such a hurry that I had no memory of doing so within seconds of standing. The block and a half back to my humble abode was more hazardous than usual. Between the slushy, icy sidewalks and altered state of gravity I certainly had my work cut out for me. But it wasn't until I was vomiting pizza bagel under the red line overpass that I realized just how sideways this whole evening had turned. What used to be pepperoni, mushrooms, and banana peppers was now a steaming, reeking confirmation of my worst fear from the moment I felt the bottom start to fall. 
I don't remember the rest of the walk home, or anything else for that matter besides waking up safe and unmolested in my own bed. Cash and cards still in the wallet, keys and cell phone on the desk. A throbbing in my head, a rotten taste in my mouth, and a sore need for new combinations of new chemicals before anything would be alright again. Reginald must be behind this. Or maybe the Chinese. Either way, things will have to change. We haven't spoken all morning which only exacerbated my suspicions. At this point, I don't feel it would be safe to allow his posts to be published. If he is by chance working with the Chinese, there may be secret codes being transmitted. And I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing I was guilty of treason, not to mention aiding and abetting a breach of national security to a Beard/Chinese hybrid double agent. Some kind of 00-Fu Manchu. I don't even think that's a crime on the books, but you can be damn sure it will be if I don't put a stop to this post haste! When the bells in my head stop ringing, Reginald and I are going to have a very serious discussion. Frankly, I'm not looking forward to it one bit. Mostly because he's much smarter than me. -JN
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