That cookie duster gotta go

by David Grand
May 19, 2005

Given that John Bolton is a lead-pipe cinch to be confirmed by the senate, unless some moderate Republicans follow Sen. George Voinovich (R-Ohio) lead and likewise vote the dictates of their conscience instead of hewing to the party line, I only hope he'd then get rid of that white, walrus-like moustachio before making his debut before the 190 member countries in the UN, who are already fearful enough of his reputation as a uncompromising hard-ass, without increasing their anxieties because of his scary looks.        

And they'll soon learn as members of that senate committee did when asking him probing questions, that it's impossible to gauge his reaction by his facial expressions, when there's only a tiny space between where his bushy hair ends and his mustache begins. (And as a word of caution, those who disagree with him better be prepared to hear him banging on their office door in a blind rage, as he did to that staff member's hotel door, who he'd chase down the hall for daring to disagree with him.)      

My first impression of him during the hearings was that he looked like a smaller version of Captain Kangaroo, who also had a sub nasal carpet of white. But that, of course, is where the similarity ends. For while the captain was outgoing and jovial as old Saint Nick when entertaining youngsters with his gentle, whimsical humor, he comes across as being sober as a coroner inspecting a corpse.      

But I'm not looking down my nose at his mustache, for I looked down on one of my own for about 20 years. I grew it because it was when mustaches were in vogue. I finally whacked it off because it was too much trouble keeping it trimmed, it attracted crumbs from my meals like a Venus flytrap does insects, and smelled of my cigarette smoke.       

I have no idea why he grew his. Perhaps it was to conceal a hair lip, a perpetual scowl, or bite marks from biting down too hard on his lips when having conniptions over his judgments being challenged. Or maybe his wife told him it made him look distinguished.      

Now, whether he knows it or not, there's an anti-mustache sentiment sweeping across the country, with the public's reaction ranging from mocking to downright hostility. Even such all-time, mustache icons as Tom Selleck and Eliot Gould now have denuded upper lips, as does Alan Dershowitz. But Sam Elliott, one of Hollywood's greatest, living mustache proponents, is a firm holdout.      

In general, about the only mustaches we see in the entertainment and advertising fields these days are in period Westerns and milk ads, with baseball being one of the last refuges for the mustachioed, a la Kansas Royal's Jeff King whose got one that requires all of his face, and Chicago Cubs's hirsute, pitcher Rod Beck, who could hide a ball in his, and catch a runner off base by pretending he doesn't have it.       

So please, ambassador-to-be, send that soup strainer down the drain, and enjoy the freedom of once again being able to savor the smell of food, a glass of wine and roses. It'll make you look younger, less ferocious and intimidating, when putting forth your radical proposals for reforming the UN.       

Who knows, they may even come to like the "new you" (at least the outer one), although the chances of you joining that trio of outstanding former ambassadors Adlai Stevenson, Daniel Moynihan and Jeane Kirkpatrick are next to none. But your clean-cut look would at least make you welcome at social gatherings, for however long or short of time that you're there.