Caving into reality

What is the difference between yours truly and the greater Los Angeles white pages?

The L.A. white pages has column after column of Chins.

Your loyal blogger has none.

I'm pretty sure I had one when I went in for my pre-Halloween biopsy last fall. Since that day, the lower part of my face has been cloaked by bandages and surgical tape and until recently I hadn't really studied it that closely.

When I did the other night, I felt like wailing "WHERE'S THE REST OF ME?", like Ronald Reagan in "Kings Row."

It's the damnedest thing: My face essentially goes from lower lip —which is severely contorted— to my neck.

Aside from my old chin's way of humanizing my features, I can't really say I miss it that much. What are chins good for, anyway? Sure, I could rest it on my knuckle if I ever wanted to look thoughtful but in my book unless you're Kirk Douglas or one of his
kids, you probably need your chin in order to achieve in life less than you think.

The wound incurred by that long-age biopsy is finally showing signs of stabilizing, so it won't be long before wearing bandages may be superfluous, and I'll need to decide how I feel showing my chin-less mug in public.

It may be a moot point; I'm practically a fulltime shut-in these days.

I shouldn't complain. The people in Haiti affected by Tuesday's earthquake —now that's something worth getting upset about.

And the loss of my chin? Not a gig deal, gang. Even those strong jawlines on Mount Rushmore are bound to erode eventually.