Several weeks ago, the higher-ups at This Fine Newspaper made an earth-shattering decision: They wanted to get mug shots for all of the columnists.
This decision would change my life forever. Okay, maybe not forever, but for at least several days.
One day, our staff photographer Debra gathered me up and took me in the boss' office ("The lighting in there's good," she chimed). Debra sat me down in a chair, brought in the boss to make fun of me, and took some pictures.
Debra then developed the pictures, and printed up the three that she thought were the best.
Have you ever heard of a bad hair day? We've all had one of these on occasion, where no matter what we do, our hair comes out looking like some disgusting combination of the hairdos of George Clooney and Annette Funicello. Sadly, I have them rather frequently.
But on the day Debra took the mug shots I must have been having a really bad face day.
The three photos Debra printed up were -- well, not pretty. In two of them -- I swear to God -- I looked like a socially-impaired vampire. I do not know why; I just did. Therefore, since column time was coming up, I was forced to go with the third mug.
But the third mug was sort of putrid as well. To start, my glasses were crooked, and I was squinting. One of my ears looked like it stuck out twice as far as the other. My hair came to kind of a triangular point on my forehead. To top it off, I was caught in a sort of smirk that made me look not funny, but constipated.
In summary, it looked like I was the result of some nerdy love child resulting from the union of Mick Jagger and Bruce Breslow.
Before this point, I was under the impression nobody read my column. Well, now I know people at least look at it.
The mug ran on April 14, and the outcry began. That night, I got home from work and there was a message from my aunt, saying, "I know you didn't like your picture. But Hon, it really did look dorky." Later, my friend Jaunice called, wanting to know what in the heck I was on when the picture was taken. Washoe Medical Center noted at least seven pregnant readers were hospitalized after the sight of my mug shot jarred them into premature labor. (OK, I made that last one up).
However, I really caught hell when I entered the Tribune's office the next day. Sportswriter Ben opened the paper to the opinion page and just started laughing. Another colleague simply let out a gasp. Even mild-mannered receptionist Deba offered her kind two cents: "Jimmy, that mug shot really doesn't do you justice."
Debra the Photographer, when I asked her to PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE retake the mug shot, was more succinct and two the point: "Jimmy, there isn't anything I can do about your face."
Ouch. That one hurt.
However, after several days or groveling, begging and in general whining, Debra agreed to retake the mug shot. She was really nice about it; she even set up special lights for the shoot. So once again, I found myself in the boss' office. Sportswriter Ben was called in to make fun of me, since the boss was off that day (it was a Sunday). And Debra took what must have been about three rolls of film -- of my face.
Thank God, the results were better this time. As you can see, my glasses are straight, you can see my eyes, and it looks like a serious dose of Ex-Lax has cleared up the constipation. Thankfully, it looks like the only way I could be related to Mick and Bruce now is through adoption. All things considered, I am happy with the mug shot.
And having a good mug shot is an important thing. After all, who knows how long I will have this mug shot? Let's just say the shots are not charged very much. Apparently, several readers were highly alarmed when after years and years of use, the Tribune updated L.M. Boyd's mug -- and promptly aged him about 20 years.
Therefore, I figure I may be able to get by with this mug shot until I am about 43. Then, maybe we can change it again. And I take great solace in the fact that no matter how alarming that change in 20 years may be, it will not cause nearly as much controversy and nausea as my very first mug shot did.
That is, unless I am having a really really bad face day.
Jimmy Boegle, a fifth-generation Nevadan, says that while his newspaper may run photos of him in handcuffs, at least it doesn't run photos of him wearing Spandex -- like Cory Farley in the other area daily. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays.