A while back, I made an appointment to sit for headshots. The old standup comedy career was going nowhere, so that had to be the problem, right? No professional headshots to give out. That must be it.
(News flash: That wasn't it. Go figure.)
I chose a pic to use out of the dozens sent back by the photographer. But why let all those rejected portraits go to waste? No booker or club owner will ever see them, but that doesn't mean you can't have a chuckle at my expense.
Or, to be exact, thirty-three chuckles. At thirty-three Charlies, not including the ghoulishly grinning me you passed by at the top of the page. I've taken the liberty of captioning each photo -- mostly so you won't feel tempted; I'm far more gentle and tactful with such things than you, you know. Still, if you just can't resist a potshot at one of my puckery pusses, feel free to leave me a comment. If you make me giggle, I'll add it permanently to the page.
But be kind. That's my face we're talking about here. I'm stuck with the thing for life; the photographer only had to deal with it for an afternoon. And still, he broke three cameras. Meh.