I've had it with this friggin' beard. It's keeping me up at night, as every turn of my head on the pillow feels like I'm exfoliating my tender pink skin by scraping across a manly pad of steel wool. No more. It's moustache time.

Deciding exactly when to shave the atrocious beard into a ridiculous moustache is a tough call. For all its physical discomfort, the beard (while horrific) is at least socially acceptable to look upon. It's not pretty, but it's not a cause for alarm. The moustache, on the other hand, might as well be a giant "I'm a registered sex offender" sign across my upper lip. The last time I walked the streets sporting a lip caterpillar, mothers would unconsciously pull their children closer. Seriously, I showed up at my apartment and Chris Hansen was there with a camera crew.

Still, the beard must go. I have turned into Dave Chapelle's crackhead character with all the face scratching... and of course, smoking crack. That doesn't really have anything to do with the beard. I just like crack.

I have decided the beard will be shorn tonight into a sexy moustache. I'll give you a report on how all the shaving goes. That's right - that's what I've been reduced to on this friggin' journal. Giving a bunch of strangers shaving reports.

Well, at least the rock and roll show will be good. Hennessy's Upstairs with The Sterns, Aloud and Noelle from Damone and her new band The Organ Beats. Start your Memorial Day weekend early, kittens.