My beard is MIA at the moment, letting clean shaves and stubble win in the Washington heat wave. But Alex Williams in the NYT is right on:

Having a beard functioned as a substitute for hormone replacement therapy. Not only did my beard advertise, on a fundamental physical level, testosterone, but also I was starting to feel the testosterone. I found that wearing a beard makes you feel two inches taller, and 10 pounds burlier. A beard was a lazy man’s alternative to weightlifting.

I was so happy to grow into my new proportions that I didn’t take (too much) offense when a flight attendant on American Airlines leaned over me and said, “I’m sure you get this all the time — Seth Rogen.” In my mind, I was dangerous. On my latest passport photo, I looked like the type that the T.S.A. might detain for an extra round of questioning. It felt liberating. “Don’t mistake me for another 9-to-5 cubicle drone.” My beard, in my own mind, was freedom, the open road, “Easy Rider” — even if I was just riding the C train to work.

Or the Orange Line.

I'm in a stretch of a couple weeks where I'm growing the beard longer again. It's currently the longest it's been since last summer. In another week or two, it should compete with last June's peak. The beard is still reasonable and without a shot in a beard-growing contest. But for me it's something. The only trouble now is I don't know why I'm growing it.

For the first seven months, I had reasons for the beard. Running out of them this winter, I shaved it. But then the winter was still cold. Reason found! The beard came back. Then I started dating again for a while. I dialed things down — there's a knob — to different degrees of stubble.

Currently, though, neither of those conditions exist. Add the humidity, and you begin to worry about Cooper Beard 2010-11. Is there a riot brewing? I'm a little bored, and my beard is restless. Every bearded man has heard the old phrase, "Idle hands are Norelco's workshop."

I just want a good reason to have the beard or not have the beard. Not an argument or theory, mind you, but a good, everyday reason.

Like Abraham Lincoln once had.

Back in the day when a girl could correspond with a politician without anyone losing their pants, 11-year-old Grace Bedell wrote candidate Lincoln, saying: "I have got 4 brothers, and part of them will vote for you any way and if you let your whiskers grow I will try and get the rest of them to vote for you. You would look a great deal better for your face is so thin. All the ladies like whiskers and they would tease their husbands to vote for you and then you would be President."

Lincoln was skeptical. "As to the whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affect[at]ion if I were to begin it now?" he replied to the girl. But, as the NYT explained last fall: "Just days after his election, though, he made up his mind. 'Billy,' he supposedly told his barber, 'let's give them a chance to grow.' "

Out driving yesterday, I felt like ditching the beard so I could be more aerodynamic. The next minute, I wanted to keep the beard because it made a good hideout, which of course was why it'd ever come about.

I got bored the other night and shaved it off. Partly responsible? Third season of Mad Men. The final episodes contained much excitement, and then they were over. I'd been thinking of shaving for no other reason than to upset the new norm. Hello, chin! It'd been what, eight months?

Reactions — half shock, half not noticing. Marc: "Happy 26th birthday!" Meghan, on point: "It's probably just a matter of time before someone starts dudeswithoutbeardseatingcupcakes.tumblr.com." Sheri debated a girl equivalent with me. Someone else: "Hey, did you get a haircut?"

Thank you, beard, for your diverse service. Break-up beard > softball playoff beard > "I'm with Coco" beard > decision beard > NPR beard > not-an-NPR-intern beard > winter beard > then I ran out of meaning. And when one runs out of meaning, it's time to try something new. I have a feeling the beard will be back soon, though. It's cold outside.

I've tried.

I really have.

But, via Meghan, I can't beat this.

Long live the single-topic Tumblr. Sincerely, exhausted Patrick.

Another summer goal is complete. Shoot a gun, check. Take a cardio class, check. See the Crime Museum, check. Attend a dog party, check. Drive a high-speed go-kart, check, twice over. And now — appear on a ridiculous single-topic Tumblr, check! Thanks to Hilary for photo skills.

Via dudeswithbeardseatingcupcakes:

Obviously guest-starring Cooper Beard 2010.

The center doors opened at Metro Center, and the cute girl in red was last onto the car before the doors shut. I only got a glimpse because the car was packed, everyone headed to the ballgame. I was against the opposing doors, and there was a crowd between me and the girl. But as our subway rolled through the tunnels, was she looking over?

And why did she look familiar?

She looked like someone I knew, and that question instantly became the most pressing. Who did she look like? Lauren. She looked like my friend Lauren whom I'd met at Jackson Hole (pic) 12 years ago. We'd kept in touch by e-mail and had a fun lunch reunion two years ago in New York. She lived in Connecticut, bounced into Manhattan often and would get a kick out of having a D.C. train doppelganger, even if I got back to Facebook and realized subway girl looked not at all like her. I texted Lauren: Theres a girl on the dc metro who totally looks like you!

To want to amuse a friend states away is a fun feeling to have.

But it'd been that kind of weekend. Thursday was a beer with a friend who had encouraged me to apply for the new job, running into former colleague newlywed/playwright Kevin and a car ride that was quick but surprisingly fun thanks to a week that had taken this spring's insomnia to new levels. Friday afternoon was great reactions here, on Facebook and on Twitter. Friday night was a glass of champagne with Meghan at Napoleon, followed by one of champagne and absinthe, recommended by Hemingway and the dude sitting next to us at the bar. Then it was off to a roof to meet the rest of team Daily — Dan, Isaac, Emily — for Dan's birthday. I kept awake on Metro and didn't end up in a rail yard.

Sleep that night stayed stuck on four hours, 2:30-6:30. But I made the most of it. Hit Target early, picking up batteries for my beloved wireless keyboard (the wireless is nice but the music volume knob changes my world), a meta-monkey card for Father's Day (meta-monkey cards are the new monkey cards) and, yes, a beard trimmer. A woman asked my advice on a shirt and I gave it. Then home and to the farmer's market.

On its 30th anniversary: a croissant, warm raspberry cake and the last pumpkin ravioli. Then home and to the beard trimmer. Vroom vroom. I immediately understood why shepherds liked their jobs. Shearing was a blast. I was no longer Grizzly Adams or Father Murphy. I was fuzzy. I wasn't 100% pleased with the results, but I'd been very entertained.

There were subsequent hours of prepping my work laptop for return, then a trip to the barbershop before a party that night, and then there was sleep. Somewhere toward dusk, I crashed on the bed. For hours.

I woke, remembered I was missing that fun party, wrote my apologies, and fell back asleep. Awoke to text with a friend whose last name is now officially (well, sort of officially) Tequila. Then fell back asleep until morning. Best night of sleep in… months. No, waking every few hours wasn't real rest — by the evening, I'd be beat — but it was progress.

The time change had done it. Done in my sleep. The springing forward did it each of the last few years. Took months to get back to normal. I sometimes wondered what other factors could be at play or what kind of disruptive life action could be taken to fix things. This spring, I rolled with it. Hoped for the best. But seized the morning, seized the night.

Sunday was a slow morning, then heading to meet the family at that ballgame with that subway crowd, on the other side of whom the girl pulled her phone from her bag, burst out laughing and shouted over.

Break-up beard > softball playoff beard > "I'm with Coco" beard > ?

I've passed the feeling-like-a-Muppet stage — waking up and feeling fuzzy and like someone stuck my nose on my face — and moved onto the feeling-like-Yosemite-Sam or feeling-like-Favre stages. Previously.

KEEP. Casey Affleck doesn't have a beard in his ultra-violent new film.

DON"T KEEP. All of these guys do have beards, which is just as scary.

But the idea of winning a year's supply of Dockers is appealing. Hmm.

I had to fucking look up where the Mocambo was.

It's in Canada! Are you serious? Who releases a live Canada album? Unless you're indie and taping in Montreal and all that lil' restrained clapping is cool. But you are not indie. You're Elvis Costello, and you spend half the show telling people to stand up. At one point, you tell the Canadians you've come to take their country back for England.

Good for you, my friend. You don't want to go back to Chelsea? Don't go. "She gave a little flirt, gave herself a little cuddle…" An angry young man has a job to do, and pissing off Canadians is apparently part of it.

Side note: I love Canada. Never had a bad time there, and I like every Canadian I've ever met. Anyway. The three best parts of the show?

1) Lipstick Vogue.

Select the control and then insert the token
You wanna throw me away but I'm not broken
You've got a lot to say, well I'm not joking
There are some words they don't allow to be spoken
Sometimes I almost feel just like a human being

Drum roll, no. Rolling drums, yes. There's this drum break in the middle of the song that gets practically Elizabethan play during this show. I don't think the song was even released at this point. Elvis gets a first billing, but the drums get a quick second. Guitars and organ just help as they can. The drum break rolls for a good minute, alternating loud and soft. Because the lipstick vogue is, just as the song says, just a vogue, and you're going to get replaced. Good luck to you, you fool.

2) The end. After a concluding Pump It Up, the live album ends with nearly two minutes of Canadians yelling for more. "MORE!" "MORE!" With nine seconds to go on the disc, an announcer tells the crowd there will be no more. The end. Back when you were cruel, man…

3) How when I listen to this album and your Live at Hollywood High album, I don't think about anything else. Time passes more quickly, and I need it. Waitin' for the end of the world, dear Lord. Go Friday!

Update, a few days later: My dad e-mails he's glad I like Canadians, as he reminds me my great-grandmother and the four generations of Cryslers before her were all Canadian. In fact, in the War of 1812, a battle on the family farm was pretty much the reason the USA didn't take over Canada. Why were we trying to take over Canada again?