I recently promised a new photo more depictive of my current, bedraggled look, and I’m nothing if not honest.

Some will say it’s shameful for a man this age to have long hair. Others, like the Cowsills in ’69 will sing, “Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair; shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen. Give me down to there, hair; shoulder length or longer, hair! Here baby, there mama, everywhere daddy, daddy hair, hair, hair, hair, hair –flow it, show it; long as I can grow it, my hair…”

I rest my case. And now for some other embellished truths:

•When I arose on the afternoon of April 29, everyone was abuzz that we had lost cell phone and Internet service for several hours. Someone had accidentally cut lines, but I had no clue since I had slept through the entire thing. Now, I’m not bragging about my dysfunctional lifestyle by any means, but there’s something to be said for sleeping in really late, whereupon many of life’s problems just seem to work themselves out.

•They say that God often speaks directly through scripture to someone earnestly seeking truth. The other day, I opened to Job 19:17: “My breath is offensive to my wife. I am loathsome to my own brothers.”

I’m not married and my brothers haven’t said anything, but still…

•Communion wafers: Chew or suck? I’m always tempted to chew, but alas, I suck. Chewing just sounds so loud inside my own head, with no way to gauge how much everyone else is hearing. Realistically though, probably half the partakers are chewing — which should be deafening — but I’ve never heard anything.

•One hath no satisfaction greater than the moment when one who lives alone in a one-bathroom dwelling realizes the toilet plunger has just done its job.

•A picture is worth 1,000 words. Al Bundy didn’t have to say a thing when he came out of a public bathroom tugging on his pants with a newspaper tucked into his armpit. Toilet paper: 85 cents a roll. Al’s expression: Priceless.

• And thank you, Cliff Franklin, for being an animal lover not just in thought, but in deed. I received in my mailbox your generous donation check in my dearly-departed Trinity’s name and dutifully delivered it to the Park County Animal Shelter. P.S. I’m not positive, but did we not play softball together about 38 years ago?

•A while back, I mistakenly called a rogue Internet tech support company and foolishly gave my passwords to the guy that answered in a thick Indian-accent. People advised me to change my passwords immediately, but then I realized: Anyone who steals my identity would probably later try suing me for pain and suffering.

• I should sue Standish Farms for all the times I’ve bought loaves of bread with a giant hole near the top of each slice. Holes are for doughnuts; not for bread. I even invented a word, “Breahoes” for these slices that steal roughly 5 percent of my money’s worth. It is highway (or in my case, whole-wheat) robbery!

•Once again I have defied medical science. On St. Patties Day, someone gave me a Tupperware full of corned beef and cabbage, which I forgetfully left on a cluttered counter and never refrigerated. Two full days later, I ate it, ignoring my friend’s admonition to throw it away or be prepared for an ER visit. I felt no worse for the wear and am fairly convinced that I have become fully immune to bacteria and germs.

That reminds me of a cartoon with two vultures dining in a fancy restaurant when one angrily snaps at the waitress: “Hey, this meat isn’t rancid!”

•Rick Warren’s (Purpose Driven Life) son, tortured by mental illness and depression, committed suicide last month. A debate rages on between me and a friend who believes anyone who does it is selfish. I strongly disagree. I believe the majority of those who willingly give up their most precious gift of life were no longer capable of imagining loved ones could be worse off without them. And I believe if their hearts were pure, God understands and welcomes them with open, loving arms. That is what I believe.

And I believe I am now out of space.