Returning to a perennial and self-indulgent subject, that being what or who I look like, previously addressed here and here, and probably elsewhere, let me relay now that earlier today I sent a terrible and poor-quality scan of a Polaroid of my bulldog Mildred and me to a longtime reader in Southern California with whom I both have corresponded and conversed by telephone.

The Polaroid, taken by a stranger -- for the privilege of five bucks -- in the summer of 2004 depicts Mildred and I eating soft vanilla ice cream in front of the Dairy Queen on the 500 block of South Street, Philadelphia, and is not of fine quality, by which I mean it’s not a particularly flattering shot of me.

And just to be clear: Mildred is the only one who ate ice cream that day. To which I might add a larger -- and I mean that -- truth: Mildred prefers yogurt to ice cream.

Anyhow, back to the central theme, the Rittenhouse reader wrote of me, in part: “Well, I must say not exactly as I had you pictured. . . . It’s great to finally be able to put a face to your voice. Very nice. And cute, in a rugged/handsome way. And definitely Italian.”

(Though half Irish.)

I admit I kind of really like the “rugged/handsome” thing. (But you know how I am. [Regular readers will remember the link. That in which I suggested Philadelphia magazine restaurant critics editorial scrubs Maureen Tkacik and Sasha Issenberg, to say nothing of their many supervisors, “should be ashamed” of their blatant homophobia.]

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