Here, at last, is the photograph of me that I promised you a few days ago, courtesy of the photographer, Stephan Faerber of Minneapolis.

Aside from being an attractive image of a highly unattractive subject, like those images where photographers get interesting shots out of garbage dumps or decaying buildings through framing, composition, and lighting, this is an unusual photograph in that it shows me smiling. I’ve mentioned before that I generally avoid smiling, because it does no good either for me or for the person on whom I inflict it (P.G. Wodehouse wrote an amusing story on a similar theme). But Faerber seems to be capable of such alchemy, and more power to him.

He gave me permission to use it promotionally, with attribution.

Which is what this post is, I guess.

Two years ago, marketer Todd Rutherford began selling book reviews. Some people complained that reviews could be bought from a service; many others bought reviews from that service. And not just any reviews–gushing, exciting reviews. The NY Times walks us through it:

Consumer reviews are powerful because, unlike old-style advertising and marketing, they offer the illusion of truth. They purport to be testimonials of real people, even though some are bought and sold just like everything else on the commercial Internet.

Mr. Liu (an analyst) estimates that about one-third of all consumer reviews on the Internet are fake. Yet it is all but impossible to tell when reviews were written by the marketers or retailers (or by the authors themselves under pseudonyms), by customers (who might get a deal from a merchant for giving a good score) or by a hired third-party service.

You have heard it said that Abraham Lincoln, Mark Twain, or maybe T.S. Eliot once said, “I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time.” No, apparently Pascal wrote it somewhere and even he may have gotten it from somewhere else. This is one more bit of evidence to support my reluctance to trust unsourced quote databases.

I don’t have any good blogging ideas today, so I’ll share a frustration, because you’re such a good listener.

There’s this picture I really want to show you, but I can’t get access.

The back story goes like this. Last month at Norway Day in Minneapolis, there was this guy hanging around with a great big camera. I’m no expert on photography, but I know the big ones with all the lenses the size of window sash weights generally indicate somebody who makes enough money taking pictures to afford big cameras with lenses the size of window sash weights

He took some pictures, but I barely paid attention to him.

This past weekend, some of us Vikings gathered at our storage location to sort stuff for the trip to Minot, which is coming sooner than I care to admit to myself.

And one of the guys brings out this photographic print, which had been brought to him by that photographer from Norway Day.

It consisted of three black and white head-to-collarbone portraits. Reading left to right, it was me, a fellow named Ron, and Ragnar.

The other guys’ portraits were good, but mine was unbelievable.

I’m in my mail shirt—you can see the top of it—but my helmet is off. My hair is mussed, and I’m smiling.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a picture of myself smiling before that looked at all good. I go through life with a serious expression for a reason. But in this picture, my smile looked great. I look like a guy who just won the battle of Maldon (by cheating), and feels pretty good about himself.

In other words, I didn’t look a lot like me, which is excellent.

I took down the photographer’s e-mail address, and contacted him as soon as I got home, hoping for a print at least, and possibly usage rights for promotional purposes.

He has not responded.

I can only assume that he has plans to use my image for his own obscene profit. Women everywhere will wonder who that handsome, mysterious warrior is, and he’ll keep my identity secret, so as not to have to share the proceeds.

Hey, shutterbug, you didn’t build that!