Internet Zillionaire

Two quick notes before I start this post.

1. The word “dude” has never left my vocabulary and, in fact, has recently gained traction in my common usage. I hate saying guys, men, or fella’s. So, for instance, if I were in court and was forced to recount the story of my arrest, I would most likely say that a couple of “dudes in uniform” busted me while I was trying to “rob a dude.” Are we all on the same page, dudes? Glorious!
2. I don’t usually like to get all gender-specific (unlike my counterpart on this website) but as a dude I can only speak as a dude on this topic. Ladies, please back me up on this one. You know how us dudes are! So in other words, this one goes out to all the dudes and the ladies.

I begin with a simple picture of a dude with shaggy hair. He has let his dudely mane grow for far too long. Why? Fear. Fear of what, you ask? Is he afraid all his strength lies in his golden locks? Of course not. Dudes like Vin Diesel disprove that theory on the daily. Well, is he afraid of scissors then? No. He loves scissors and, in fact, once eloped to Las Vegas with a pair of shears only to find out that the laws there are so biased that they won’t even wed a dude with his tools. THEN WHAT THE HELL IS HE AFRAID OF? Hey, no need to yell! The dude is cowering under his moppy top because he is afraid of The Inevitable Bad Haircut.

Simply put, dudes don’t know how to get a haircut. We go about it all wrong.

For instance, I have a “breaking point” where I can’t stand the look of my head once the hair gets a certain length on the back of my neck. I cringe when I see a whisp of curl flipping out behind my ears. Apparently, my body has an inate aversion to the mullet. When this happens, I panic and immediately dial the barber and schedule an appointment because I know I won’t be able to get a wink of sleep on this second pillow of mullet hair that night. But once I get to the barber, all hell breaks loose.

Barbers are perhaps the worst professionals still allowed to practice. First off, they are always bald so you have no idea how to judge their talents. To me, that is like being a glove designer who was born without hands. Or a rock musician without a life-threatening drug problem. Which is to say I am highly skeptical of your abilities.

So the barber asks what I would like and I reply with something I know they can understand, “Just make it shorter, dude.” After all, it’s your job to know hair. Shouldn’t I trust your gnarled, old man-hands to top me off right. I am hair clay for you to go all Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore on (ok, bad Ghost analogy).

With his cue, the barber gets chopping. Snip here. Snip there. I can’t even bear to watch. I literally close my eyes. I like my haircuts like a Jenny Craig commercial, just a before and after picture. Granted, there are other reasons why I can’t look. Who enjoys staring at themselves for an hour in the mirror while in the presence of strangers? I can’t stand it. I will do anything but look straight ahead. I find myself really stretching my human ability to use peripheral vision.  I’m reading product labels from 60 feet away, counting combs in the formaldehyde, acutely examining the grout between flooring tiles. I love it when the barber has personal artifacts that distract my attention. It means I no longer have to imagine what he looks like in sunglasses and a speedo while standing near a beach.

Eventually, the barber stops, looks closely at me, maybe even touches a finger to each of my sideburns and then begins the question and answer period of our visit. He hands me a small mirror and instructs me to look at the giant mirror through the small mirror while spinning me in a 360 on the chair. Then asks, “What do you think?” I think, “You’ve got all these mirrors and you still came dressed to work like that?” But then I get angry because, once again, the professional is asking me to do his job, trying to get off easy by asking an amateur to judge his work.

And at this point what are my available options? If I don’t like it, what can I do? Ask him to glue some of the cut pieces back on? So I lie and say it’s great and get the heck out of the shop. But it doesn’t end there.

The true test of any haircut is getting approval from the girlfriend or wife. Let me just say that this never happens. They always critique. They are the true gurus of haircuts. They’ve all studied phrenology since birth and can describe the perfect haircut in excruciating detail. It is my wish that all barbershops employ one woman to act as a dude-to-dude translator at that critical first moment. It would save us all so much oxygen.

Even though magician David Blaine didn’t break the world record for holding one’s breath underwater the other night, he is still unreal in my book. The man did live underwater for seven straight days and nights in the middle of New York City before attempting the feat. So when I went and visited him on Sunday in his “humanaquarium,” I wanted to relay a special message that I felt would show some solidarity. I chose the medium of the new millenium, my t-shirt. From Kevin Costner’s lips to my cotton ringer tee!

Editor’s Note: This post has nothing to do with babies.

Jack Black. He’s a good guy. I know. I saw him. In person. What a thrill! And I can tell that we share many things in common. As he was standing there behind the big glass window, it was clear that we both have a distaste for dealing with fans in their mid-twenties who stare at celebrities through big glass windows.

Colin Farrell. Also cool. Quieter than you would think. Likes to doodle in a notebook. Can just chill and have a coffee. He can just hang with one other dude too. He doesn’t need a whole entourage. I feel like in that way we are similar as often you’ll find me hanging with just one other person. We both think it’s easier to make decisions in smaller groups rather than larger ones I guess.

Quick fact: Since I’ve been living in Brooklyn, I’ve seen a bunch of famous people.

Regular fact: Most have not known who I am.

Drawn-out fact: The guy from the Office, John Krasinski, waits, sorta just like everyone else, sorta near the line to get in to the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theatre, but goes in just a hair before everyone else. But, me, going in 20 minutes later, gets to sit right behind him. We both like to swig on a beer while watching improv. We both have similar senses of humor, as judged by paying attention to which parts of the show made us laugh simutaneously. But the biggest thing I noticed is that I think we are both beginning to feel more comfortable in our own skin.

I will tell you this, however. Bobby DeNiro doesn’t just produce or direct the upcoming blockbuster The Good Shepard. He also waits in a trailer and then occasionally get outs, walks right by me, nods, and then proceeds to act in the mother.

But that’s not all. He also enlists an A-list club of actors to support him. I saw Matt Damon chatting with some friends as he made his way to act in the film opposite Robert DeNiro. Matt Damon wrote and starred in my old favorite movie Good Will Hunting so you can imagine the tickle I got when he ignored me and just kept walking by. If you can’t imagine it, it was a rather short but sweet tickle that felt like a dandelion brushing up against my cheek.

Moby wasn’t as cool. Apparently everybody and their grandma has seen Moby. I, in fact, thought I might just be seeing a lookalike so I made a mental note of a distinct tattoo he had on the back of his neck. It was a cross. And as you can see from this photo, Moby has a cross of a tattoo on the back of his neck. So it’s an official Moby sighting, Mom! Be proud… for once!

I am a celebrity magnet. I am also a magnet that celebrities seem to be able to pretend doesn’t exist. I am also unable to control said magnetism a la Magneto, so it’s not really anything special or evil.

Ending fact: Someday I hope to have pictures to document some of these things. For now, you will have to believe that I saw guy who is inside the Big Bird costume. And you will have to believe that he was very similar to me in that we both think children are important.