I can’t grow facial hair. Can’t. Cannot. Not physically possible. This is frustrating for me since I’m almost constantly trying to prove how masculine and macho I am…because it destroys all my street cred when even Ryan Seacrest can grow a better goatee than mine. However, about once every 18 months or so, I manage to convince myself that I’ve finished going through puberty, and that NOW if I tried to grow something, I could. I’ve been on this 18-month cycle since I was about 16 years old, and as anyone whose known me for any amount of time will tell you, failure has become the norm in my facial-hair-related endeavors. The closest I’ve come to success was a kind of amish-looking, chinstrap thing I had going on that I grew for Isaac’s wedding last year (you can’t be in the bridal party of a Mann wedding and not at least TRY to grow something). As the many attendees of those nuptials can attest to, it wasn’t a pretty sight. From a distance it probably looked more like the night before I’d passed out at a party and forgotten to take my shoes off, and that some people had used a Sharpie marker to draw a cartoon beard around my jawline. Classy. But right on cue — like the Alzheimer’s patient I am — here I am a year and some change later, finding myself once again tempted into the realms of fuzzy scruffiness. The tempters this time? New Zealand comedy duo Flight of the Conchords, famous for their self-deprecating humour and their perpetual 5-o’clock shadow. A buddy and I are seeing them live in LA this coming Sunday, and I thought it would be an appropriate homage to how much I love their brand of tomfoolery if I grew out some tributary sideburns of my own to match theirs. Now I’ll be honest with you for a second here when I say this: I’m a good-looking man. I really am. Good bone structure (albeit a bit pointy in the shoulders area), tan complexion (now that I’m back in Cali, at least), decent bod, great fashion sense, and the deepest, sexiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. I used to be a model back in the day, and I probably shouldn’t have quit because if I’d stuck with it I’d probably be on the cover of Orgasm Magazine right now, looking wistfully into the camera and selling out issues by the thousands (for the record, I have no idea if there’s any such thing as “Orgasm Magazine” or not, but I strongly encourage you not to find out). But even with all that going for me, my “sideburns” are shamefully unattractive. They’re all patchy, thin, poorly shaped, and I’m pretty sure one of them is about six inches longer than the other. As we all know though, I’m not one to admit defeat or give up on an idea of mine just because it looks awful (I think we all remember the red/blonde swoop haircut from a while back…I liked it, damnit all! You can all kiss my black arse), and since my love for FOTC is greater than any level of shame or embarrassment, I’m sticking with the ‘burns (that’s slang for sideburns. I’m really hip) until after the show on Sunday, and I’m asking you all to just use your imagination when you see me and pretend that there are awesome sideburns adorning both sides of my face next time we run into each other. You and I will both know that that’s not the case, obviously — but come on, do it for me. Maybe even toss a kind word my way when you see me with the ‘burns. Perhaps something like, “Your beard is good. That’s just a compliment for you — your beard. Just a compliment about your beard being good.” Or I don’t know, whatever comes to your mind at the time. Together, we can get through this difficult time in my life until I remember the horrible truth about my facial hair (or lack thereof).
I saw the new Indiana Jones over the weekend, and was pretty disappointed. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a bad movie and you should all go see it in the theaters…it’s just not a great movie. Harrison Ford is a great actor, I really like what that Shia LaBeaouieuioaueauf kid brings to the table, the production value is great, and the score is classic. Even the effects don’t feel too overkill (except for some CGI’d prairie dogs that look about real as Jar Jar Binks on an MTV dating show). No, sadly, the biggest problem I had with this movie was the story itself. Even for a franchise that has built itself on the arcane and impossible, the storyline was just a little too much for me. It’s one thing to see a shaman rip people’s hearts out, or an ancient crusader heal himself and others with a holy grail, but I just couldn’t suspend my disbelief enough to enjoy or get into the story they cooked up for this one. That and the fact that the “near miss” factor of this movie is way beyond the acceptable limit as well. He dodged more incessant gunfire, survived more giant waterfalls, and was more unaffected by massive nuclear explosions than any person could’ve…even if that person was Indiana Jones. All that aside though, it’s still worth your $15 to see — especially if you need a halfway decent alternative to the “you go girl” estrogen-fest that the Sex and the City movie premiere will be. Although it’ll be nice to see Sarah Jessica Parker finally achieve her dream of being the least attractive person ever to get 300 million women to all cycle at the same time. You go girl.
…If you need me, I’ll be at the bar swapping out cosmos for dirty martinis instead. Belvedere vodka, extra dirty and maybe an additional olive or two. Now that’s a meal.