Samson, or how to lose your facial hair and stay cool

So, I opened a new blog; I haven’t had one since the first couple of years of college. That was a whiny one, full of awkward quizzes and it had a Morrissey quote in the background. This one is not going to be like that.

The whole reason I’m doing this is simple: to reclaim an ounce of coolness in my life. Yes, I know, blogs aren’t actually all that cool. Honestly, I just have too many interesting thoughts that it would be a shame not to share. (This is, of course, in my opinion). I shaved my beard for a job- I grew it back, but I made up my mind as my chin started to appear. I’m pretty sure I lost a bit of my soul when the sun hit my bare cheeks that morning. I figured if I was going to have to put up with this hair indignity, I was going to do it with my fingers on a keyboard and my ears listening to a new record for me to complain about.

What’s this blog going to be about? Does it matter? Does anyone reading need a purpose?

Let me introduce myself via a story. This is about a daydream (you know when you’re awake, but let your mind wander and it becomes almost a REM-sleep dream; this is that) I had. I told it once to my friend Ben (Benny Paul) while we were at Kings County, a pretty great, very dark bar near his place. (The main things I remember are: it’s fairly cheap, they had no limes for our G and T’s, and the bartender was extremely cute and knew her way around bourbon). He thought it was really funny and I told him it would be here. It also doubles as my introduction to his wonderful blog- basically, it’s a blog about being a young man in a huge city, being down and out and loving it, being up, and just straight being. Also, if you enjoy British humor and Burt Jansch, he’ll probably fall in love with you (and you, in turn, should fall in love with him). Every girl I know has fallen in love with him.

The daydream goes like this: Ben, who is a pretty great filmmaker, and I, not a bad writer, particularly of poetry, were at the Oscars. This is right after the actual show. We had a film in the running, and he was in for best director and I was up for best screenwriter, and the film was up for best picture. We sat there, clearly uncomfortable in our rather nice tuxedos, which were probably rentals. I had my friend Scout (not her real name, but a common nickname for her) as my date- I’m pretty sure she came with me for the experience and a chance to wear a fabulous evening gown. Benji brought Charlize Theron, who had a thick South African accent in this dream; we kept asking her about South Africa, so I think the main reason Ben brought her was because she was South African. Not a joke- Ben enjoys accents and foreign stories. What does it say about me that I felt I should bring my friend as my date to Hollywood’s biggest event? That’s like bringing your mother- you clearly couldn’t get a good enough date or you date so many hot people, everyone applauds when you’re not bringing around a hot, sexy young thing. Not that you’re not a great date or a beautiful woman (she’s both), Scout, but I’d like to think I’d be having sex with a young lady with my Oscar statuette in the other hand. By the by, ladies and some gents, I suppose, if you’re having sex and the toy of choice is a gold gilded Oscar, you should never complain about the sex you’re having. Not ever.

Anyway, Jon Stewart goes up there for the best screenwriter awards, and does these impersonations of some nominees, including me. Apparently, I was well known enough for this to be funny. He combines my natural speaking voice (when I’m not drinking), a lower, sort of mumble, with my propensity to go an octave higher when something ridiculous happens. Most people refer to this as the Jerry Seinfeld or sitcom voice. Naturally, I win best screenwriter and get up there, and basically pull a Fiona Apple. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, YouTube it now. I’ll be here when you get back. So, I start saying all sorts of things about how this isn’t important and that we’re all bloomin’ lucky for what we do. The orchestra quickly plays me off. Everyone awkwardly shifts in their chairs, but Scout laughs and Ben just smiles and shakes his head. When he wins, everyone’s super happy for him; he steals a quick kiss from Charlize and hugs from Scout and I, and bounds up to the stage, his hair flopping and his legs only sort of running, like he’s trying to cross a street when the cars are coming down on him. His acceptance speech goes much smoother, and one can tell by the look in his eye that he’s almost saying, “Let me apologize for Greg.” He doesn’t, of course; I wouldn’t do it out of protocol, and I’m not saying Ben’s a boor, but he wouldn’t do it for other reasons. Simply, that trying to apologize for someone else’s personality and beliefs is like pissing in the wind. That is my impression; Ben may disagree. Anyway, he thanks all the right people, goofily smiles and walks away. I think we win best picture; my memory gets fuzzy, but I do remember finally thanking all my friends and family. That might have been an E! interview though. Last thing I remember was me winking at a beautiful young lady as we leave the theatre; it was probably Anna Kendrick from “Up in the Air,” but it could very well be Meryl Streep, who Ben and I have agreed is just plain sexy.