An Open Letter to Dane Cook

Hey man,
Have you seen that show where Jason Lee’s name is Earl and he wins the lottery, but his karma kicks him in the ass, and he vows to change his ways, so he runs around from episode to episode trying to make up for his past mistakes? Yeah? Great. I haven’t, but that’s because I can’t watch that guy act without hearing him as Jeff Bebe whine “Rolling Stone fucking magazine, maaaaan!”, and thinking of Almost Famous always leads me to having naughty fantasies about Billy Crudup, which always turns out to be a real time-sucker, so I just avoid anything with Jason Lee in it. But anyway, my point is this: Earl’s quest on the show, as I understand it, is somewhat analogous to a goal I have set up for myself, and writing this letter to you takes me one step closer to world domination, Pinky and the Brain-style. All right, not really. But it might quiet a wee voice in my brain, and anything that could knock out one part of the cacophony in my cranium is a project I need to undertake. So here goes.

We, technically, did not meet on the night of my 21st birthday, which would have been October 16, 1996. It was at the Comedy Cellar in Manhattan. It may or may not have been exactly on my birthday, but I’m nearly positive it was, because I’m relatively sure that I was drinking my first round of legally purchased alcohol when I saw you sitting at a table as far stage right and away from those terrifically miniscule bathrooms as possible. You were looking at me.

And before any of you who are reading in on my Open Letter to Dane Cook (as I realize it is, in fact, an open letter, and this is the internet) want to attack my hubris at asserting to the world at large that a Cute Famous Guy was looking at me, take note of the fact that this was well before aforementioned Cute Famous Guy appeared on SNL. As in, nearly a decade before. And even if it wasn’t, well, he’s gotta look at something, people; he’s only human. And statistically speaking, he runs into more not-famous chicks than famous ones, so I’m sure as a human man, he spends a good deal of time admiring unfamous double-X-chromosomed bodies.

And now, back to you, Dane. Awesome job on SNL, by the way. So there we are. You were looking and I was thinking, “Oh wow, he’s yummy, and he’s looking.” So I proceeded to look back at you instead of the comedian on the stage, which in retrospect, was probably rude of me, but it was my birthday, and, fuckitall, you’re pretty damn hot. And this went on for a little while. You looking, me looking, my friends buying me drinks, me not looking at comedians on stage.

Then you started talking to yourself.

And it freaked me out.

After a while, I realized you were talking to yourself because you were one of the comedians, and you were rehearsing some part or another of your act. I’d like to say the reason why it took me a few moments to put two and two together and actually--eureka!--get four was that I was sloppy drunk, but the truth is, I’ve often successfully failed to connect similar dots completely sober. Like that day, back when I was a page working at Late Show, when the drummer from Green Day was talking to me outside the Ed Sullivan Theater and trying my patience, and I was wondering why this Cali boy with green hair was wearing a fucking cowboy hat, hanging out on Broadway, and using such lame-ass pickup lines. Then I ran into him inside the theater, and things began to make much more sense.

Back to you. Once I realized you were one of the comedians, then the talking-to-yourself part became understandable, even endearing. So I watched you talk to yourself for a while, thinking your state of nervous anticipation was positively precious.

I was also hoping that you would actually be funny.

Which, of course, you were. And I became a fan. But I didn’t catch your name, so I didn’t know who exactly I was a fan of. (Take it as a compliment, that I was so enthralled by your humor, charm, and adorableness.) You walked off the stage, stopped by my table, said hello, paused, then walked away. Up the steps, out onto MacDougal. By the time I realized that perhaps I should have followed you and introduced myself, you were gone.

So, you ask, how the hell do I know it was you if I didn’t catch your name? Eddie Brill was emceeing that night. I didn’t catch his name either, but a year later, when I started working at Late Show (where, for those of you reading along, Eddie is the warm-up comedian for Dave), I recognized him. He and I began chatting every day while I was distributing tickets and he was making the crowd less cranky about freezing their asses off in the wind tunnel that is Broadway. I told him the story, described what the guy looked like, and he said it had to be you. I explained how freakin’ *adorable* your talking-to-yourself was, and he said, “You should have told him that. Guys like to hear these things, you know. Especially from a girl like you.” Awwww…thanks, Eddie!

Such began my awareness of the fact that men appreciate validation. (Actually, we all do.) And then you appeared on Late Show, and the rest, as they say, is history. So what’s my point in all this? I have a few. The first is related to my quest: to explain to men that I found absolutely magnetic but yet failed to actually converse with that, yep, I was a dumb-ass. Of course, I don’t expect you to actually remember this (lack of) encounter, but I’d like to apologize to the 24 (or so)-year-old cutie with stage fright.

Secondly, I’d like to say that I hope that he’s somewhere still inside of you, even today when you are performing in places with actual back-stage areas to shield you from the prying eyes of audience members while you talk to yourself, which I’m assuming you still do. Because he was

Really.

Freakin’.

Adorable.

Keep in mind that the sexy might get the girls, but the adorable is what keeps them—well, is what keeps the keepers, at least. The adorable is what makes them want to make you chicken soup. You may get a lot of chickies sending you naked boobie shots, and I’m sure that’s fun and all, but I bet you want some chicken soup as well.

And thirdly, I’m still a fan and I wish you much continued success. Although it kinda freaked me out when I opened that email from Ticketmaster and saw you staring back at me. But it's a great photo!

Sincerely,
Jill

P.S. I, too, have driven too fast while blasting “Panama”. And right now I’m typing too much, too fast, while blasting…no, wiseass, not “Right Now.” Actually, “Jump”. So I apologize for the excessive wordification.

P.P.S. On the previous leg of my quest…well, let’s just say, it took me about 22 pages, and even at that, I’m still not sure the guy got an adequate explanation, so it’s probably going to require an entire full-length play to fully address. And that might not even be sufficient atonement. But that’s neither here nor there, if you define "there" as anywhere other than somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean, or possibly off the eastern coast of Florida. My point is that I think I’m improving, to be able to accomplish this in one blog post...if I actually have accomplished it?

(Of course the quantity of words that I use is in no way a reflection of your coolness or lack thereof, in the way that little kids assume that the amount of toys they get from Santa in comparison to their siblings is a reflection of how much the elves want to share their sugar plums with them, or how often in the past year they’ve made Baby Jesus cry.)

And speaking of which, merry merry, happy happy, all the best to ya.