Love It or Leave It: Jack’s Black Hair

You know, I like Jack Black. I actually partied with him – OK, OK, near him – once. It was February or March of 2004, and I was hanging out in this shady bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans called Fat Catz with a few of my friends. We’d all decided to do Mardi Gras for the first time that year and I think it was, like, our second day there or something. Or maybe it was the second hour, I don’t know – there’s no true sense of time during Mardi Gras with all of that alcohol, really, so I suppose either could be true. Anyway, as we were drinking our huge geaux cups of buy-one-get-two-free Hurricanes (and as a sidebar, they weren’t even good ones – they were like fruit punch Kool Aid with a buttload of liquor; if you want decent ones, go to Pat O’Briens – word) a guy with an entourage of about six people came in, and everyone around was sort of backed up a foot or two as they passed through.  I was totally in a state of inebriation, but as Jack passed (he’s a short dude, guys – he wasn’t much taller than me), he kind of threw me a roguish wink and made his space at the bar.  He was sort of locked in for the rest of the time by his flankers, so I couldn’t exactly open up a dialogue with him, but it was pretty cool nonetheless.

So yup.  There’s my claim to fame.  Jack Black winked at me, so I automatically dig his dyed-black hair, even if it does look like he’s trying to be like Pete Wentz and I actually secretly hate it.