Shortly after the thing went online, this happened. And then, this. And finally, this.

We’re so happy that the guys from STELLA were so gracious about what we wrote and charitable enough to put links up on their websites. Having stated this, we feel obligated to address a certain minor concern- this being the suggestion that their is something ‘academic’ and perhaps even a little patrician about the tone of our tribute to STELLA. Well, maybe there is, but let us tell you, that’s a new one on us. You ain’t exactly dealing with an exhaustive academic pedigree here: Timothy flunked out of the University of Georgia (the Harvard of the South) and subsequently drove around with his knucklehead friends playing in a bar band for nine years. Elizabeth does indeed have a Masters’ degree from Indiana University, though her most persistent memories of that time can essentially be whittled down to the final days heckling Bob Knight off campus, historic consumption of Mike’s Hard Lime Mojitos, and finessing the stalking ministrations of her academic advisor in a dangerous high stakes game of emotional quid pro quo long enough to escape Bloomington as an impeccably credentialed “sociologist.” Point is, we wanted to render an intelligent, thoughtful consideration of this favorite program of ours, owing as we hadn’t really seen one yet and felt it was deserving of such consideration. We were not trying to fancy pants anyone. If this suggestion persists then we are totally yanking our review of Tool Academy from next quarter’s Commentary…

You think I don’t need companionship? You think that I don’t have my “fat days” where nothing goes where it’s supposed to? When I have to push and prod every imperfection into place? You think I couldn’t use a pair of pants that always fits my contours just so? Of course I could.

You no what really grills me? You know what just chaps me right in my loins? I sent inquiries. I sent my headshot, my bona fides, my assorted measurements. My assumption was that there was a formal process for rejection- that I would hear something from someone at some point. Certainly that was the case with the Ice Capades and the University of Alabama.

There is a lot of talk these days about the fundamental mistrust of our institutions. People feel misled, neglected and abused. In light of the sort of treatment I am describing, it is difficult for me not to sympathize. At this point, I can see very little point in voting, and needless to say I haven’t paid taxes since my name change.

Well, so anyway, where does the goon get his locks chopped? What really does it matter? Where does a shag carpet go to get butchered into garbage? What tools are used? What process? Does anyone care? I’ll tell you what I do. I go to Barber College on 2nd avenue and 6th street in the East Village, where haircuts- any and all- are five dollars. Why five dollars? Because these are barbers in training, practically hostages, who need to work a certain number of hours in order to get earn a license to make a living. 

When I walk in there, as I did this previous Wednesday, the apprentice barber inevitably turns a jaundiced, ghastly shade of yellow. He then turns to the Master Barber with an expression most appropriately described as mortal anxiety. This is, after all, his livelihood. If he something were to go drastically wrong, he may not be able to feed his loved ones. They can’t pick their clientele, they can’t turn customers away. The apprentice barber sees me and then looks at the Master Barber wide eyed- his expression says: “I can’t do this. It can’t be done.” The Master Barber turns a stern and sanguine eye towards the apprentice: “You must take ALL customers”.  Then I approach and occupy the chair. The apprentice barber looks at me, and then looks at all the tools at his disposal- the shears, combs, clippers, lotions and potions. He fumbles nervously. He doesn’t know where to begin. “What……do you want me to do?” he inquires timidly, to which I shrug and say: “I’m just looking for a little trim.” Sometimes I will say this with a bit of a coy smile, which just heightens the discomfort to an almost unbearable level.  

Even though it’s only five dollars, barber college takes a long time, because the Master Barber has to come over every few minutes and check to see if everything is okay. Of course, in my case it never is. They cut and comb and shave and spray and I just look worse and worse. I can think of few sadder spectacles in the world then the crestfallen expression of the apprentice barber when he recognizes at the finish line that all of his passionate labor has only made the gargoyle in the mirror look scarier. Then the Master Barber tries to console him, but it is no use. Hair care has lost an apprentice. 

I guess you want to know if I feel bad about all of this? That’s sort of a complex question. I mean, I certainly don’t feel good about it.  I’m not an angry person. I have a little anger, I guess, but I’m not vindictive. I guess I’m like most handicapped people: irritable, but still trying to make the Olympics.  

(Editorial note: The proprietors of The Added Advantage fully disavow the contents of this crass and offensive entry. Please direct your avalanche of angry correspondence, which is only too warranted, HERE).