This one started about losing your hair. Or rather, it was about becoming convinced that you are experiencing the first stages of hairline recession and Male Pattern Baldness, without much evidence to suggest that. It was about counting the hairs in your hand after using conditioner (50-100 per day is within normal limits, but remember to account for other follicles you lose throughout the day). It was about lengthening amounts of time in front of the mirror plying back my hair and making Pythagorean guesstimations of the two triangles in the corners where the hairline and sideburns meet. So much depends on those angles remaining 90 degrees .
Then I was going to talk about how, over beers, in furtive tones, I’ve mentioned this to other nubile, barely legal guys like me (24 to 27). And how alarmed I’ve been to hear how just how many hirsute, handsome fellas with no cause for concern are biting their nails over their hairlines inching crownwards, maybe.
Then, I would have discussed two options:
1. It’s real, in which case I will handcuff myself to Dr. Fauci’s desk until he funds research into whether microwaving our prostates with smartphone radiation for 16 hours a day on the Frozen Pizza setting is healthy.
2. It’s dysmorphic, caused by the advertising blitzes of Hims and Keeps hard-selling us a solution until we believe we have the problem. While women are sadly better adjusted (or at least more accustomed) to being given new bodily insecurities by a marketing department, men have less immune resistance. I am more inclined to this theory. Never ask a barber if you need a haircut; never ask a hair loss prevention pill mill if you need hair loss prevention pills.
And just as I thought I would write about that, I remembered the ur-receded hairline, and the ne plus ultra of FUE hair transplants: *heavy sigh* *hangs head* *looks up* *kisses you* … Elon Musk.
So, he’s buying Twitter. The neurotoxin I compulsively huff every waking minute of my life is changing hands from Alwaleed bin Talal Al Saud and Larry Fink to a more publicly indecorous sociopathic narcissist.
My stance: I hope he gets it and makes it so unpleasant to use that I finally quit social media, quit comedy, get rich, buy my parents homes in the South of France, give everybody nice sweaters, and teach them how to dance.
Do I have smart, smarmy takes about the counterparty risk of his margin loan? Of course! But I’ll save those for a 19-year-old Gallatin student tonight at Bella Ciao.
For years, I have noticed a bizarre trend: the world’s most powerful, famous, and richest individuals have the same career aspirations as my brokest, most driftless friends in North Brooklyn. Goldman Sachs CEO David Solomon is a DJ. Barack Obama is a multi-hyphenate writer-podcaster-producer. Prince Harry supports his wife’s entertainment career with a no-show job at a wellness start-up.
And now, a new champion emerges. Elon Musk is the world’s richest man. He has ascended the Maslow hierarchy of masculine needs: Sports cars. Flamethrowers. Rocket ships. Tunnels. Apes. He has looked out from the mountaintop and seen the bitter truth: none of it compares to shitposting le dank memes epically on the hellapp birdsite.
It’s scary to think that Elon Musk is a power-hungry megalomaniac trying to own the Town Square. It’s scarier to think that market-moving, world-shifting events are spurred by the delicate egos of men.
But scariest of all is that this is it. You have the dream life. The man with hundreds of billions of dollars wants to be you. The posting. The weed and the stimulants. The unstable white women. He chooses to have roommates. This prison you wish to escape? The freest man craves to be locked in. The only difference? He has fixed his hairline.
Stupid. The whole point of the acquisition is to STOP people from being frivolously banned.