Cowboy Hat Guy Heads to Detroit

Dear Journal,

We've just entered the season of summer, which is my favorite time to go to escapist films like "Indiana Jones and the case of the strange-and-never-explained-alien-skulls." I saw Indiana Jones this week and found it to be misleading to aspiring archeologists. They show up to their first day of work with their whip and they're like, "Where's the cavern of jewels?" And their boss is like, "Actually, today we're gonna start off by dusting thousands of miles of nothing"

But the thing I admire about Indy movies is the conviction and sense of self that Indy has. He's an archeologist and an overly trusting action hero and he's ok with that. Indy's always like, "My long lost friend with a glass eye and a black suit needs a hand locating a crystal scepter that turns people into sand? Sure I'll help, that sounds like it's totally on the level!"

I'm not so sure I'm as comfortable in my own skin.

I make outdoor festivals even more awkward

Last week I performed at the Bonnaroo Festival. If you're not familiar with these outdoor rock & roll festivals, Journal, they're a great opportunity for musicians and comedians to share the stage and for teenagers to convert porto-potties into meth labs. Being at the fest brought me back to high school when I would attend these types of festivals with much enthusiasm and a deep search for my own identity. Large quantities of Schlitz Ice and hallucinogens aren't very helpful for figuring out who you are. But they're a great way to figure out who you're not.

Here's me on stage at Bonnaroo last week. I am not as blurry in real life.

Cowboy hat = good idea?

One summer when I was seventeen I decided I would wear a cowboy hat, not unlike that of Indiana Jones, to many of these summer concerts, not to seek out treasure and to put ancient curses to rest, but to prop up a hibachi in a tailgate parking lot and eat salmonella-laced chicken kabobs while drunk enough to befriend strangers. What I discovered by wearing this cowboy hat was that people would remember who I was. They knew I was "the cowboy hat guy." And I was proud of that. I was like, "That's who I am! I'm the cowboy hat guy! And no one can take that away from me, unless of course they took the cowboy hat, in which case, they'd be the cowboy hat guy.

The plot thickens for Cowboy Hat Guy

And one summer while wearing the silly hat to see the Steve Miller Band I met this girl and fell in love. Well, I thought I fell in love. I actually just found her physically attractive and attributed to her every positive quality I'd ever hope for in a woman in my life. So we end making out on the lawn of the Great Woods Center for the Performing Arts. For me, it was great. For the people watching, it was awkward, pathetic, or totally, totally hot. But I went home with her phone number and address and I proceeded to write love letters to her. Or I should say, elaborate fictional narratives that always had the two of us reuniting in some strange way that included one of my heroes like Jimmy Connors or Bill Cosby and somehow we'd get to the next Steve Miller band concert just in time for the encore of "Fly Like An Eagle."

Cowboy Hat Guy Dies a Painful Death

Well, after a summer of letters, I built up the courage to call her and the worst possible thing happened. She was having a slumber party with all of her friends and so I spoke to them as a group. Now, I really like women. But for some reason I don't like women in groups. And I really don't like women in groups on the phone.

They proceeded to read excerpts of my letters and after each excerpt there would be an eruption of laughter like a Johnny Carson highlight reel. Except none of these were intended to be jokes. A few weeks later, I went back to my senior year fall and I hung up my cowboy hat. I didn't know who I was. But I knew who I wasn't.

And that concludes this week's entry in my secret public journal.