Film Monthly presents, as a public service, the following column by Danny Barbeau. Within these scant few pages may you find the secrets of everlasting inebriation as we, The Editors, have. Read on boys, and may your ex-wives still talk to you when it's all said and done.

Our story so far:

Thirty six years ago, long after the big blue ball was fully formed, the Great Spirit was putzing about the pool room when all at once he sensed a void in his creations. So, he took a hundred pounds of clay and he rolled his big sleeves up, and he created Danny in his own, marvelously handsome image. And here I am. And naturally he packed me with as much testosterone as he had lying around the tool shed, which was, as he had used so little up to that point, a great deal. Let's say, more than Brad Pitt and slightly less than Gladiator Russell Crowe. This was a very good thing up until a few weeks ago. I was loading the crisper drawer with Bud Natural Light when suddenly, there in the chrome drawer handle, I saw it. My head! Saw it right through my freakin' hair! I had shrinking follicles!!! Overwhelming amounts of testosterone had been my undoing!

I realize right off the bat your questions are spilling from your mouths like so much non-fat decaf soy latte. What can I do to help Danny through this latest challenge? Will Danny still be able to write his semi-monthly column of hilarious television reviews? If I'm driving a car and Danny's in the oncoming traffic, and the sun is behind me, is it possible he could blind me with his head? How concerned should I be about this?

Let's just take this a step at a time, shall we. Now, I'm a man who's always been vested in not only his testicles but in his mane as well. (See accompanying photo.) And I'll grant you, I've had a pretty good run of it. But when my lovely wife suggested I try and age gracefully, it set me to thinking. What exactly does that mean? Go freakin' bald? Let myself go to the point where my penis is always in the shade? I don't think so!

The Great Spirit did not intend I go through this life, considering all the effort he went through to provide me for your amusement and education, with a cue ball noggin like Captain Stubing of The Love Boat. So I set to thinking, and the first thing that pops into the 'ol brain pan is Rogaine. So I go on the Rogaine web site and what do I find out? I'm paraphrasing here: "For $29.95 per month, 42% of individuals slapping this stuff all over their cue ball noggins saw some resultant hair growth (see peach fuzz) within TWO YEARS!" Now, if that ain't taking a leak in a wind storm I don't know what is.

Then it hits me, like a shot of apple jack on a cold winter's morn: I need something homo-pathic! Something of The Earth! Something Mystical and old! And all at once I realize! I ain't never seen a ball headed Indian! I'll go see Larry! So - quicker than you can say, "Why exactly do they call you The Can Opener, Danny?" - I grab two cold ones and march right over to Larry's garage.

"Larry, I got shrinking follicles!"

"I can help you, Kemo-sloppy," he says.

"Wonderful!" says I, "I got a bald spot you could pitch a tent on!"

"You must do exactly as I say. First, go to the Quick Mart and git me a twelve pack of Bud Natural Light, some Ho Ho's and a pack of Cigarillos. Then return here."

So, faster than you can say, "There's lipstick on your tooth, mom", I jump in the Chevy and drive to the Quick Mart where Jerry The Arab ID's me for the beer. Then I doughnut out of the parking lot and before you can say, "Can't you put a sock on that thing?" I'm back.

"Here's the stuff, Larry!" I hand over what I assume are the necessary ingredients. Larry cracks one, hands it over, cracks another, lights up a cigarillo, takes a long pull and spits a brown lugi on the concrete. Then we proceed to stare at this little puddle of saliva for about ten minutes.

"What do ya see, Larry?" I finally say.

"Spit," Larry said. "Never could see a damn thing but spit, but hey, had to try."

"What about my shrinking follicles?"

"Male pattern baldness. Hereditary among white people mostly. Can't do a thing, but thanks for picking up the beer for me."

So, I'm doomed.

Oh sure, I hear you ladies out there shouting out the party line, "There are many attractive men without hair, Danny!" Yeah, and size doesn't matter. Excuse me while I laugh, A LOT! In my day, we had 'ol Yul Brenner, a man entirely vested in his testicles while at the same time totally hairless. Sure, he was cool, but the man looked like he'd been suckin' lemons. Besides, he's dead, leaving us egg heads and soon to be cue balls with that dork, Anthony Edwards, from the former hit, E/R. Can somebody explain that guy to me? That bald headed, no chin, bi-focaled, bland Man Impersonator is considered a sex symbol? Why? Because you think he's a freakin' doctor? He ain't no freakin' doctor! Before he got this gig, which mind you has gone on a few seasons too long already, he starred in Revenge Of The Nerds. This he followed with Revenge of The Nerds II. Then Revenge Of The Nerds III. He'd made a career out of playing himself! And I don't want to be in his freakin' club! I'm freakin' out at the thought of it!

I'm seeing a white light!

I'm floating through a long tunnel!

There's Grand-pa!

There's Buddy Grecko!

There's Sy Spurling from The Hair Club For Men!

He's trying to sew a rat on my head!

Somebody bring me a Bud!

Elvis, Elvis, Why hast thou forsaken me!

Okay, I suppose I've made my point. The point is that my hair, the great love of my life, has decided to leave me for a storm drain in Guadalajara. So, the cat's out of the bag now, baby! But I need to move on. My position on the big blue ball is a little shaky at present. Slight case of food poisoning. I went to the god damn fru-fru French restaurant the other day-on someone else's dime, naturally - ("never pass up bathrooms or free meals" Danny) and I ordered a steak. Later of course I realized I was the most ignorant diner on the planet, but I have this vague recollection of asking the chick next to me, "Darlin' what is steak Tar Tar?"

"Um, oh, golly, I think it's a very rare steak, Danny."

"Sounds good to me!" I say, and faster than you can say, "Is it me, or does it smell like butt in here?" I hungrily placed my order. Twenty-five minutes later this fat panty boy frog dressed like a broad brings me a hamburger patty as cold and raw as Libarace's ass! Worse! I eat the freakin' thing!

Now three days, two hospital visits and a World's Fair later, it's still inside me, nesting, probably giving birth to little ecoli-boli meatballs!

Anywho, I got more important things than this to do. Gotta keep Budweiser stock afloat for one thing. Before I go, I was watching a little television (Television, as in, what this column is actually supposed to be about) and some folks were bitching about 'ol Thomas Jefferson on the PBS. How he was a walking contradiction. How he should have freed his slaves. How he should have given his name to all them mulatto children he fathered. (Hello Wheezy, has any one heard of the freakin' Jefferson's already?) Anyway, if you're gonna rag on 'ol T.J. for something it ought to be for one phrase within the body of an otherwise great document. It's The Declaration of Independence (for those of you who don't know what Steak Tar Tar is) and the phrase is, "The Pursuit of Happiness." This line has been screwing y'all up for years so listen very carefully: You have no right to happiness. For one thing, happiness is too freakin' big an emotion to sustain very long. Ten minutes, tops. The problem is that the rest of the time you're wondering, Why ain't I happy? Well, forget about it. If rich people can't find happiness with all the cabbage they got, then what hope is there for working folks like us? Better to try for something more realistic. How about, The Pursuit of Relaxation. The pursuit of a cold beer. The pursuit of one fine day. The pursuit of a freakin' good night's sleep. If you aspire for something greater than that, how about the pursuit of contentment? But keep it simple folks. Have nice meals. Kiss someone. Drive instead of walk. Don't strain. Kick an annoying person right in the ass. Barbecue. Talk to everyone. Don't be afraid to make a jackass out of yourself to give folks a laugh. Have a cocktail. Try to remember what you were going to do before your life became an In/Out Basket and do that with your evenings. Beats watching television.

As Elvis once said, "You only go through this life once, jack, you don't come back for no encore."

I'll probably have changed my mind about all of this tomorrow, so you know, grain of salt.

This one's for Bull Rider Glen Keeley (1970-2000) who's life never became an In/Out basket.

Elvis says, "Bye."

Daniel J. Barbeau, lives in Northern California, where he practices the fine art of hair growth through the use of distilled hops.

Got a problem? Email Dan at filmmonthly@hotmail.com