I’m sitting at Jamba Juice yesterday, a freshly blended Nike Protein Performance Shake, with extra shots of both protein and energy boosts, in hand. I’ve got my laptop case on the table in front of me along with a copy of “Possible Side Effects” by Augusten Burroughs. This was my second location, having just come from the Barnes and Noble (or was it Border’s) about twenty feet away. The little uncomfortable metal chair I’m in is digging into my tail bone causing me considerable discomfort. I can’t, however, let on that I’m in agonizing ass pain.

Because everyone is looking at me.

Or so I think.Pretty much everywhere I go I think that people are looking at me. And I don’t mean that they’re glancing at me, or that I’m simply in their line of vision. I mean I think people are staring at me and thinking something. Often I think that they recognize me. “Look, there. No no, right over there. It’s Bad Ass Frank of Myspace fame and the hilarious internet TV broadcast that’s named after his Bad Ass-ness.” I sit up a little straighter, puff my chest out a bit, and make sure the tattoos are obvious, just to confirm their suspicions. It is indeed the illustrious, illustrated and illin’ like McMillan (and wife), BAF. Please, approach me if so inclined but don’t feel compelled to gush, I’m just a normal guy who’s disarmingly handsome, devastatingly witty and not quite tall enough to ride all the rides. Nothing to be scared of but, for Christ’s sake, try not to take up too much of my valuable celebrity time. At any moment I could be taking meetings or on the phone with my agent (if I had one) about to demand more money for some extremely newsworthy deal, or discussing hot threesomes with barely legal girls on conference call those very same girls. Those are just some of the things I might be doing. See, I tell myself this because my other option is not pretty. In fact, it’s quite hideous. It’s the thought that they might be saying, “That guy looks familiar” which, in my mind, translates into “He is generic looking”. I worry almost constantly that I am generic looking. Too familiar. Too much like every other run-of-the-mill schmo on the street. Case in point…The other night I was out with my friend Damienne and she introduced me to a friend. His name eludes me because, as I often do, I did not listen when it was said to me. I was too busy wondering if he would know who I was, or think I was cool, or offer me money. Regardless, after the introduction he said, “I’ve seen you here before.” Ouch. You cad! I respond with a casual, “Possibly, except for the fact that I’ve never been here.” I am so very clever. He-that-continues-to-remain-nameless swears he knows me from somewhere. My massive ego and my massive insecurity are in an epic battle. Is it because I’m generic or is it because I am a wildly popular internet personality that is self-created and brilliant at marketing? People everywhere think I look familiar because I am omnipresent, infiltrating both your computer monitor and the deepest recesses of your brain thus, I am constantly “on your mind”. Or is it that I look like your neighbors cousin that visisted from Boise. If it’s the latter, I’ll kill myself. Luckily Damienne, who at this moment is in the clutches of a few beers and a shot of vodka, pipes up with, “You know him from the internet. He’s Bad Ass Frank.” Perhaps I am saved. NOW he’ll recall exactly who I am from his times spent laughing out loud, in this very spot, while reading my blogs. He stares blankly and blinks as if to say, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.” I come perilously close to punching him repeatedly in his forehead to see if it jars his memory, but I don’t. I simply smile and decide that he’s an idiot. That he probably does recognize me but is trying to be “cool” and pretend like he doesn’t. This is often the option I choose. Why would I CHOOSE to have myself look like the guy that works the front desk at his gym? I mean really.

It doesn’t always have to be that people recognize me. Often I’ll think people are looking because they find me attractive. At the risk of sounding arrogant (I write that in almost every blog proving that I am not at all fearful of sounding arrogant), I know that a decent number of people think that I’m “hot”. Why else would I get so many emails here on Myspace telling me so? Myspace, and everything that people write here, is 100 percent totally honest and real and validates everything about life, right? RIGHT? The problem is that, if I follow this theory, then every single male on the planet is gay, every female, regardless of age, education, social background, ethnicity or sexual orientation thinks that short, tattooed, average looking guys are super hot. Even I know this isn’t possible. There are some shallow and shortsighted women who don’t understand why I am wildly attractive to the rest of their species. We will call them bull dykes.

Sometimes I choose to believe that people think I look dangerous. Sitting at that Jamba Juice, security guards kept passing me and, as they passed, gave me looks that said, “I know you’re a nefarious character who could, at any moment, wreak havoc upon this entire shopping center and entertainment complex. If you so choose you could throw down that comedic memoirist’s novel, cast aside your laptop where you’re logged onto dictionary. com using T-Mobile Wireless Hot Spot, and go hand to hand with full gangs of Bloods or Crips that might be about to go into Island’s for a tasty burger. You are clearly a man who means business and is not to be trifled with. So I’m keeping an eye on you just in case I need to call for backup.”

Another option is, of course, that others find me to be mysterious and intriguing. They see through my dangerous, hot, bad boy and possibly famous but not-looking-generic-at-all-ever-in-any-way-exterior to what might be a philosopher, a great thinker, a master of the human mind, using both fantastic and rational thought to create great ideas that will likely change the world. This is a man who could both cure cancer AND world hunger at the same time, were he so inclined. I’m sure they’re wondering what sort of metaphysical cogitation is taking place in the plane of reality that only beings like myself can exist. Little do most know, that is usually what I’m doing. Thinking profound and enlightened thoughts. I am not, in fact, thinking of writing stories about a recent bout with explosive diarrhea, banging 19 year old girls, or if I should grow my hair back out or not. No, I am not thinking of those things. Not most of the time. I mean, maybe much of the time or a lot of the time, but not all of it. Like, 99 percent or something. Because the other, more intense and mentally draining cognition is tiresome. So I must keep that to a manageable percentage of my thinking time. I’m sure you understand, if you have the capacity to grasp my brilliance.

NOTE: One of my most recognizeable traits has always been my hair. Whether dyed black or my natural brown, it’s always been kinda tall and spikey with sideburns. Twice in the past year, I have shaved it all off. It’s an exercise to see how much of my personal power resides in my follicles. The first time I regretted it almost immediately and grew it back out. This time, however, I have owned the shaved head and still feel pretty good about my appearance. Can I still be Bad Ass Frank without the spikes? There are plenty of celebrity men, hot ones, with shaved heads. Brad Pitt in Fight Club? Anyone wanna deny that was perhaps his hottest ever? Unless you’re a contestant on ‘Rock of Love’, you can’t think he was hotter in ‘Legends of the Fall’. What about Jason Latham? And I won’t even put a question mark after the dudes from Prison Break. I’D fuck those guys. So what’s a BAF to do? Keep the comfortable, slightly mean looking shaved or go back to the spikes? Whick is hotter? Does it matter? Am I Bad Ass either way? Can I be recognized without my up-do? Only time will tell.

I would tell you the stories about when I’ve actually been recognized on t
he street, as Bad Ass Frank, “internet celebrity”, but it would just make me look cool. And I don’t need that. Because I already look cool. I know because a goofy looking fat chick was sitting at a table next to me at Jamba Juice and just staring away. At first glance I thought she might recognize me but she didn’t say anything. After a moment I realized that she probably just thought I looked cool.

And not at all like anyone she knew.