Finding Jessica

I'm not going to lie, the breakup of Nick and Jessica affected me on a certain level.

Not on a substantial level, mind you. We're not talking "Dude, isn't this where you parked your car last night?" or "By the way, your girlfriend's a great kisser" stomach-punch territory here. We're more in the "Damn, I wore brown socks with black shoes" realm. Sure, it doesn't really matter, but if I could do it again, things would have went down differently.

I really have no reason to feel this way. I mean, should I care about the relationship of two seemingly vapid celebrities? Really? If somebody offered me a $20 bill with the caveat that accepting the currency meant the immediate dissolution of Nick and Jessica's union, would I not be $20 richer? A man has to eat, you know.

And yet, when I logged online to check my fantasy team Thanksgiving morning, the site of the news on Yahoo's headline pane made me pause. If only for a brief moment, the marital failings of the Newlyweds literally halted my day.

Please allow me a moment while I attempt to ratchet my heterosexuality meter back to normal levels…

GIRLS. FANTASY FOOTBALL. CARS. SLIM JIMS. SEX. OLD SPICE. BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN. CHEWING TOBACCO. JOYCE HYSER.

But here's the thing. Now that I've had some time to process the situation, I've come to realize that this has nothing to do with a chode who named his boy band after the standard measurement for body temperature. It was about her. I like to think that I knew Jessica Simpson before she was Jessica Simpson...back when she was viewed as just another cookie-cutter blonde in the teen pop resurgence of the late '90s. When my friend Bob came up to me at Tower Records with a copy of Simpson's debut CD and declared her "hotter than Britney," I may have vehemently disagreed with his statement but dear God did I respect his right to voice it. She was young, blonde, buxom and overtly virginal...hitting for the cycle at the tender age of 18. Who cared if she had a grating single out at the time -- anyone remember the unfortunate “I Wanna Love You Forever?” -- or that in her video she was inexplicably positioned in front of a huge crop duster, or that her nose was a little suspect, or that she was the out of the medalist round in the Britney-Christina-Mandy Orlando Olympics. Through it all, she was still sexy as hell and best of all, she remained under the radar somewhat.

That all changed with her marriage to Lachey and the subsequent launch of Newlyweds, a show that blew her career wide open. She was no longer mine and mine alone...and I hated Lachey for it. In a half-baked counter-attack, I spent the majority of 2003 formulating conspiracy theories that placed Lachey at the scene of anything bad that ever happened. Ever. Bad day at work? Lachey. Rent check bounced? Lachey. Hindenburgh disaster? Lachey. JFK assassination? Lachey. Rocky V?...you get the point. Oddly, this smear campaign never really got off the ground.

Given this perspective, I guess I got what I wanted. Maybe that skip of a heartbeat last Thursday had nothing to do with being upset by the end of the Simpson-Lachey union. This I am grateful for. More likely, it was a moment of joy: My Jess was back on the market. Gone was Newlyweds, chicken or tuna jokes and Christmas Specials with needless and unwarranted 98 Degrees reunions. In its place a completely unattached Simpson, free to the world. So get ready for the slew of paparazzi photos when Jessica hits her inevitable "I'm Going To Nail Half Of Hollywood And Not Even Think Twice About It" phase, the FHM spread with Ashlee, the acceptance of "more mature" movie roles meant to shake her innocent image and the oncoming fallout and subsequent bitter estrangement from her father, Joe Simpson, more popularly known as The Creepiest Man Who's Ever Walked The Earth.

All of which will lead to the No. 1 potential benefit of a newly single Jessica...the inevitable sex tape. It's not an "if," it's a "when" at this point. Let’s just hope she does it with Johnny Knoxville...I think they'd make an incredible couple.

BEER NUTS. IVAN DRAGO. HUNTING. CARBORATORS. SKELETOR. UNION REPS. METALLICA. BOOBS.

There, that's better.

Old Man River

And on his twenty-fifth Halloween, Dan doth hit the dance floor. Hard.

Sometimes when you dance like a drunken maniac -- as I did Saturday Night at the Frying Pan on Chelsea Pier -- these things are bound to happen. Maybe it was Ron Burgundy who crashed into my left knee, or the Burger King football guy, or one of the 7,000 chicks that went as a French Maid (innovation, ladies). All I knew was it felt like someone had just went at the inside of my left knee with a dull chainsaw and now I was on the floor, dragging myself out of the maze of humanity like a Vietnam jarhead fresh off an unexpected meeting with a minefield. Dance floor 1, Dan 0.

Five minutes later, propped up on a chair like Bernie Lomax in the Hamptons, I couldn't help but wonder the eternal twenty-something question: "Am I getting too old for this?"

I find myself acting that question a lot lately. Sure, in this particular instance I can't be taken too seriously. I did have my hair slicked back in a pseudo-ponytail with artificial drug residue and requisite nosebleed lining my nasal cavity after all (my official costume title was "'80s Stock Broker Partying Too Hard After Closing Mega-Deal"). But even still, when I'm laid up on my couch Sunday morning missing my weekend kickball game (I'm a virtual red flag super-center) the question kind of hangs there like a torn knee ligament.

When do you get too old to do stuff that was perfect okay three, four or five years ago? You know, if I had just been socializing with a gin and tonic with a small group of friends talking career and stuff like those dorks I see at PATH station bars, my leg wouldn't feel like Joe Theisman in the fall of '85 right now. But noooooooooo, I needed to do that extra Jaeger shot, you know, the one that makes you feel invincible. Mortality 1, Dan 0.

So as I vegetate on the couch for another night – I ironically signed up for the gym 12 hours before my injury – I'll have plenty of time to ponder my future bar-going existence. Cos right now baby, all I've got is time.

That, and a fucking busted knee.