8.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I had an accident at acupuncture this morning. Not really an accident, I guess. It may have been more of a misunderstanding. But it does involve my forehead having this weird bruise.

The first time I did acupuncture was last week. I didn't have much of a fear of all the needles and the sticking, although I once ran out on a pediatrician who tried to give me a hepatitis vaccine. This experience was relaxing. He put needles in my stomach, my legs, my neck, my ears, almost everywhere. Then he took those out and I flipped over and we did it all over again. Sometimes I fall asleep really fast when I'm on my stomach so I almost passed out this time.

My second time was this morning. I walked in, said hello, read a little about the Saved By The Bell reunion perpetrated by People magazine. Then it was time. He brought me to a new room, one that had four beds. One had a lady in it already, and she seemed to be pretty zonked out. I tried not to look at her so as to make sure I didn't interrupt anything going on. So we're whispering, he's asking me about my stomach and how it's been since the first time. Things have been good, I say. I've really noticed a difference already. Great to hear, he whispereplies. He instructs me to take off my shoes, which I almost misinterpreted as take off your shirt. I didn't expect that, so I just removed my shoes which turned out to be the right move.

He gets right to putting the needles in. They don't really hurt when they go in, only sometimes. And I let him know when it does hurt. There was one in my stomach that got a "Nuh uh, no thank you" and he fixed that one up quick. He needles me all up, and he says he'll be back. The first time, each side of my body got between fifteen and twenty minutes. I figure he'll be back soon and it will be time for the changeover.

I lay there, and lay there, and lay there, and lay there. I tried to fall asleep, I swear but I could feel parts of my body going numb. I didn't know if that was from the needles or the fact that my feet were raised just a little. I couldn't move my toes on my right foot! But I powered through, in anticipation of explaining this new back pain I've had a few times over the past month that decided to come back two days ago. And I kept waiting for him to come back. Nope, this was it--we were done.

After all was said and poked, and an hour later, I was out of there. I had no idea what was going to happen so I was surprised so much time had passed! It turns out, because I'm broke as a joke, I am part of the acupuncture community, which means cheaper rates, but also means group rooms and one side of your body at a time. All of which is totally fine with me, I just didn't know. He started explaining this as he was taking the needles out of my body. He has been sticking one in my forehead, to help clear and calm the mind. This one made me bleed a little. He patted the blood out and warned about the bruise.

I was feeling and looking good when I got out of there. Then around 2 or 3 this afternoon, I notice this bizarre coloring on my forehead. It is clearly a bruise, right between my eyebrows. It's not that it looks totally weird, I mean maybe some people get hickies on their foreheads. I guess my forehead is just sensitive. I had forgotten all about this forehead bruise until my boss asked me about it. We laughed because I told her the story after explaining that I completely forgot that I had this purplish-brownish spot on my face.

All of this is to say that if you do acupuncture, sometimes they only do one side of your body. And if your person warns that there might be bruising, ice that spot quick!

Ok, honestly, it's really not that bad.

Hope you are well.

Jon

7.29.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am listening to Whitney Houston's new song, "I Look to You" right now. And I am now beginning my second listen of the song. I can't decide how I feel about it. It's a slow one. And she sounds kind of different. I mean, we know she's been through a lot--Bobby's no longer around, Bobbi Kristina is a mess, and she also sort of dated Ray J. She's seen it.

Normally we're used to hearing Whit belt it the eff out. This song is restrained, almost calm. I can see her doing this at an awards shoe and bringing the house to tears. R. Kelly wrote it, which accounts for most of the melodrama. Wouldn't it have been more interesting if she had taken on her own sort of "Trapped in the Closet"? The first 12 chapters from Kells were not enough, and who better a storyteller than Whitney Houston, herself? I'm just saying.

Ok, I am now forming a much more solid opinion about this one. It doesn't even really sound like Whitney Houston, at all. There are elements of her phrasing and flavor, but Whitney circa any time in the 1990s this is not. I'm giving it a third listen just to be sure.

I swear, we love comebacks. And she is ripe for one. I think many of us can admit that we loved "Being Bobby Brown" not for Bob, but for Whitney's cameos. It was insane to watch her train wreck every week. But I am dying for her to come back with a huge bang. "Just Whitney" did not do it for me. At all. As this "I Look to You" keeps playing, I am kind of getting into it, I think. I think I like her new voice. It's almost like how Aretha's voice got all husky and dirty as she's aged, the talent is still there but the instrument is different. We know Whit can do it, but maybe it's a little nice to hear her do it a little differently this time around. I won't even lie, I will buy her album the day it comes out. I know she could use the money, and I want her to be on top.

Let's wish her luck.

Jon

7.20.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am not my hair. That is a song by India Arie, that chick who wanted to be Tracey Chapman but lost her flava when she shaved off her dreds. For a long time, I thought I was my hair--that my self-confidence was negatively correlated with the length of my hair. The shorter it was, the better I felt. Whenever it got long, I swear I always did begin to feel bad about myself and the world. So in what could only be described as a fit, I would buzz off all of my hair in the middle of the night to wake up the next day with a lighter load and an eighth of an inch of hair.

The past year has seen me growing out my hair a bit. Many people like it, I'd say. I like it, and I still feel good. Of course, there are those haters like my mom, sister, and friend Megan who say they prefer me with shorter hair. I wonder if all their negative comments in the past might have caused me to feel bad, all the "But you look so much better when your hair is shorter" or "I just like it better, you look older, more mature when you hair is shorter". These are the things I'd hear when I would come home from college on breaks. But as a sort of rebellion, I've been growing out my hair this past year and it feels good. I no longer cut my hair myself, which I had been doing for the previous year and a half, or so. I get it professionally tamed, which I think adds to its manageability and general awesomeness. That is until it is humid or if it is rainy.

The new hair length has let me play with different kinds of products because I finally have hair to put product in. I don't know yet if I've figured out the right amount because some days I look super greasy and other days I am a hot frizzy mess. But today, I thought I might have achieved the right balance of hair product. By the time I got to work I thought I might have used too much. But the rain was doing things to my head.

After the first hour or so, my hair had officially become a poof. This is one of the main reasons I didn't grow out my hair in the past. When my hair gets long, it tends to gain size and volume, leaving this huge mess of bristly and coarse poofiness. But I had been combatting that recently by having it cut by a professional. But I think I am in need of a haircut. My hair curled up and frizzed out today. It looks like it's standing about four or five inches off the top of my head, which reminds me a little of Gene Wilder (who I almost just called Gene Hackman) in "Willy Wonka".

It's probably not even that bad. I really just wanted to see what you thought and what you used to tame your hair. I wonder what your hair looks like when you wake up in the morning. Ok, I really don't wonder that. Anyway, here's to taming the poof. Pun intended.

Jon

7.15.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was thinking. Today is my birthday and you haven't really done much for me lately. I don't ask for much, just to hear from you every now and then. Maybe a call here or there, to make sure you're alive or at least continuing to receive checks from SNL and/or Tina Fey. But I've decided to ask you to help make me an internet celebrity or just a plain celebrity.

I was on Facebook just now and it suggested I become a fan of B. Scott. I had no idea who this B. Scott person was, so I clicked to go to his page. He is a blogger who has used his interviews with some B and C list celebs to get a job with Access Hollywood. I do not want to be a celebrity blogger, and I don't want to work on Access Hollywood, I will leave that to Mark McGrath. However, I was wondering if you could help me secure a book deal.

After I just said that, I don't know if it's the right thing right now. I find it hard enough sometimes to find time to write to you on a semi-regular basis. I am trying to write an essay about this one night of craziness during grad school, and am finding that unless I just happen to be inspired when in front of the computer, I don't write. Colette, my writing partner, and I have decided that we would start to bring pieces that we worked on during the week to our meetings, rather than use our meetings as a time to write. I had so much trouble getting inspired last week and getting anything written. Until the last minute. Then, in a fury, I wrote like 800 words of awesomeness. But it made me feel a little like I did when I was in grad school--that general feeling of anxiety that I wasn't doing any work and that I had work I needed to get done. But there wasn't any work here, and I like writing this kind of thing. But for a minute I was thinking, "Oh my god, please don't make me write about jails and witches! I promise I will get it all done. I swear!"

Although, if I had something to aspire to, like a collection of essays then I would get so much out of doing the work and having a finished product. This is why you need to get me a book deal--so basically, I can do something awesome. As I read this out loud, I realize this is a little selfish. Which is why if you get me the book deal, I promise to be your best friend. Forever. We would make such an awesome team. We could make lots of weird and awkward faces at each other. I would let you call me "lovah". You could tell me all about what it was like to play Elizabeth Taylor that one time. We could get brunch on the weekends, our dogs could play together. Oh man, which reminds me.

Lyle, the beagle, has been diagnosed as having epilepsy. This was insanely scary, as Ben and I watched his first major seizure in the kitchen. Jesus. But the dog is a survivor. I just found out that Hugo Weaving and Lindsey Buckingham are also epileptics. Lyle is in good company, I think. I wonder if this means we can get a handicapped hangtag for our car. I once saw a Porshe with a handicapped hangtag. I can't judge--handican, my friend!

Well, I guess I should get going. I wish you could come to the party tonight, but you're probably busy. That's cool.

Jon

7.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

So this past weekend was the 4th of July. I always get the 4th and New Year's confused. But I don't think I've ever watched fireworks on New Year's eve. I guess it's all the other shiny and exploding things the two share that has them being the same holiday, but in winter and summer versions, for me. We went and visited some friends who just married and who live in the town where Ben went to school. It was great to see them and great to see the town and campus.

I don't know if we realized how attached we are to our college campuses until we go away for a while. Then, like the road you take to your house, you get that feeling of familiarity and comfort when you get close. The signs look familiar. You remember that time when you almost got a ticket for going the wrong way on a one-way street. You remember how awesome you thought it was to mix beer and wine together when you were eating chips and sour cream. There's just something about coming back to a place you hardcore knew that is nice.

I love knowing people's favorite things about their favorite places. When we moved to The Hill, I was always pointing out my favorite burrito place, the place that has the best drink specials, the place that we must avoid unless we want to smell like tortilla chips and grease for three days. Being up there with Ben was great because I finally got to put real life things together with all the stories. Like this one place he lived in that included the Door to Nowhere. Like, it's an upstairs door that has no balcony or even little porch or anything to step out on above the main house door. You open the door and if you step out, you will step on some air and promptly hit the ground. We don't know why this door ever existed, but it does. And to see it for real after hearing about it is kind of like seeing a bigfoot. You sort of believe when people tell you it exists, but once you see it you are a believer for life.

It was a really great weekend. Of course, I got crazy sunburned. I feel like I don't have fair skin and can handle the sun. But when if you've been indoors for six months, like I have, you sit out for even a second too long and you get burned. Whatever. I love burned knees. And it was worth it!

We should talk soon.

Jon

6.21.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was doing some thinking as I was walking to the gym one morning this past week. The gym is close by so I walk there. There is a bald-headed older gentleman who has a mid-life crisis convertible that he drives there every morning instead of walking. He vroomed past me as I was trying to collect some thoughts earlier this week, kind of jarring me awake. It was early in the morning and I was still getting used to the light. We've started this new workout plan this is kind of kicking my ass. I mean, I'm seeing results and muscles are getting bigger and harder but it's hard work!

On the way there I was in mid-dread about the impending leg presses I was to do. The leg press is the first exercise of the new plan. Back during my days in the bodybuilding club in college, I dreaded dreaded dreaded the leg press. And now it's back in my life, in full effect. So far, it's been easy to handle. But then I am not doing so much weight that I am getting stuck in the leg press machine, needing the help of three burly dudes to help pry me out of it. That happened.

Anyway, I'm walking to the gym when I see him--the man, who in the past week I have decided to call Spooky. When I saw him this past week I had to slow my roll a little because he makes me a little afraid. I am beginning to see what a problem homelessness is becoming, even here in little old North Carolina. These people have no where to go but the street. I wish I could do more.

The first time I saw him it was a night. We were driving back from somewhere and it was late and dark. Having just turned the corner coming off the off-ramp, we were merging into the most left lane so that we could follow it down two lights to our house. Then I looked to my right. Gasping, "Was that a ghost?" I didn't know exactly what I had seen. Ben replied, "Jon, why would a ghost just be walking down the side of the road?" I didn't understand that it was indeed a man that I had seen, as he was moving slowly as if moseying to the beat of an apparitional drum. Ben clearly knew what he saw, and it was a guy who was moving very slowly and kind of side to side, more like a pirate with a wooden leg than perhaps a ghost.

Because I was convinced Spooky was indeed a ghost, I never thought we would encounter him again. I mean, unless your home is haunted or you did something bad to some lady right before she died, I like to think that if you were to encounter a ghost it happens just once. All of this ghost talk comes from the shows we sometimes watch on the History Channel. They are mostly concerned with the search for cryptids--you know things like ghosts, blood-sucking wolf/cats, and swamp things. These shows will have you convinced you are seeing crazy shit if you believe that these things could possibly be real. I guess I believe because the second time I mistook Spooky for Big Foot. And again, like the idea of ghosts I have in my head, Big Foots also move slowly and side to side. Ben again cleared this confusion up for me. Spooky is a man, not a cryptid. He just moves real slow.

Over the course of the past week, I have encountered Spooky twice. And both times I have reacted in the same way. I slow my walk to a crawl and begin to whisper, whether to someone I'm with or inside my head. "There's Spooky. Don't let him see you. If you move slowly and keep far enough away he can't get you." It really is as if I am treating this man like he is actually a ghost or Big Foot and I am the Crocodile Hunter, but of cryptids. I don't exacly fear for my life, but my skin does get a little cold and I lose feeling in my extremities.

Ok, I should probably be honest. Those feelings have to be from the new workout, and not from Spooky. At least with the new workout I'm not doing all those crazy muscle enhancing pills and powders like last time. Then I could always blame my crazy on something I took. I guess now I'm just crazy, and all people are cryptids. Consider this a cry for help.

Hope you are well,
Jon

6.14.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

It seems I have been away for longer that I anticipated. Well, things have been busy. I realized that during much of May, I did not do many of the things I had been doing for many of the months prior: I was not writing, I was not meeting with my writing partner (shoutout to Miss C.). Now that I think about it, that may have been all that I didn't do. I still went to work, I still ate, I became even more obsessed with the Kardashian family. So it really seems I only neglected you during May. And for that, I apologize.

But this is not to say that there were things that happened that were not worth mentioning. We made a little vacation trip up to the Big Apple. The other times I've been up there, I've always flown into JFK. But this time, using Hotwire (shoutout to Hotwire), we got a killer deal but it involved flying into Laguardia. Neither of us had been to this airport, but I had made a vow to myself that if I were to ever move to New York I would live in Queens because that's where the Mets play and it is the home to my favorite Latina familia de television, The Suarezes. Laguardia, here we come.

We fly into Queens and into Laguardia. My first impression was that it was much smaller than JFK. We didn't have to take seven different trains around and within the airport. In fact, we just stepped off the plane and into the terminal and there was the foodcourt and those shops that sell books and those neck-pad-brace-pillows. I've never even seen those at JFK. In fact, I've only seen what look like mall kiosks at JFK--the kind that hawk flat irons, cell phone cases, and Rosetta Stone. I was impressed so far with Laguardia, to say the least.

We're out, we're walking around in the terminal. We see the sun so we figure that must be where our exit is and where we will meet the bus to take us into The City. Finally making it outside, we see some bus stops. Do you notice that regardless of what city you're in, bus stops all kind of look the same. And it seems to not matter whether you are at the airport or at the gas station across the street, there are always the same kind of looking people who hang out at the bus stop. Without describing the variety of people that fit this genre of loiterer, you can think about it and know who I'm talking about--especially if you know that angry little midget from Nashville, who always seemed to be weilding a knife or a Fanta bottle. These are the people who love bus stops. And they hang out at the airport bus stops, too.

The weird thing about this area, the loading/unloading area of the airport, was that there was no place to buy a metro card. I didn't understand how we could use public transportation in the Apple if we didn't have one, because hello, who carries cash around. I guess people who hang out at the bus stop carry cash because they all seemed to understand what was happening when the bus showed up and a few of them wandered on to it. I knew we would need the metro card to get on the train once we were abandoned by the bus driver in Harlem, and I wanted to be prepared. Also, I wanted to be able to just get on the bus and not worry about quarters and dimes and nickels. I guess regular bus riders only think in change.

Both of us were a little confused. We went back inside and asked the kind lady at the information desk where we could find a machine or a person that would sell us some metro cards. She thrust a thick visitor's guide in our hands and said something about Hudson News. This was the name of the airport bookstore. And it is also apparently the name of the place that we where we could find the key to The City--the metro card.

You know how I said Laguardia seems smaller than JFK? It's only smaller if you have an idea where you are going. Where we were once following the light of the sun, we were now staring at every neon and flourescent light, hoping it would read Hudson News. We went off in one direction that put us back in the area where we first entered the terminal and we were accosted by a sort of kindly sir who offered us his taxi services. We had just heard the announcement to not accept offers of rides from people who aren't in real taxis or buses. I don't understand why there isn't a train that goes to the airport, which could prevent the kinds of things that happen when you get into a stranger's car. Queens!

Figuring out that this is probably not where the Hudson News was, we turned in the opposite direction. We passed the lady who gave us all The City information. We ended up leaving the bible-thick tome of New York, along with the coupon book that included discounts to the Times Square Red Lobster and Phantom of the Opera, in our hotel room. Gross. So we're moving and I started to get frustrated because I was tired and for the first time since I've visited New York, I felt overwhelmed. I was tired and confused, and everything seemed to be in non-English. And there was no direct, overt or even neon-flourescent sign that there were metro cards to be purchased anywhere in this airport.

There might have been a bit of flared tempers during all of this. Neither one of us knew where we were going, and both of us were confused by the lack of clear and present signage. We eventually found the Hudson News where the metro cards could be found. Naturally, they were only available in denominations of $7. Weird, but we took two.

The rest of the trip was less taxing. We made it to our waaay downtown hotel--so downtown that it was on the corner of Wall Street. Both of us scowled at the bankers and financiers we saw Monday morning. I was hoping to see Ms. Bernie Madoff, but apparently she has been keeping a low profile. Lots of good food, lotttts of good drinks. Shoutout to Laura, Maura & Jane. I didn't realized how exhausted I was until we got home on Monday and promptly crashed after some Jimmy John's.

Next time, we'll probably fly into somewhere else. To say the least, I think Laguardia is a bit of a mess. Or it may just be one giant bus stop.

Jon

5.27.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

This weekend, I am taking a plane and making a trip. I rode my first airplane at 18--we went to Disney World as a graduation present from high school. I've always been a Disney fan since childhood so it only made sense that I celebrate my "move" into adulthood by spending time on flying elephants and in that giant silver golf ball. And I'm being serious--this was the best gift, ever. Previously, I had been a little afraid of airplanes. Anything that flew in the air scared me because I didn't understand how they stayed up there. Once, on vacation at Universal Studios, we were about to ride Back To the Future The Ride. I was crying my eyes out because the commercial made it seem that the cars were held up by wires. I was afraid that if one of these wires snapped that me and my family would plunge to our death. Instead, the cars were held by anything but, and instead just sat within a domed screen, IMAX style before IMAX existed. Everything about flying in any kind of way left my stomach twisted and my eyes wet when I was young.

Today, I fly with little to no incident. I get magazines to read that I normally don't read, I get the ipod going, and lately Ben and I travel together, which also makes the plane ride a little easier. So I'm traveling blah blah blah. I don't have any complaints with the removal of shoes (please don't look at my toenails!), or that you have to take out your computer if you bring it with you, or that you can't say goodbye to your loved ones at the gate and instead have to do it by the ticket counters. I would say that the thing that irks me the most is the rule about small toiletries.

When I go to the store, I buy the big ones. Big toothpaste, big contact solution, big deodorant. I think to fly with things in a carry-on they need to be three or less ounces or something. Of course, my joints are like four ounces. And I always forget about the tiny bottle rule when I travel. I end up having to buy things when I get wherever I am going, which is okay sometimes. I think the thing that I worry about is that if I get caught trying to smuggle in these mondo-sized bottles of contact solution that I will be pulled over, stripped searched, and added some list of people who may or may not be dangerous to the flying public. Maybe I'll just wear my glasses.

Jon

5.22.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am writing mostly because it has been a minute since we last talked. I had something to say last week, but then I forgot what it was and didn't write. It was going to be really good. I guess it wasn't that good if I can't remember, right?

I don't know though, I feel like it was pretty funny. Sometimes it's hard to come up with things to talk about with you because you're not exactly responsive, so when an idea hits me I have to write then and there, or else the magic just kind of evaporates. Gah, it was so good!

It was nice to see you on TV last night. I mean, considering what you were working with, I thought you did well. I would've liked to see you work more with the pigeons, maybe keep Betty from eating some churros, or at least from kissing super-wet-looking Henry. Maybe I don't understand the weather in New York, but he looked so sweaty the whole time, and not at all in a sexy way, but one that is more, "You need some eco-friendly deodorant that won't stain your white t-shirts because it looks like you're sweating a lot."

This reminds me. I was talking with this kind advertising lady yesterday. She came in to try and sell us some stuff that would have been cool in 2004. Blah blah. I tried to sell her a dress and some shoes, but she wasn't having it. After mildly offending me when she suggested I use one of her clients who comes into your home to whiten your teeth, she began to describe this eco-friendly deodorant idea that she had. She did not understand why it seemed that there were always stains on white t-shirts' armpits. She wants to blame it on the deodorant, rather than the sweat. I was kind of surprised when she suggested that it wasn't the sweat that was staining the armpits, mostly because I was always under the impression that it was the sweat, not the deodorant. I wanted to suggest a deodorant that actually keeps your pits for real dry, because I use the stuff but sometimes I feel a little damp. Maybe that's me. You know, in white shirts we also get some ring-around-the-collar kinds of things. I don't put deodorant on my neck, so that must not be the cause, right?

Maybe dirt oozes out of us some way. I don't know. But she was talking about creating this new deodorant and threatened that we should not steal her idea. It's all yours, ma'am. 

Speaking of stains, somehow I spilled some tea on my shirt this morning. Maybe it's not the deodorant or the sweat, but it's just white clothes that attract stains. Of course, my shirt today is white. But, I am wearing an undershirt to combat the pit stains. 

I can't believe I just wrote you about pit stains. I should probably go.

Jon

5.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I'm not trying to be a celebrity blogger, a la Perez Hilton or the many faceless names we encounter when we dig through our daily blog routines. But this story was too good to pass up.

First, I am obsessed with fashion--almost to the point that I scream out who made someone's outfit and the season it was first shown when I see it on TV. So naturally, come this pas Monday, I was in heaven as it was the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute's annual ball. This is bigger than the Oscars, in terms of fashion. It's a time when models whose names and faces we don't know mingle with the names and faces we recognize, but they all are looking ferocious. Oh, hello Mr. Lagerfeld! Ms. Wintour, it has been too long! 

Ok, Karl didn't show up this year. Many of the names you would expect to be a huge fashion shindig didn't come. No Naomi, Linda or Christy--despite the theme being dedicated to Models as Muses. Kate Moss was there, but that's because she had someone pay enough money that she could be named co-chair of the event. Naomi and Linda didn't show up because of a major gaffe involving Alaia (who you may remember as that designer who made Cher Horwitz's pink dress in Clueless). Anyway, I would have liked if they didn't come because Naomi threw a cellphone at or maybe spit on Linda. But that would have been too Super Model, I suppose. Many other BFDs didn't show up, due to other commitments, yada yada yada. 

I guess to make up for the lack of appearances by Karl, Naomi and the like, they had to stretch it and invite other people they thought would make for a good time. Enter Kiefer Sutherland. I guess we all forgot about his jail stint and his addiction to things, like the bottle. But he showed up. Before he arrived to the Ball, he was apparently seen twirling ladies in a bar while wearing a feather boa. I hope they didn't confuse him with Matthew McConaughey--doesn't that seem more like something up his alley? Wouldn't he also have made for a more beautiful guest list? 

Anyway, the Keef was pretty messed up. Fast-forward to the after party. Folks are having fun. Brooke Shields is there, wearing Calvin. Looking fly. She was standing near Jack McCollough, part 1 of 2 of Proenza Schouler--an awesome label that designs clothes for PYTs. The word is that Jack knocked Brooke over. I like to think he was dancing too hard and knocked her drink out of her hand with his elbow, as I have been known to do. 

The Keef saw this happen and made it his duty to make sure Jack made amends with Brooke. He did this by inciting a fight, and proceeded to head butt Jack. Brooke is denying this. Jack has filed a police report. 

This is why Jack Bauer is not allowed anywhere that is not a television set. Anna Wintour, you have been warned.

Jon