I could bitch and moan about quite a few things here on campus: The three-day laundry backup in the basement of the fraternity house in which I live, for example. Or the dude next door with the brand new 1200-watt speaker system and the Red Hot Chile Peppers fetish. Or the borderline-fascist campus security regime that has reduced our already socially-inept student-base to a bunch of cowering closet-drunks, afraid to step outside with a beer on a Friday night for fear of expulsion.
But do you know what really irks me? Owen Wilson’s gruesomely contorted schnaz. Whether he’s Lt. Chris Burnett, epitomizing masculinity as he dashes through war-torn Bosnia dodging enemy fire, the asinine little Mr. Perfect ex-boyfriend, Kevin Rawley, in Meet the Parents or its lascivious sequel, Meet the Fockers, or moonlighting as a super-hip but obviously contrived model in the now-cult classic, Zoolander, one thing’s for certain: Owen Wilson has the most noticeable, absurd, obtrusive, jacked-up nose in Hollywood.
It’s not like he can’t help it. In fact, I am absolutely positive that he can afford the best damn knob-job in Hollywood on his salary. I mean look at Michael Jackson. He’s had more nose-jobs than I have restraining orders filed against me, and he’s still got the bucks to hire the best lawyers in the business to defend his…shall we say… atypical behavior. And in Owen’s case, the money would be well-spent. It’s not like there are people starving in Africa or dying in tsunamis who could use the money to better ends.
We’ve all spent many a wasted hour blathering on about hypothetical answers to the following question: What the hell happened to Owen’s silly snout? Aside from use as a venue for the 2006 winter Olympics downhill-mogul event it clearly serves no purpose, other than to irritate me. Perhaps it irritates you as well, but I don’t care because I’m egotistical and self-centered.
Well, I got tired of hypothesizing and decided to do what I do best: I Googled it (Note: â€˜Google’ is now a full-fledged verb in the English language. There aren’t even those annoying red squiggly lines coming up under the word as I type it on Microsoft Word. Now that’s marketing. Synonymously, it’s despicable. And it’s meta-literary. Is that even a word…? Am I even making any sense anymore? Am I on some horrible tangent?! What the hell am I doing?! Ah yes, the googling. Whew.)
I came up with the usual psycho-obsessive fan sights (http://www.owenwilsonsnose.com), and the archetypal â€˜I’m-an-absurd-computer-geek-and-have-nothing-better-to-do-but-make-websites-about-stupid-shit-I-hate-because-it’s-not-Lord-of-the-Rings’ sites (http://www.geocities.com/owenwilsonsucks/).
But in the end, I found nothing of substance. The most plausible and straightforward explanation is offered in Yahoo’s (apparently â€˜yahoo’ is now a noun…) “Celebrity Profile: Owen Wilson,” which claims that “Owen’s distinctive nose was broken several times throughout his childhood” No shit.
So I decided to ask around. I found this more complicated than googling for a couple of reasons. First, I had to pretend that going around asking for input about a male celebrity-heartthrob’s facial structure is not an extremely sketchy/homoerotic thing to do. Second, I kept getting the same response from (freshman) girls. Here’s how it usually went:
Me: “So what do you think happened to Owen Wilson’s nose?”
Freshman Girl: “Oh my God, he’s so f**king hot!!!”
Me: “So, uh, you wanna hang out some time?”
Freshman Girl: “Hey, didn’t I file a restraining order against you?”
Ultimately, asking around yielded only hypothetical, unsubstantiated answers to my burning question. I came to the conclusion that I would have to solve this case myself, once and for all. All it would take was a little bit of elbow grease. So I called Owen’s estate. Here’s how that went:
“Ring ring ring”
Guy on the other end of the phone: “Hello?”
Me: “Hello, may I please speak to Owen Wilson?”
Guy on the other end of the phone: “May I ask who’s calling please?”
Me: “Just a big fan. My Name’s Mark-“ (he then cut me off).
Guy on the other end of the phone: “Hey, I know who this is. This is the guy who keeps on calling about Owen’s nose. And we keep on catching you crawling over the fence at night dressed in camo. What’s that you always keep with you? A stuffed dolphin or something-” (so I cut him off back).
Me: “THE STUFFED DOLPHIN’S NAME IS DEXTER, thank you very much!”
Guy on the other end of the phone: “Whatever, guy, you’re f**king pathetic. Get a life. You won’t be speaking with Mr. Wilson any time soon… Hey, didn’t we slap you with a restraining order?”
Me: “It’s still pending…”
And so on. So I wasn’t going to get my question answered directly from the source. Especially with such a conservative butt-head answering the phone all the time. In fact, it started to look like I wasn’t going to get my answer at all. In fact, I’d forgot what the question was.
So I hit rock bottom, confused and torn-up, feeling like a musician on a VH1 â€˜Behind the Music’ episode. That’s when I got my answer.
I was checking my e-mail, and I found an anonymous message under my doormat from a former â€˜hand-model’ named David. In it, the story behind Owen Wilson’s misfortunate nose was spelled out. I transmit this mysterious yet succinct message to you, verbatim.
“HE WAS BORN WITH A CROOKED NOSE, YOU STUPID IDIOT”
So there it was. No crazy, sexy, or cool (get it TLC fans?) narrative about repetitive bouts with ferocious â€˜Ligers’ in East India. No outlandish chronicles of bygone days in the ultimate fighting arena. No appalling Porn-video bloopers resulting in massive facial trauma. He was born with it. Apparently, I’d wasted my time. Or perhaps I hadn’t. I guess you'll be the judge of that.
Selected events in the above story may or may not have happened. Further, it may contain slight exaggerations and/or mis-representations of “facts”. Use discretion.
Mark Hillinger is a staff columnist for the DSJ. His views do not necessarily represent those of the entire staff. Readers wishing to consult him for cosmetological advice may direct their inquiries accordingly.