It’s been a trip sharing my thoughts with you, but as REO Speedwagon would say, it’s time for me to fly. Why, you ask? No need to make you an accessory after the fact. Let’s just say Columbia House collections goons are getting a little too close for comfort. I’d have thought the “8 CDs for a Penny” trail went cold at the P.O. Box of The Honorable Carlos Del Fuego. But then again, I selected Ang Lee in my 1992 Fantasy Football Draft instead of Amp Lee, so keep that in mind. Until we speak again, here are my parting thoughts:
If ever you find yourself a first-time producer in Hollywood, I recommend going with a submarine flick. They’re literally impossible to screw up. Think about it – The Hunt for Red October, U-571, Crimson Tide, Das Boot. What’s that? Please. Get that weak Down Periscope stuff outta my grill. I’m talking action films. Don’t argue, okay? Remember when I told you not to make change in the church collection basket, or how you were misusing the word sarcophagus? It’s like that. Just get Viggo Mortensen and one red light bulb to commit to the project and thank me later.
Strive to have at least one friend with a fabulous name, so that in conversation lulls you can say things like I got this recipe from Sylvia Poggioli. Speaking of women, If your girlfriend hasn’t been watching Game of Thrones but expects to jump right into season six with you, end the relationship immediately. She’s a taker, not a giver. Questions like Which one commands dragons might have been cute early in the courtship, back when things were a whimsical Mentos commercial, but now they’re absolutely unbearable:
Her: Let’s make banana splits! (Accidentally sprays your nose with whipped cream; instead of stopping she sprays all over your face). Now, where’s the cherry?
You (wiping face): You’re so…free! I love it!
And the same accidental spraying, six months later:
You: Hey, spaz, this jacket is suede. Why don’t you just take $750 out of my wallet?
Her: Your novel will never be published. It sucks.
Trust me here, like you did with Fitzroy in Accounts Payable. You hated how he carried that World’s Best Dad mug everywhere, while you alone knew his Goth teenage son drove a used hearse to school. But now as I predicted he’s your supervisor, so it was smart that you listened. And being smart is important – believe me, I know. I told the boys in Apple’s ringtone division to go with the silent rather than silent but deadly. I invested in my niece’s farm-to-table restaurant, but avoided the series A round on my nephew’s table-to-bathroom café. (I love him, but he fundamentally misunderstood the cleanse movement.) I even told Ken Burns to ice his television documentary on welding – viewers would fear corneal damage.
But good news! If you can’t be smarter, sounding smarter is surprisingly easy. For instance, don’t ever ask a question directly. Any Dartmouth man can do that. Phrase the question as a statement followed by “yes?”. Example of the wrong way:
Me: Does listening to The Alan Parsons Project give you the creeps?
Atrocious phrasing. Any answer could result. Even though your conversation partner almost certainly hates I Can Read Your Mind, he’s not going to align with you. Expect something back like this:
Angry dude: No, buddy, they don’t give me the creeps, but you do. Oh, and next time? Use your own revolving door segment.
Here’s the right phrasing, and the likely response:
Me: Listening to The Alan Parsons Project gives you the creeps, yes?
Beautiful woman on elevator: Quite right, my friend. You’re a tall drink of water, yes?
See? She gave it right back! It’s almost not even fair, but I’ll say it anyway. Use the word bespoke whenever possible. Do this and the world will be your oyster. Full disclosure: your results may vary. Even without these techniques, I receive multiple booty calls a day. Fuller disclosure: by this I mean the number of times my wife, seated on her iPhone, accidentally rings me from her car. Oh, and say ring, never call.
If when in firing position at the urinal you feel the need to throw your tie over your shoulder, then your tie is too long, your shot trajectory needs work, or both. Way less arc, World B. Free. We just need a bank shot here.
Let’s close this thing out on a serious note. While it’s true what they say, that snitches get stitches, so do middle-aged men who eschew sunblock. Learn from me and don’t be that guy. And so, the stitches finally having come out, I’ve got a tee-time with a certain seven year old. Peace, out.