bueller… bueller…

I spent yesterday evening heading from film networking event to film networking event, schmoozing away and building pre-launch buzz for Cyan with the help of my Exec VP, Colin Spoelman. Having Colin there made me conscious of a comment I receive so frequently I mainly tune it out when schmoozing alone:

Them: You know who you look just like?

Me: Ferris Bueller.

Them: Exactly! Has anyone ever told you that before?

Yes, people have told me that before. About half of all the people I’ve ever met have told me that before. Strangely, however, only that half sees it at all; to the other half, I and Matthew Broderick bare absolutely no resemblance. And I’m part of that second half – I mean, Broderick and I both have brown hair, but that’s about as close as I can get.

Still, those non-resemblance-seers, apparently feeling the need to join in the celebrity-look-alike fun, often interject with other actors that they feel I more closely resemble. Last night, for example, I got Warren Beatty, Michael J Fox and Martin Short. While, to me, Bueller’s a bit of a stretch, I have absolutely no idea how people arrive at these other matches.

Still, I have to admit, even if I don’t see the physical resemblance, personality-wise I am more than a bit Bueller-esque. I guess my stars are well aligned, as I live something of a charmed life. And I have a damn good rendition of Danke Schoen ready just in case any parades come through town. There’s just so much to be learned from Ferris Bueller’s approach to life and his sage philosophical musings:

Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.

look like a complete jackass in five easy steps!

1. Learn to play the trumpet.

2. Move to New York City and start playing gigs to build a reputation.

3. Eventually, get asked to play Weill’s beautiful Threepenny Opera Suite with one of the city’s more highly esteemed chamber groups.

4. During the concert, midway through the third movement in particular, have the leadpipe of your trumpet suddenly crack in half.

5. Play the rest of the concert holding together the broken leadpipe, which, leaking air, lends a lovely dying elephant timbre to your sound.

Fin.

Yes, boys and girls, I’m sure they’ll be asking me back real soon.

dream on

For much of April and May, largely due to the stress and excitement of starting Cyan, I’d been having trouble sleeping, waking in the middle of the night. Within the last week or so, however, the company has finally started falling into place, and I’ve once again returned to sleeping through the night. I’ve noticed that I’m now sleeping unusually soundly, as if dropping instantly into full nights of REM sleep to make up for the prior insomnified months.

As a result, I’ve begun dreaming rather vividly. Though I hadn’t realized it, somewhere in the weeks of broken sleep, I stopped having dreams. Now they’ve returned with a vengeance, startling in their realism and fascinating for the people and places I’d long since forgotten they recreate. Were I a Freudian, I suppose I’d see these dreams as a window into my soul, a glimpse of my true nature. As I’m not, however, the whole thing just sort of weirds me out.

one more money thought

While feigning filthy riches with clever button tricks may work in some situations, there are clearly certain unsubstitutable advantages to the real thing. Consider this gem of a story:

James Gordon Bennett, Jr., the inheritor of the old New York Herald, was once unable to get a table at his favorite Monte Carlo restaurant. So he bought the restaurant on the spot, had another customer ejected, ate his meal at that table, then handed the deed to his waiter. He’d gotten what he wanted.

While one might question the fiscal judiciousness of that approach, for sheer effectiveness, it’s difficult to rival.

button me up

About a year back, I made the rather poor decision to purchase two custom-made suits. Actually, in most senses, the decision was quite a good one. Those two bespoke suits have since become my favorites, drawing frequent compliments and holding up better than any other suits I’ve owned. The problem, however, is that I’m now ruined for life; I’ll never be able to go back to buying suits off the rack.

In fact, I can no longer even really appreciate my other, previously seemingly fine, suits. While I’d love to toss them all and start again from scratch, the dictates of cost prevent me. Instead, I’ve simply been going through and upgrading those older suits slightly, adding to them the most important mark of hand workmanship: working sleeve buttons.

Sleeve buttons? I hear you ask. But it’s true. Ask any student of the sartorial and you’re likely to hear him wax on thusly (this particular waxing being taken from Tom Wolfe’s The Secret Vice):

Real buttonholes. That’s it! A man can take his thumb and forefinger and unbutton his sleeve at the wrist because this kind of suit has real buttonholes there. Tom, boy, it’s terrible. Once you know about it, you start seeing it. All the time! There are just two classes of men in the world, men with suits whose buttons are just sewn onto the sleeve, just some kind of cheapie decoration, or – yes! – men who can unbutton the sleeve at the wrist because they have real buttonholes and the sleeve really buttons up.

Strangely enough, though, adding that key touch isn’t at all a pricey endeavor. For less than fifty bucks a suit, your local tailor can operationalize your buttons, giving you a look that says “purchase Armani? How terribly plebeian!”

Now if only there were some similar sub-$100 trick to bump my one-bedroom apartment onto par with the Trump Tower’s penthouse suite.

multitasking

I hit the local bookstore this afternoon, returning with four new reads: Harold Bloom’s How to Read and Why, Amir Aczel’s The Mystery of the Aleph, John Barth’s Coming Soon!!!, and Gretchen Rubin’s Power Money Fame Sex.

From what I’ve observed, most people, given such a pile of new books, would finish the first before heading on to the second, the second before heading on to the third, and so on. Which, to me, is nearly inconceivable. Perhaps it’s just a severe undiagnosed case of ADHD, but I find that I can read several books at the same time faster than I can finish just one alone.

Actually, my entire life runs along those lines. People often express surprise at the number of interests I pursue simultaneously, but I’m fairly certain that, were I to focus all my time into one endeavor, I’d actually accomplish less in it than I would while balancing it with several others. I wouldn’t really recommend the approach; it doesn’t logically make much sense and it’s probably the quickest route to stress and ulcers. But I just can’t seem to make myself do things any other way.

damaged goods

Several months back, I dislocated my shoulder in a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu match. Then, soon after, I made matters worse by assuming my shoulder was fine and military pressing with too much weight, degenerating into poor form that further impinged the shoulder. I decided to take the ever popular ‘ignore the problem and hope it goes away’ approach, but after several months the shoulder continues to flare up from overhead pressing movements, especially those behind the plane of my upper body. While I’m no physician, I’m pretty sure that I’ve injured my rotator cuff, the infraspinatus in particular.

Technically, I should probably completely lay off the shoulder for the next few months. But I suspect I’ll end up simply taking it a bit easier in the weight room and continuing to work hard in the ring. In the world of kickboxing and no holds barred fighting, people frequently talk about the importance of ‘playing with pain.’ Which is to say, the importance of keeping going, even when you’re hurting; pushing yourself as hard as it takes to win.

You start to learn about yourself when you bump up against your limits; you determine whether you have the willpower to spur yourself on, even when every muscle in your body is tired, sore, begging you to stop. Because if you dicover that you can’t, you might as well hang up the gloves and take up macram

fresh off the vine

With May quickly turning to June, summer fruits have begun to arrive at the local supermarket: cherries, strawberries, plums and apricots. And, of course, the quintessential summer fruit, watermelon.

Indeed, this morning I was lucky enough to pick up my first watermelon of the season, a Crimson Sweet, marbled green and blockily round. In truth, I am a watermelon junky. And while I would normally write off my addiction on the grounds of nutrition (ounce for ounce, watermelon is one of nature’s most healthful fruits, stocked with vitamins [A, C, B6], minerals [thiamin, potassium, magnesium] and antioxidants [carotenoid, lycopene]), those benefits come best in moderation, and I must admit I’m more likely to finish an entire melon in one sitting than to stick with some measly FDA apportioned serving size. One perfect bite, juicy, crunchy, sugar sweet and vibrantly red, and I can’t stop.