Truth be told, over these past months, I have grappled with not being a boss. Not because I like bossing people around. I don’t, as anyone who has ever worked for me can attest. I would rather do something myself than ask anyone and have always held to the maxim that the best way to show authority is to not show authority. Fairly egalitarian, is how I once termed my workplace.

I guess I miss it because I like teaching people. Not work stuff necessarily. But people stuff. Adult stuff. How to ask for things, how to deal with crises, how to treat people—from the owner of the company to the guy delivering the pizza. The pleasure that comes when everyone is moving in the same direction, toward the same goal, and feeling the same amount of ownership of an idea.

I am lucky because, over the years I have had some great bosses, really and truly. I have also had some terrible ones, whose bodies I wouldn’t even contaminate a landfill with, lest they increase the number of vermin. Literally. But, by and large, I have been very lucky and have tried to pass that luck on.

What got me thinking about this in the first place was when I heard this morning that a guy I worked for a few years ago, Kevin Hahn, had passed away from cancer. (I know, another friend gone.) He was in his forties, with a lovely wife and two kids. He was also the smartest guy I have ever known, had an infectious laugh, and was a real gentleman. And he liked me very much and always felt guilty that he put me in the middle of a tempestuous business relationship that my former employer had with a professional sports league that shall remain nameless.

When I last saw him, it was at the company Christmas party in 2003, my last day there, and we clinked Heineken bottles and toasted my new job. Despite the fact that I was sort of leaving him in the lurch—I had been doing about twelve jobs at once—he was genuinely happy and kept telling me “don’t worry about it” when I fretted over how he was going to handle everything.

That is the memory I will always have of him. Gracious and kind. And I hope some day, in about 45 years or so, that is the type of memory people will have of me.

Not the one where I try and eat an Emma’s Combo sandwich in three bites.

(Okay, they can have two memories.)

I used to hate it when people were unable to characterize something as “the best.” They could not choose their favorite food; they were unable to decide on which actor they thought most proficient. They would not make a stand of any consequence on even the most harebrained of topics.  (You know how I roll.) It kind of boggled my mind. Because, as you may have gathered, I have opinions on everything and everyone. Secretly, I have opinions on your opinions.   They’re all very positive; don’t you worry.

But, over these few short years since my youth, I have come to realize that some people can like more than one thing. And that they really do enjoy mojitos and margaritas equally. Or whatever. I have softened considerably, which comes in handy because the other day someone asked me who my favorite TV character was, and I narrowed it down to two, unable to go any further. And unwilling because both Justin Kirk and Jennifer Carpenter are on some other plane with their characters, Andy Botwin and Deb Morgan.

Fortunately or unfortunately, they are both on television shows built around another character, being portrayed by two fucking heavyweights in Mary-Louise Parker and Michael C. Hall.  But, man, they are good at stealing the show on more than a few occasions.

Justin Kirk plays Andy Botwin as the perfect Sancho Panza to sister-in-law Nancy’s Don Quixote. Morally, ethically, logically deficient. Seems perpetually weary and sad-eyed. Like, he’s already been dog-kicked by life and faces every situation with resignation. This season he has been gingerly pursuing Nancy, all while she is carrying another man’s baby—and a drug lord’s at that—and he is pretty mind-blowing at making such a toady, otherwise untrustworthy character so worthy of our sympathy. I hate it when actors talk about bringing “humanity” to a role, but you know, uh, never mind.

Jennifer Carpenter has turned Deb Morgan (“Dexter”) from a one-dimensional character to the emotional fulcrum of the entire show. Skinny as a rail, but increasingly sexy—a shocking development, in my eyes—Carpenter (who I saw on the subway the other day) inhabits this role as a ferocious, foulmouthed but sensitive sister of a serial killer. 

She has completely grown on me and last season I was totally gushing every week, to the point where GG began to nose around, but then realized she had no reason to disparage JC the way does the acting super vixens of today. (You should hear those rants. Jaw dropping, sometimes.) She’s been in a couple of other movies and was very good in them. But I fear that Carpenter will always be known for Deb.

At least that’s my opinion.

This is what I think:

Sausage>ham, however, bacon> sausage

“Fuck you”>”Fuck off”, however, “Fuck that”>”Fuck you”

The Return of the King>The Fellowship of the Ring, however, The Two Towers>The Return of the King

Jason>Freddy, however Michael>Jason

Suri Cruise>Harlow Ritchie-Madden, however, Shiloh Jolie-Pitt>Suri Cruise

Grape soda>orange soda, however, black cherry soda>grape soda

Weeds>Entourage, however Dexter >Weeds

Death>Grind, however, Black>Death

No. 5>No. 8, however, No. 7>No. 5

Magic truffles>black truffles, however, white truffles>magic truffles

Xanax>Valium, however, Klonopin>Xanax

Serena>Vanessa, however, Blair>Serena

Jessica Biel>Jessica Simpson, however, Jessica Alba>Jessica Biel

Great white shark>killer crocodile, however, giant squid>great white shark

Clarity>Cut, however, Color>Clarity

Plum>nectarine, however, peach>plum

Jordans>Dunks, however, Air Force Is>Air Jordans

Stevie Ray Vaughn>Eddie Van Halen, however, Jimi Hendrix>Stevie Ray Vaughn

While other people are spending their weeknights at family dinners and parties and such, you can bet your bottom dollar that my mother-in-law is at a wake. I used to think it was just a higher level of empathy she possessed. But then the stories seemed to get murkier, the threads that tied her to these people became even more tangential. It has gotten to the point where, the last time she told me who she was honoring, I actually needed my Garmin to follow the trail.

It has become something of a joke among the family and a few select friends that have born witness to it. It’s a generational thing, and couple that with an Italian thing. I mean, I guess. And as someone who has been on the receiving end of such a service, you always do remember who came to show their respect.

In private, I actually admire such devotion and the strength of character that one would need to face people who are in such pain. Publically, however, my mother-in-law goes to wakes like I go to lunch, and that is pure comic gold.

You may be wondering if I have lost my mind. Many of you know my wife GG, and how protective she is of her friends. Now multiply that by a million. That’s her blood.

I’m sane enough, thanks for asking. I am only writing this because a) my M-I-L knows that I am (mostly) kidding; and b) she has told that she occasionally reads my blog and I have always wondered just how occasionally. And this is an organic way of finding out. We are visiting her next weekend.

Wish me luck.

I hate having my photo taken, and I know you find that hard to believe. I am like a multitude of terrible angles and sometimes I loom over a group like Shrek over the princess. And I don’t smile. I don’t for photos, at least.

In my intermediate circle of friends there are very photogenic, somewhat photogenic and…not at all photogenic. The difference is that they don’t give a shit and I do, which is stupid. I am going to work on that. In time for the Selectism.com bloggers calendar shoot in sunny St. Bart’s.

I was thinking about how it would suck to be famous, even if you were rich, because you would have to adjust to having your photo taken a million times a week, and how that probably made Michael Jackson’s life a living hell.

I have been watching the coverage wind down (although, the “Daddy’s Just Clowning!” NY Post headline today is pretty electric) and what I overwhelmingly feel is relief for my senses, and for the man himself. Thank God he has been put out of his misery. You don’t do the things he did to his face, if you are feeling groovy about things. And you don’t do things to kids like he did (if you say “allegedly”, we’re through) unless your issues have issues.

Chris Rock said a few months ago, “I wouldn’t let Michael Jackson see a photograph of my kids.” But now, that he is gone, everyone is much kinder (and their youngsters much safer—and I am not even joking). Which doesn’t help Jackson, but will help his children, as they are finally released into society.

Culturally speaking, I am not smart enough to figure out how important he was. (I believe that Sidney Poitier’s and Bill Cosby’s impacts on white America were more important. So there.) Musically, too, it isn’t easy to quantify. He has kind of sucked for more than a decade, limping around the world like a Michael Jackson impersonator, recycling his themes and melodies. But anyone can see how great he was at the height of his powers, the Off the Wall-Thriller period. Was he better than Prince? I say no. I am curious as to what you think.

But, regardless, he is a great loss. The difference between this one and those of Kurt Cobain and Jeff Buckley, however, is that this is one that I have been mourning for near-on twenty years.

Of all of the statistics—numbers of the dead, maimed and missing, among them—that are dribbling out of Iran, there is one that has trumped all others. And it’s also the reason that I believe that the sitting president, that Pinocchio-if-he-was-a-crackhead-looking guy is probably packing a little “jump bag” in case he needs to flee town like that broke-ass magician in Frosty the Snowman.

The number is 71. That is the percentage of female university students in Iran. Three out of every four, roughly. And the most stirring images I am seeing are of some fierce-looking, najib-wearing young women who seem to be pretty much done living like third-class citizens and suffering the indignities that come with every day life in that country. Some crazy shit women have to endure, and if that rumpled-suited clown gets his way, it’s only going to get worse for them. Apparently, while he was handing out money to the nation’s poor voters—hey, that’s democracy— he was explaining his desire to diminish the Iranian woman’s role in the private sector.

The fact that equal rights are even an issue in this day-and-age is ludicrous. And these Iranian ladies are all sorts of fired up and, I don’t know about the women that you know, but the ones I do will outsmart, out muscle and outlast anybody. They not only know how to play dirty, but also seem to relish in it. Manipulative, vituperative, all kinds of –atives. And when they are done, they’re done. Period.

Last night, GG (who possesses none of those qualities, of course) asked me why, if the government is so bent on keeping women down, do they permit them to even go to college. Shouldn’t they be shielded from learning that they have secretly been blasted back to the Stone Age? I was stumped.

Maybe because, even as they sit in their semi-circle, the clerics are realizing that they are merely sticking their finger in the proverbial dike, trying to hold back the inevitable and just. And that they hope that the next group in power will be merciful conquerors, despite offering no such quarter themselves.

I truly believe that hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. Now multiply that by the number of college women in Iran (about 1.4 million or so) and the scope of what is happening, and will happen before long, becomes apparent.

Recent history is littered with brutal government crackdowns, and we have all witnessed the aftermaths, on CNN and the Beeb. That is what constitutes news in our age of armchair upheaval, where we can literally watch people tear each other apart while we eat ice cream. We all thought the students in Tiananmen Square had a chance. So naïve.

But Iran is no China. Clearly, China had its shit together and Iran still can’t figure out how to pump all of its oil and put more of its people to work. And when religion is thrown into the mix, everything gets twice-as-hairy. The world continues to modernize, while religion stays fixed at a time when people still worshipped sun gods and fertility gods like, you guessed it, my old pal and Canaan’s favorite son, Ba’al.

The friction is inevitable, the conflict is too, and revolution will follow probably more often than not. Yet never before has a revolution been led by a country of smart, strong women won’t forget a single indignity foisted upon them. My wife remembers every last one of my transgressions, down to the smallest “I forgot to ask for your dressing on the side.”

And I would reckon, that the Iranian women know who did what to whom, and at some point in the near future you can rest assured that those clerics will never know what hit them.

But they will sure as hell know who hit them.

I broke out a new pair of Air Jordan XI lowtops the other day, which isn’t noteworthy, I guess, except the fact that I purchased them in 1996. Along with two other pair. One is still in the attic and the other fell apart last year. I just don’t do reissues. Not because they aren’t good or anything. The technology is surely better, and let’s face it: the fake Fives are still doper than the LeBrons or Melos. But because they are, at their base level, phony offerings so you can relive my youth.

I have no interest is giving you youngsters an opportunity to enjoy the same crap I did when I was your age. I lived and bought my way through the Golden Age of kicks: Barkleys, Foamposites, CWebb 2’s (still the greatest non-Jordan ever released, in my opinion) and bought so many great shoes the day they came out. I waited on lines. Serious lines.

Dunks, Air Force Ones, Vandals, and so forth. Brand-new and ours for the taking. (Russ remembers, right?) On the downside, my back hurts when I sneeze. Translation: I’m old. Yet occasionally I can still muster that romantic notion of first-on-my-block.

Last year, on a pretty cold, rainy Saturday I lined up outside of Nort-Recon because Nike was releasing a shoe that was only being sold in one store in the US, and only 86 pair at that. The fact that they were a buck-eighty-five, and I was up to my eyeballs in free kicks was not lost on me. But I wanted them and didn’t feel like calling in a favor (just after asking for Lobster Dunks and AF1 KAWS) so I chilled out there for three hours with people half my age. When I finally got inside, I bought a pair of size 13’s, which was the largest size that Nike had made in the style.

I am actually a size 14. Chew on that for a while.

If your husband is making a movie with Megan Fox your marriage is in a great deal of trouble.

Men should always pay for women, unless they are gay or unemployed.

You date the Stones, but you marry the Beatles.

Friends are either trustworthy or they aren’t friends.

This is the correct order: mini-Krackel, mini-Mr. Goodbar, mini-Special Dark, mini-Hersey’s bar

Prolonged eye contact with strangers always leads to trouble…or sex.

Friendships, like milk, have expiration dates.

Crabs legs are seafood for idiots.

Guys with bowties will cheat on you. No exceptions.

Laughing when delivering bad news is a sure-fire way to scare people.

People who use the word “gay” as an insult have experimented or thought about it. Those who say it to be ironic are, in fact, gay themselves and haven’t acknowledged it.

On a date, ease into the subjects of appetizers and relationships.

Vegetarianism for anything other than health reasons is silly. Veganism is retarded.

You can never be too rich. You can, however, be too thin.

Men will often choose straight girl friends based upon their ability to attract other women.

The people who make the most noise are not the ones you need to worry about.

Age is not just a number, it’s a lot of numbers.

Sometimes words just aren’t enough.

Smart people think they have the most to learn.

Sincerity is exhibited in deeds, not words.

If you think your “other” is unfaithful, it’s because you already know they are.

Let old people talk your ear off. They deserve it.

I am rarely wrong about such things.

I have this friend, whose acquaintance I have made recently, and she’s a pretty resourceful and clever character, and a little off, but no more than me (ahem). I think that is why we have hit it off so famously. (In my opinion, at least.) Her one blind spot, however, appears to be her love of a certain term that apparently came to her in a vision. Or so her adoration of it would have you believe. It’s actually pretty crazy.

The day had started innocently enough, a few weeks ago, when she stormed into “work” all sorts of breathless, and telling me how she has coined a derogatory term and wanted to know how she could protect it. Like, legally. I think she was serious. Her problem is that she looks serious pretty regularly.

She appeared compelled to tell me her term’s genesis, but her roll-out  took more than twenty minutes and involved a scene setting worthy of Trevor Nunn. (Word to Imogen Stubbs.) In addition, she had her business partner’s viewpoint of the proceedings. It was like a mini-Zapruder film, except far less climactic. Needless to say.

When she finally unveiled the term—of which I have promised to protect, lest I have my face sued off—I was amused. Not hysterically so, but amused. It certainly wasn’t as scathing as “douche nozzle” or “tramp stamp” and I privately thought it to be too erudite to get a real foothold.

It was the kind of term that another friend at The New Yorker would chortle heartily over while he was wax-sealing his letters. But not the kind of term that will make it all the way to middle America.

Yet my friend thinks it will and was wild-eyed when she told me so. And I just haven’t had the heart to tell her. Until now.

For a person who prides himself on giving good, salient advice to people, I generally am tone-def when the subject changes affairs of the heart. I believe that it is because I hold my friends in such high regard; it is tough for anyone else to measure up. Seriously.

With guy friends it’s easier; all the woman has to be is nice, and not try and separate him from his friends, namely me. Rarely, I think of it in terms of marriage. Or any kind of future plans, except if her (or his) folks are wealthy. Then I try and speed the process right up.

For the women I’m friends with, forget it. I’m a nightmare, I think. Over-protective, suspicious and guarded. I am in no hurry to be buddy-buddy with the douche bag (there I go again) that is trying to sleep with them. I would rather he focus on treating her well and not try and go all playboy.

But my eyes are on them at all times. Does he help her on with her coat? Is he constantly staring at other women? Is he cheap, or worse, short?

I am constantly on high alert because most straight guys in their twenties and early thirties today are tools. Not all of them. (And certainly not you, reader. Certainly not.) Just, like, 85% or something. And not all types of twentysomethings. Just fashion-y ones. The pretty boys. You have no idea how little time I have for them and their skinny jeans and knit ties. No idea. And I know what lurks in the minds of men. And I want it knocked off.

I should talk. Back in the day I toiled and staggered through a series of doomed liaisons (which is probably far too strong a word) with lady douche bags, and suffered for years before I hit the motherload. And she hit me back.

I was 29, and decidedly not a tool. And by decidedly, I really mean, hopefully.