A special to the agenda by Preston Ozymandias Bradthird the Third, outside consultant on all matters smooth and awesome
[Note: This article first appeared in The Agenda #18]
I just stepped out onto my veranda. I just opened my one-of-a-kind, platinum G4 PowerBook. I just had Derwood mix me a fantastic gin and tonic, with a gin so good that the bottle promises at least three Croatian juniper farmers died in the production process, per bottle, while safeguarding their crops from Slobodan Milosevic's ethnic cleansers. And I'll tell you, it might have been borne of bloodshed, but you spritz that shit up with a squirt of lime, and you will instantly be swept into the easy, breezy, summer spirit of sailing and self-indulgence.
And that's what I've been brought here to talk about, as a special to the agenda: a little something called THE SUMMER OF SMOOTH©. You see, after I asserted myself with last month's response to the previous agenda's cavalcade of gobbledygook (BTW, MS Word recognizes "gobbledygook". That's just FYI), my services were solicited by many a staff member of the fine publication you hold in your hands right now, while on the toilet. John Taraborelli asked me to provide commentary for the 382 articles and blurbs he wrote for the current issue, my favorite of which, "My Beautiful Spring Day with Ghostface Killah's ‘Theodore Unit' Robe," did not make the issue; Ted Rao (that selfish, selfish bastard) asked me to, first, answer all the questions for his column (like I live in Providence or something), and, second, to give him my daughter's email address, in exchange for Lindsay Lohan's phone number; and publisher Ashley Mercado asked me to negotiate with Providence's city council regarding, um, some political thing. Bor-ring!
But, at the midnight hour, while in town again trying to pull Gretchen from some heroin den near that goddamn overpass she was at in February, behind my back, that bitch, I ran into some asshole wearing a pink shirt and wristbands-whatever, Ralph Macchio-who said he knew me, said he liked my work, said he needed my advice on something he was writing for the agenda. He said his name was Rob Albany or Rob New York or Rob Somesuchbullshitese and that he was galvanizing people to embrace a new movement, THE SUMMER OF SMOOTH©. Intrigued, I listened to his ideas, and in the five hours that he spent telling me about the plan while managing to convulse himself into doubled-over fits of laughter that he experienced alone, I gleaned the following about THE SUMMER OF SMOOTH©:
- Michael McDonald
- Smooth
- Smooth
- Gin and Tonic
- Bike Path
- Smooth
Yeah, sounds like fun, dickhead. You see, having spent the last few years of "my" "life" in Southampton, rubbing elbows with P Diddy and Martha Stewart, I know a few things about living an undeniably smooth lifestyle. So, I said to this lame-o Richie Tenenbaum motherfucker:
"You see, having spent the last few years of ‘my' ‘life' in Southampton, rubbing elbows with P Diddy and Martha Stewart, I know a few things about living an undeniably smooth lifestyle." Interested (though maybe he was only interested in having someone else do his work for him), he asked me to author an official blueprint for smooth summer living. Now, having spent the last few years of ‘my' ‘life' in Southampton, rubbing dicks with P Diddy and Martha Stewart, I know a few things about...well, that actually has more to do with a knowledge of P Diddy's dick size and the disquieting existence of Martha Stewart's (gargantuan, simply gargantuan) cock, as well as an extensive awareness of what's good with Shyne Barrows at any given time, but whatevs. I'm not here to talk about that. I'm here to talk about THE SUMMER OF SMOOTH©. Okay, without further ado...
THE SUMMER OF SMOOTH©: the key to having a truly smooth summer lies in outlook and disposition, and has very little to do with activity or accoutrement. The first thing one must do is listen to "What a Fool Believes" while staring, staring, for hours, simply staring, at the LP cover of that Loggins and Messina album where they're looking all gay on a boat. Do that to the point of hypnosis. Now, put on something that feels like a breezy pair of linen pants. They can be burlap for god's sake, but they've got to make you feel like you're practically naked, with your shiznit flapping out in public. Preferably, they have a ball hatch, if you're a dude. Next, buy a tandem bicycle with a basket in the front. Fill the basket with bath oil beads and a bag of limes. Spend as much time around people who wear pastel polo shirts as humanly possible, and you'll probably-again, if you're a dude-want to grow a beard and throw some Great Looking Gray in there, even if you're way too young to be graying. Join a yacht club. Women should wear navy-and-white dresses with anchors on them, and get super good at grilling salmon. Familiarize yourself with words like "catamaran," "clambake," and the verb version of "summer".
Keg parties are passé. You'll want to throw a "key party". You'll want to do this at a beach house in Matunuck, and you'll want to bring a lot of condoms, and a shitload of lube. I mean, for god's sake, it's THE SUMMER OF SMOOTH©, not THE SUMMER OF CHAFING YOUR PRIVATES AND GETTING YOUR FRIEND'S WIFE PREGNANT©. Unwanted pregnancies and genital chafing are not smooth.
And, you know, that's actually more or less it. Michael McDonald is smooth. Gin and tonics are smooth. Bike paths are smooth. Heed that advice, and you'll have a very happy, very smooth, summer. They don't call me P Breezy for nothing.
What it do.