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.
