Golf: Dave. Best jokes, and consensus is that he’s got the best game, so I’m hoping my game picks up from that a bit. Also, deals are being closed, and I want to be where the action is.
Wingman: Dillon. Seems like he would be chill to hang out with. Now, there’s no doubt Dillon pulls. In a bar situation, though, I’m not going in expecting to compete with Dillon. I am going in with the strategy of playing up a division and just confusing people into thinking I’m better looking than I am by the company I keep.
Bed: Will. This seems the most obvious. Can you imagine the thread count on those sheets? Also, 100% that room smells like bergamot and cassis and the temperature is perfect.
Assistant coaching my son’s tee ball team this year. Best of both worlds because you can assert a lot of influence without being ultimately held responsible for the winning percentage of a bunch of 5 and 6-year-olds. If they win, Johnny’s mom sees you in all of your glory. But if they blow it, hell, maybe Coach Don needs to get his goddam priorities straight and quit taking work trips during the season so he can focus on the team.
One bit of advice, though: Don’t tell mom that “Kindergarten can wait.” Explain that you’re redshirting him so he has a chance to develop while saving that crucial 5th year of eligibility when he’s going to be bigger and more mature.
The only time I begin to experience feelings of regret about moving back to Texas from the East Coast is when fall rolls around and I think about all the great stuff I’m not going to get to wear because it’s only going to stay cool enough for a month.
Here’s why the 16th Chapel joke didn’t work: It’s off brand for Will. PFTCommenter uses that kind of joke, but that’s in character for him. Will’s out here wearing Millar q-zips dropping articles about Cire Trudon and golfing at Bay Harbor. He’s not wearing a pot leaf do-rag and Adidas slides with grey tube socks cluelessly saying “16th Chapel.” Reading through a Will post and seeing that is dissonant. Honestly, I didn’t even think it was a joke or a dumb mistake. Just figured it was some sort of bizarre autocorrect accident or Dave fucking with him and moved on.
Went to pick up a box my wife had ordered this morning. When I told the guy carrying it out of the store to just put it in the bed, he expressed surprise. He said most people want him to help fit their stuff in the cab. What the hell, people.
You want to confuse your would-be adversary? Six words said with a smile: “I think you’re making a mistake.” This is effective because it’s so ambiguous. Now he’s got some split-second thinking to do. You don’t look like much. Why is he making a mistake? You with some kinda undercover agency? You got a heater under that quilted vest? Your squad just rolled up behind him? Or is your dad a local judge? While his brain is working overtime through the fog of those trash vodka-redbulls, you just casually walk back to the bar and order another bourbon. If he disappears, you look like a badass. If he kicks your ass anyway (always a possibility), he finds out that the mistake he made is that everyone saw you try to de-escalate the situation and now he’s being charged with assault.
Nobody walks by someone sitting alone in their used Camry eating out of a paper bag and thinks, “power move.” If you gotta go solo, go to a good restaurant. Not Chipotle. A decent restaurant. One with tablecloths. If you drive, valet the car. Make it your regular and eat at at the bar so the bartender greets you warmly. Now people see that you’re a known figure, but aren’t really sure you you are. They will assume they should, and that’s what matters. Order the same drink every time so when you sit down, the bartender knows to make it without you asking. A real drink. Because you can.
Check your phone once, otherwise leave it in your pocket. You aren’t worried about being gone for an hour because you’re not an intern or an associate. It’s Deborah’s job to take care of that shit while you’re at lunch. There’s probably a TV behind the bar. It’s showing either news or sports. Maybe both, who cares. Casually make periodic, “can you believe this shit?” head shakes or “hell yeah” nods to the bartender. Assert your opinion without ever having to talk to anyone. Bartender either thinks you’re a genius or a douche, but who cares – he’s a bartender, and he’s going to give off that he likes you because that’s his job. Onlookers just assume he knows you and thinks you’re awesome. When you leave, tip well, but don’t overdo it. You’re generous, not desperate. Casually thank the bartender by name and say “see ya next time.”
When you stroll back into the office lobby, give a smile and a back slap to the kid wiping the honey mustard he dripped down the front of his shirt while sitting by himself in a parking lot. Hit the the close button on the elevator before he gets on and shrug. Power move complete.
Advertise
Golf: Dave. Best jokes, and consensus is that he’s got the best game, so I’m hoping my game picks up from that a bit. Also, deals are being closed, and I want to be where the action is.
Wingman: Dillon. Seems like he would be chill to hang out with. Now, there’s no doubt Dillon pulls. In a bar situation, though, I’m not going in expecting to compete with Dillon. I am going in with the strategy of playing up a division and just confusing people into thinking I’m better looking than I am by the company I keep.
Bed: Will. This seems the most obvious. Can you imagine the thread count on those sheets? Also, 100% that room smells like bergamot and cassis and the temperature is perfect.
Your move, Dorn.
Assistant coaching my son’s tee ball team this year. Best of both worlds because you can assert a lot of influence without being ultimately held responsible for the winning percentage of a bunch of 5 and 6-year-olds. If they win, Johnny’s mom sees you in all of your glory. But if they blow it, hell, maybe Coach Don needs to get his goddam priorities straight and quit taking work trips during the season so he can focus on the team.
One bit of advice, though: Don’t tell mom that “Kindergarten can wait.” Explain that you’re redshirting him so he has a chance to develop while saving that crucial 5th year of eligibility when he’s going to be bigger and more mature.
The only time I begin to experience feelings of regret about moving back to Texas from the East Coast is when fall rolls around and I think about all the great stuff I’m not going to get to wear because it’s only going to stay cool enough for a month.
Here’s why the 16th Chapel joke didn’t work: It’s off brand for Will. PFTCommenter uses that kind of joke, but that’s in character for him. Will’s out here wearing Millar q-zips dropping articles about Cire Trudon and golfing at Bay Harbor. He’s not wearing a pot leaf do-rag and Adidas slides with grey tube socks cluelessly saying “16th Chapel.” Reading through a Will post and seeing that is dissonant. Honestly, I didn’t even think it was a joke or a dumb mistake. Just figured it was some sort of bizarre autocorrect accident or Dave fucking with him and moved on.
Went to pick up a box my wife had ordered this morning. When I told the guy carrying it out of the store to just put it in the bed, he expressed surprise. He said most people want him to help fit their stuff in the cab. What the hell, people.
@ me next time
You want to confuse your would-be adversary? Six words said with a smile: “I think you’re making a mistake.” This is effective because it’s so ambiguous. Now he’s got some split-second thinking to do. You don’t look like much. Why is he making a mistake? You with some kinda undercover agency? You got a heater under that quilted vest? Your squad just rolled up behind him? Or is your dad a local judge? While his brain is working overtime through the fog of those trash vodka-redbulls, you just casually walk back to the bar and order another bourbon. If he disappears, you look like a badass. If he kicks your ass anyway (always a possibility), he finds out that the mistake he made is that everyone saw you try to de-escalate the situation and now he’s being charged with assault.
Don’t know about rum and cider, but a Dark & Stormy is a classic that pairs perfectly with wet autumn days.
Done and done. Great move, guys. And the Astrodome color scheme is perfect. Will wear this one proudly.
Why is Will wearing yoga pants? What the fuck is going on.
Nobody walks by someone sitting alone in their used Camry eating out of a paper bag and thinks, “power move.” If you gotta go solo, go to a good restaurant. Not Chipotle. A decent restaurant. One with tablecloths. If you drive, valet the car. Make it your regular and eat at at the bar so the bartender greets you warmly. Now people see that you’re a known figure, but aren’t really sure you you are. They will assume they should, and that’s what matters. Order the same drink every time so when you sit down, the bartender knows to make it without you asking. A real drink. Because you can.
Check your phone once, otherwise leave it in your pocket. You aren’t worried about being gone for an hour because you’re not an intern or an associate. It’s Deborah’s job to take care of that shit while you’re at lunch. There’s probably a TV behind the bar. It’s showing either news or sports. Maybe both, who cares. Casually make periodic, “can you believe this shit?” head shakes or “hell yeah” nods to the bartender. Assert your opinion without ever having to talk to anyone. Bartender either thinks you’re a genius or a douche, but who cares – he’s a bartender, and he’s going to give off that he likes you because that’s his job. Onlookers just assume he knows you and thinks you’re awesome. When you leave, tip well, but don’t overdo it. You’re generous, not desperate. Casually thank the bartender by name and say “see ya next time.”
When you stroll back into the office lobby, give a smile and a back slap to the kid wiping the honey mustard he dripped down the front of his shirt while sitting by himself in a parking lot. Hit the the close button on the elevator before he gets on and shrug. Power move complete.
After a certain point, it’s actually easier to make a new person than to make a new friend.