Normally, I hate people who make resolutions at the end of every year, but I felt I really needed to make some changes in my life. I mean, it sucks the way people have to make promises. Sure, you need to make changes in your life, but why can’t you do that any time of the year? Why not January or April or May or September? It just doesn’t make sense. It’s pretty perplexing. But, still, we do it every year, don’t we? Every time, when the end of December comes around, we’ve got a new list of things we want to change about ourselves, things we’d like to be different, things we wouldn’t mind altering. Well, this year, I have a couple of my own. Yes, two resolutions, two vows I must keep, two promises to myself, oaths, if you will. The first one is probably one of the more difficult ones. I’m listing it first because it’s most likely the hardest to make happen. I don’t know why I’m even bothering to try, because it’s unlikely I’ll succeed. But here it goes: I vow, from this day forward to stop rambling and just get to the point, so that people will understand more quickly what it is I’m trying to say. The other resolution of mine, for myself, is to stop being so redundant and not repeat myself so much. But that one’s easy. I could do it with my eyes closed.

Late Saturday night, I came to a sudden realization: I need to be an actor. Not just any actor. I need to be the most amazing actor who ever lived.

I’m serious about this. I’ll have to go to one of those top-notch acting schools and learn how to method act. When my teacher tells me to be a chair, I will become a chair. People will walk by and admire my exquisite craftsmanship. And when someone tries to sit on me, I won’t collapse from his weight. I’ll remain sturdy, yet surprisingly comfortable. And why? Because all that time, the only thing I will be thinking is I’m a chair. I’m a chair. I’m a goddamn chair.

After a while, when someone told me to be a chair, I wouldn’t just crouch down and look like some moron with his arms sticking out, I’d become a fucking chair. Not just any chair, a really nice chair. Maybe something from the Herman Miller collection. Oh, I know, an Eames lounge chair. Yeah, if I’m gonna become a chair, I might as well become the king of all chairs: the Eames lounge chair. Charles and Ray really knew what they were doing when they came up with that one: stylish, versatile and oh so comfortable. Of course, the ottoman would be a pain in the ass to pull off. But I think I could do it.

Once I really had it down — I mean, really had it down — you know what I’d do? I’d walk into one of those modern-furniture shops on La Brea avenue and just turn myself into an Eames lounge chair. Eventually, one of the sales people would notice me and go ask the manager why they had an extra Eames lounge chair in the showroom. She’d say she didn’t know anything about it and the sales person would say that she didn’t order it and then they’d call their supplier and ask if he accidentally sent it. But the supplier would say that it wasn’t on his books. Eventually, someone would get fired over it and it would all be because of me.

Weeks would go by. Thousands of asses would sit on me every day, each one testing my acting ability and my endurance. Until finally, one woman would just walk up and say that I would be the perfect addition to her sunken living room. She wouldn’t even sit on me. She would pay top dollar for me and then some underpaid workers would pick me up and wrap me in padding for shipment.

And even when I was in that padding, I would not break character. I would remain a chair. A really cool chair. They would load me on a big padded truck and drive me to the top of the Hollywood Hills. There, I would find my new home, on the top floor of a five-story house, positioned comfortably on a white, shag carpet. Oddly enough, no one would ever sit on me. I’d just be there as a showpiece, to look at and admire.

But this would not be the home of just any rich woman. It would be the home of a big-time Hollywood producer. And one day, while they were all sitting on their white leather couch, admiring my beauty, I would slowly break character and become myself again. Of course, this would scare the bejeezus out of them. But eventually, they would start to calm down.

After everyone changed out of their soiled underwear, they’d come upstairs and have a chat with me. “That was amazing,” they’d say. “I had no idea you were just a man. I was convinced for these past four months that you were a finely crafted Eames lounge chair.”

Of course, this would lead to many starring roles in blockbuster films. And after a while, Lorne Michaels would call me up and ask me to host Saturday Night Live. And I’d be like, “Saturday Night Live? Are you fucking kidding me?” And he’d be like, “No, I’m not fucking kidding you. Do you want the gig or not?”

So, yeah, I’d take the gig, and I’d have a blast rehearsing with the cast. Mia Rudolph would continue to hit on me (despite the fact that I didn’t know how to spell her name), but I’d turn down her advances. I mean, she’s pregnant, for godsakes. And then the moment I was waiting for all my life would come: the photo shoot.

They’d hire some amazing photographer to take these incredible pictures of me, super stylized with a little humor thrown in. They’d use them for the commercial breaks. But of course, they’d give them to me after they were done. Seriously, you can’t get photos like that from just any photographer. You need a real pro. And if that means I have to study acting for years and take the form of an Eames lounge chair for over four months, damn it, all I have to say is, “What color upholstery would you like?”

I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve decided I’m going to be a rock ‘n’ roll legend. Now, I know I’ve made similar statements before. But this time I’m fucking serious. Did you see that? I said “fucking serious” as opposed to just “serious.” That’s how goddamn serious I am.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I guess I better start figuring out what kind of legend I’m gonna be. Well if we’re talking about real rock ‘n’ roll, there aren’t many options. You’ve got your guitar, your drums and your keyboards. Bass? C’mon, name one rock ‘n’ roll legend who plays bass. Sting? I said rock ‘n’ roll legend, you jackass. Sting may be a legend, but he’s no rock ‘n’ roll legend. Stick to the fucking program, okay?

Let’s figure this out. I don’t know the first fucking thing about playing drums. Seems like a lot of hard work, too. So that’s out. Keyboards? Well, I ‘d have to play two different things at the same time. And that sounds pretty fucking hard to do. So screw that. That leaves one option. That’s right, guitar! Good! You’ve been paying attention. Give yourself a gold star.

The cool thing about being a rock ‘n’ roll guitar legend is I already know some chords. I can even play a few simple songs. I can’t finger pick worth a shit, though. So I guess I need to work on that. But who the fuck finger picks these days, anyway? No rock ‘n’ rollers, that’s for sure. Fuck finger picking. I’ll stick to the strumming. I’m gonna be the best fucking rhythm guitarist ever.

Think about it. There are tons of rock ‘n’ roll legends out there who play lead guitar, but how many play rhythm? None that I can think of. All I gotta do is be a kick ass rhythm guitarist. I’ll be to rhythm guitar what Flea is to bass. . . Ah, fuck. There goes that theory out the window. Pretend I didn’t say that.

Anyhow, I can see it now. I’d have this band, but instead of breaking for a lead guitar solo, they’d break to hear me play this kick ass rhythm. They’d be like, “Holy shit, that guy can play!” And I’d just be strumming away, never missing a beat, not doing any fancy finger moves or anything, Just working those strings, muffling them sometimes, then letting them twang open. Maybe I’d kick on my cry-baby wha pedal and start jamming out some old-school 70s porn shit. Ahhh yeah. You can hear it, can’t you? Am I kicking ass or what? Man, I am the best motherfucking rhythm guitarist in the whole goddamn world!

—–

Okay, you know what I was saying about being a rock ‘n’ roll legend? Well, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. I just picked up my guitar, grabbed the pick out from under the strings and started jamming away. Then I heard something I hadn’t heard before: this odd sound coming out of my guitar. I stopped playing and checked it out. It wasn’t out of tune. The neck wasn’t warped. There was only one explanation: I suck. Not just suck. But suck really bad. I suck so bad that I sound better when the guitar is out of tune. Yeah. That bad. So, really, the guitar legend thing is out. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Seriously. Just let it go. Apply myself? Hello, I’m almost forty! Apply myself. Apply this! Everyone, just go home, all right? I don’t wanna talk about it. . . Shit.

Poker is all the rage these days. Seems like every network has covered one game or another. I just love all the characters you see playing: There’s the guy with the baseball cap and sunglasses, the dude in the basketball jersey, and that Asian man with the cigarette holder. I watch all these people and think to myself, ‘I could be a professional Poker player!’

Of couse, I’d probably have to learn a bit more about the game first. I think if you have all the cards in the same suit, that’s good. But not as good as if someone has all the cards in the same suit in order. I think. But I’m not sure. My friend tried to explain the rules to me once, but SpongeBob SquarePants was on at the time and I just can’t get enough of that Plankton.

Not that it matters. I think the key to Poker isn’t how you play your cards, it’s how you play the players. You know, all those mind games and shit. I could totally do that. But rather than play it cool, I’d put my own twist on things:

They’d deal me my two cards and I’d glance at them and just let out a, “Oh, fuck me!” and then I’d lower my head to the table like I just lost my life’s savings. But I wouldn’t fold, and everyone would be thinking, ‘Hey, what’s with that weird guy wearing the giant foam cowboy hat?’ (’cause that’s what I’d be wearing), and they’d all try to ignore me. Then I might turn to the guy next to me, the one with the cigarette holder, and I’d say something like, “Hey, what do the ‘A’ cards mean?” And he’d just glance at me and let some smoke out of the corner of his mouth. What an asshole.

So, there would be this round of betting and then the flop, and then the bridge or whatever the fuck it’s called, and finally it would come to me and I’d yell, “ALL IN, BABY!” and push the four chips I had into the pot. Of course, everyone would call or check or whatever they’re supposed to do and I’d show them my Pair of Twos. And then the guy wearing the basketball jersey would display his Three Kings, and that would be that.

Yeah, I’d be a fucking awesome Poker player. But it would certainly be a short career.

People always ask me “What would you do if you weren’t a copywriter?” I always tell them the same thing: I’d be a janitor. No, I’m fucking dead serious. I would be an amazing janitor. Granted, I’d have to get past my aversion to dirt and scum. But once I did, look out. I’d be the best damn janitor in the world.

I wouldn’t let success go to my head, though. Despite thousands of job offers from huge corporations requesting me to head their janitorial staff, I’d keep a humble job at the local middle school. Every morning, people would walk down the freshly mopped hallway and inhale this wonderful aroma. It wouldn’t smell overly lemony or too piney. It would just have this fresh scent, you know? A scent that was somehow familiar, but impossible to put a finger on.

At the International Janitorial Awards, I would receive the Golden Mop-N-Bucket in every category. Of course, right now, the IJAs don’t even exist, but someone would create them just to honor my achievements.

Envious janitors from all over would try to discover my secret. Procter and Gamble would offer me ten million dollars in exchange for my formula. I would refuse. Several times a year, someone would break into my storage room and steal all my cleaning supplies to have them analyzed. But the lab results would always be the same: nothing unusual.

And it would go on like that for over forty years. Then, on my deathbed, I would ask my son to come closer, closer, closer. And once his ear was almost crushing my mouth, I’d weakly whisper the secret of my success: “S-s-smooth Mint Ssscope. *cough* Just a capful into the cleaning *wheeze* solution. And don’t use the fucking store brand. It ain’t the same stuff.” And then I’d say something about seeing a bright light and my dog Spotty waiting for me there, even though I never had a dog named Spotty. And my son would be like, “Yeah, dad, whatever,” since he was only 13 and a rebellious little prick. But that’s what I get for having a baby at 73. Who the fuck did I think I was, Tony Randall?

Anyhow, that’s what I’d do. If I wasn’t a copywriter.

I could be a great DJ. I mean, a really kick-ass one. Not one of these pussy weddings-and-bar mitzvahs motherfuckers. No, I mean a serious turntable talent. I’d spin at all the big clubs, playing my own shit. And when someone invaded my space to request the new Puff Daddy track, I’d reach into my collection of hard-to-find vinyl and pull out my extended middle finger. “Slag off!” I’d say (cause I wanted to sound mean and British), and then I’d go back to spinning. Yeah, I’d be a fuckin’ amazing DJ.

That’s what I used to say to myself. Then one night, a DJ friend of mine asked me to take over the decks. It was my big break. The party was slammin’. And now I was gonna be the one maintaining the grooves. I listened through the headphones and matched the beats dead on. I was a fuckin’ natural. The other track was ending soon, so I had to move fast. I faded up the new track, then faded out the old track. No one was the wiser. I had no idea how fucking easy being a DJ was. I started thinking about starting a new career. What could I call myself? Something cool. Something that would let people know what a fucking killer DJ I am.

Then the vocals came in. I had no idea the track had any vocals, and they weren’t sounding quite right. Probably because it was a 33 RPM track and I was playing it at 78. Yeah, I was fucked. Everyone turned to look at me. But I stayed cool. I just quickly flipped the switch to 33 RPM and pretended like it was all part of the show. Yeah, I’d been a fucking sick DJ. If it wasn’t for the talent part.