cowperthwait | lies, evasion, spin, circumspection and cleverly veiled hype

First the linen shirts, now this.


Today, a suburban field trip to help my parents burn through the quarterly booze allowance at their club — a truly selfless filial duty if ever one were — and comb through accumulated junkmail.

Standing over the shredder, I had my afternoon ruined by this: my very own invitation to join AARP.

I'm unsure whether to credit a vindictive ex or the world's laziest direct marketing mail-merge. Either way, I just lost ten minutes staring at my crow's feet, wondering whether I could pull off flashing this at the movie theater for cheap tickets.

Time to contemplate the ramifications over a Campari down at the shuffleboard decks, after which I'll drive my Buick into a farmers' market very, very slowly.

INT. AN OFFICE BUILDING LOBBY - DAY COWPERTHWAIT pushes through a brass-trimmed revolving door into a beige-on-beige marble office park lobby, carrying a blazer over his shoulder. It is mid-day; there is no bustle; he is reluctant to proceed to the elevators. A sinewy late-middle-aged RECEPTIONIST sits behind a shoulder- high desk, smiling but tired. An oversized bouquet of flowers, vaguely yuletide, sits on the desk.                       COWPERTHWAIT           Are those, uh, yours? SHE is caught off-guard.                       RECEPTIONIST           I'm sorry?                       COWP                  (gesturing)           The flowers.                       RECEPTIONIST           Uh, no. A company comes in, they           water them, throw them out when           they're dead, bring in new ones...                       COWP           You should fake it. She squints.                       COWP (CONT'D)           Get one of those plastic stem           things, and, ah, you know, stick a           card in it. 'From Romeo'... Her smile fades. Beat.                       COWP (CONT'D)           Well. He bites his lip, shrugs, smiles, futzes with his mobile phone.                       COWP (CONT'D)           Have a good day.                       RECEPTIONIST           Uh huh.

there's a beige one, and a beige one, and a beige one, and a beige one, and they're all made out of ticky tacky...


I am working onsite for a client in a suburban office park located on the peninsula between San Francisco and the Silicon Valley.

This morning, I retreated downstairs to smoke a cigarette collect my brilliant thoughts while taking a constitutional stroll along the geometric jogging path through the manicured gardens. Think some kind of 90s-vintage venture capital Versailles, with geese.

Lost in brilliant thoughts as I was, I didn't notice, upon my return, that the building lobby bore a different sinewy receptionist and different rented floral Christmas decorations. I did notice, though, that I couldn't get to the sixth floor in the elevator, because this building required an access card, because this wasn't our client's building.

I commented politely on the rented floral Christmas decorations, rounded another 90° of the jogging path, and entered the right building to try again.

this will happen after all


It's easier to write here under the impression that nobody reads it, but that appears to be untrue today. Or my father is kind of creepily psychic. Either way:

I lumbered downstairs to my parents' kitchen, stepping around the waist-high piles of folding chairs in the entryway. As I entered, without turning from the counter Dad announced, "No, they're on On Demand, all 21 of them." They of course being the 007 canon, and the salvation of my Turkey Day.

Cable box remote in one hand, a jar of dry roasted peanuts and a bottle of Pellegrino in the other, I venture forth to soak up some Octopussy. Television holidays are, quite simply, The Shit.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Ew, what is this? Is this a toy? Why is this in my cereal? This looks like Madeleine Albright.

—K. Cowperthwait, Castro Valley, CA, 05 Oct 2008

As a child, I biked to swim practice each morning with beach towels embroidered with the logotype of my father's brokerage, carried in a duffel bag embroidered with the logotype of this or that mutual fund. My parents couldn't countenance buying brand-name towelry or luggage when we had ample freebies, and why should they?: this was primo shit… just, you know, belogoed.

For my part, I drank their Kool Aid and came to believe the Wall Street logoswag bespoke my own wealth and importance. Not just anyone carries a Templeton Funds duffel, you prole.

Yes, I was a Cool Kid. Everyone else knew it, too. This culminated, in fourth or fifth grade, with my being dunked in a urinal by Lucas Ahlstrand and one of the Gearhart brothers. The rest of our teammates cheered them along. I look back not with bitterness: I agree I had it coming.

(Revenge was sweet, actually. After the dunking incident, I penned an eloquent complaint and got them both suspended for the rest of the season. Of course, five years later, Lucas would resurface to date the girl I loved, and it didn't even surprise me. We're stuck in a lifelong archrivalry now, senseless and unending, as these things tend to be. Tune in about a decade from now, when I hire someone to blow up his garage. This isn't over, Ahlstrand....)

All of this is to say, dignity wasn't my bag, so to speak. And I still haven't learned the logoswag lesson:



In 2008, it is late in the laundry cycle, and I am lazy.

Having more or less completely repressed painful memories of my awkward adolescence, today I wore multiple, cacophonous swag items to work. No clients, just phone calls, I rationalized... — but I overlooked the fact that the kinds of kids who beat me up in grammar school are precisely the kinds of kids who grow up to be marketing and public relations middle managers.

I was not thrown in any toilets today, but I could have been. Perhaps I should've been.

Forget waterboarding. Spotted in my parents' kitchen, one of the last totally legal forms of torture:


my girlfriend has one boob

They’re attracted by the smell, and by the foil wrapper — I mean, really?; how do you see foil underground?, in the dark? — and they bite down, then it gets stuck in their windpipes and they choke to death. I said, ‘yeah, I’ll give that a shot!’, the little shits.

—Dad escalates his war on gophers by feeding them … sticks of chewing-gum (?)

INT. GARISH 1990s-THEMED HAIR SALON - DAY COWPERTHWAIT sits at a station, visibly pained. At his feet is a pile, seemingly ankle-high, of clipped hair; very little is left attached his scalp. A female, middle-aged STYLIST silently tends to the edges behind his ears. LAUREN sits at a station behind them, her consultation just getting underway. HER STYLIST stares skeptically.                       LAUREN                  (into mirror, to Cowp)           I dunno. Jon?                       COWPERTHWAIT                  (into mirror, to Lauren’s                   stylist)           I think you should just give her a           crew cut, no matter what she asks           for. His Stylist rolls her eyes.                       MARCUS                 (from reception area,                  gesticulating                  enthusiastically with                  swoops and clutches)           Leave more on the left side, and           push the bangs to the side, and           take the back...                 (approaching Lauren’s                  chair)           ... and make this part shorter, but           take about that much off, so it           looks like ... like this, but not           too much, you know?                       COWP           Just use clippers on the whole           thing. Don’t bother texturing it.           Auschwitz chic. An unseen PATRON laughs from the shampoo area.                       LAUREN’S STYLIST           Is that your boyfriend? Which one           is your boyfriend?                       LAUREN           They’re both my boyfriends. More laughter from the shampoo area.                       LAUREN’S STYLIST           Two boyfriends! I don’t listen to           your boyfriends. I cut hair.                       MARCUS           She needs bangs!                       LAUREN’S STYLIST                 (examining Lauren’s hair                  with a frown)           You have two boyfriends: you can           make them buy you better shampoo.

Lauren would only loan me her jumper cables on condition that I wear her orange traffic safety vest while using them. A promise is a promise.


the crossing guard even the other crossing guards beat up

Blazers: check.
Too-tight double polos: check.
Wicked retarded large sunglasses: check.

Mingling at convocation receptions this weekend in Connecticut, I attempted to derive a variation of my favorite hiptard bar guessing game, "German or Lesbian?" The new game: "Preptrash or Effete Homosexual?"

This failed, however, because it proved too difficult. It's nigh impossible until you hear them speak.

You're stressed. Screw the rest of [your project] for the evening and do something relaxing. I'm sure your parents have a Jacuzzi, and there must be a Baskin-Robbins nearby where you can pick up an underage boy and some butter pecan.

—KMBJ

Castro Valley, CA, April 15, 2008