I spent yesterday evening heading from film networking event to film networking event, schmoozing away and building pre-launch buzz for Cyan with the help of my Exec VP, Colin Spoelman. Having Colin there made me conscious of a comment I receive so frequently I mainly tune it out when schmoozing alone:

Them: You know who you look just like?

Me: Ferris Bueller.

Them: Exactly! Has anyone ever told you that before?

Yes, people have told me that before. About half of all the people I’ve ever met have told me that before. Strangely, however, only that half sees it at all; to the other half, I and Matthew Broderick bare absolutely no resemblance. And I’m part of that second half – I mean, Broderick and I both have brown hair, but that’s about as close as I can get.

Still, those non-resemblance-seers, apparently feeling the need to join in the celebrity-look-alike fun, often interject with other actors that they feel I more closely resemble. Last night, for example, I got Warren Beatty, Michael J Fox and Martin Short. While, to me, Bueller’s a bit of a stretch, I have absolutely no idea how people arrive at these other matches.

Still, I have to admit, even if I don’t see the physical resemblance, personality-wise I am more than a bit Bueller-esque. I guess my stars are well aligned, as I live something of a charmed life. And I have a damn good rendition of Danke Schoen ready just in case any parades come through town. There’s just so much to be learned from Ferris Bueller’s approach to life and his sage philosophical musings:

Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.

While feigning filthy riches with clever button tricks may work in some situations, there are clearly certain unsubstitutable advantages to the real thing. Consider this gem of a story:

James Gordon Bennett, Jr., the inheritor of the old New York Herald, was once unable to get a table at his favorite Monte Carlo restaurant. So he bought the restaurant on the spot, had another customer ejected, ate his meal at that table, then handed the deed to his waiter. He’d gotten what he wanted.

While one might question the fiscal judiciousness of that approach, for sheer effectiveness, it’s difficult to rival.

While in the taxi back from dinner with long-time friends Shibani Mukerji and Randy Wolfe, the three of us got into an argument over toilet paper, debating the ever important question of fold vs. crumple. As a folder, the mere idea of crumpling up toilet paper before use strikes me as ridiculously uncouth and uncontrovertibly unsanitary. The other two, crumplers, were equally aghast at the possibility of my folding approach.

So, this morning, to unequivocally demonstrate the correctness of my approach, I set out to find research on T.P. best practices. Rather quickly, however, I discovered that medical research on the subject is in short supply. Fortunately, statistical research abounds, leading me to the ‘might makes right’ answer to my question: we folders are obviously correct, as we hold a 7 to 10% (depending on the survey) majority over the crumplers. More interestingly, however, it appears that the difference breaks somewhat along gender lines, with most men folding and most women crumpling. (Something you want to tell us, Randy?)

Still, as fascinated as I was by that Mars/Venus distinction, I was even more delighted to discover other, more arcane wiping facts. In one large survery, for example, over half of those polled had wiped with leaves, some 8% had wiped with their hands, and more than 2% had wiped with money.

Further, some 60% admitted to regularly looking at the paper after they wipe. And I bet most of them are crumplers.

Every so often, some poor sap will use the phrase ‘very unique’ in conversation. And every self-appointed grammatician within a two hundred foot radius will pounce. “You can’t say that,” they whine. “You can’t use unique with an adverbial modifier.”

I hate these people. They’re smarmy, irritating, and self-righteous. And, most importantly, they’re wrong. They need to pick up a copy of the venerable Oxford English Dictionary, to peruse the listing for ‘unique.’ They’d note that ‘unique’ is a word with several possible meanings. One meaning, ‘being the sole example of something,’ probably can’t be modified. A second, ‘unusual or esoteric,’ certainly can be. (By substituting the second meaning, we arrive at ‘very unusual,’ an uncontestedly grammatic phrase.)

Further, even if ‘unique’ didn’t have the second meaning, ‘very’ and other adverbial modifiers wouldn’t necessarily be ruled out. Consider the similar case of ‘perfect:’ while most people consider the word unmodifiable, few would object to the preamble of the US Constitution, which begins ‘We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union.’

So, in short, next time you hear someone objecting to ‘very unique,’ punch them in the mouth. The Founding Fathers have your back.

A similar approach to junk mail: I return pre-paid return envelopes filled with junk mail from other companies. I’ll take the credit card ad from Citibank, the special offer from the local rug cleaner and the discount coupon from Pizza Hut, then send it all out to American Express. After all, the USPS is always complaining that email has cut into their mail volume. And, if nothing else, it probably brightens the day of American Express’s $4.50/hour mailroom sorter.

For the first few months I lived in New York, my evenings at home were remarkably quiet. I didn’t realize why until mid October, when the telemarketers first wised to my new East Coast location. Suddenly, all evening long, I was besieged by unbeatable opportunities; the litany of deals, for credit cards, newspaper subscriptions, time-shares and vacation packages, all simply too good to miss, rolled in. At first, I was nice about it. After all, I reasoned, these people were just doing their job. Hoping to build good karma, I’d wait until the caller’s need to breathe put a gap in the constant outpouring of sales-speak, then interject a polite ‘thanks, but I don’t think I’m interested.’ Over time, however, the constancy of the calls began to grate at me, until I could fully understand my fathers motivation when he once told a telemarketer, ‘perhaps you’d like to speak with my dog.’

In the last couple of months, however, I’ve discovered an exceedingly therapeutic and highly productive way to deal with unwanted calls. As soon as I realize it’s a telemarketer, I say ‘please hold’ and put down the handset. I don’t mean I hang up; I mean I just put the handset on the counter, then go back to doing whatever I had been doing before. Usually it takes the caller several minutes to realize I’m not coming back. And during that time, I figure I’m saving at least five or six other citizens from telephonic harassment.

I returned to New York yesterday to find the city had decided to skip over May, June and July, going instead directly to August. Temperatures cracked 90 degrees and humidity shot through the roof. Every pollen-bearing plant in Manhattan, apparently in celebration of the unexpected burst of summer, put love in the air, pushing the pollen count to 11.7. On a scale of 12. Blissfully unaware of the pending pollenic disaster until mid-morning, I arrived at work unaided by Allegra 180 and was left sniffle-nosed and itchy-eyed for the balance of the day.

To be honest, allergy drugs are still fairly new to me. While I’ve doubtless had seasonal allergies for some time, I only realized so last year. I was watching TV when a spring Claritin ad came on: “Runny nose? Burning eyes? Coughing and sneezing?” Check. Check. Check and check. The symptoms kept rolling across the screen, and I had them all. The proverbial lightbulb appeared over my head. By God, I had allergies!

One might wonder why my father, a pulmonologist, had never noticed this, though I credit his lack of diagnosis to a sort of ‘shoemaker’s children going barefoot’ effect. Still, his ability to write prescriptions at the drop of a hat has since more than made up for his lack of speed on the draw. With fexofenadine hydrochloride running through my veins, I can see clearly and breathe freely. Medicine, I realize, is a wonderful thing.

I spend a fair amount of my time traveling, and like many have remarked the world’s increasing homogenization. Around each corner now stands a McDonalds, a Starbucks, a Gap. And, increasingly, a GNC. That’s right – while the Gap empire consists of nearly 4,000 stores worldwide, General Nutrition Centers trumps the khaki king with a whopping 5,000 stores. And, unlike the vast majority of the US-headquartered retail behemoths, GNC is actually entirely owned by Dutch conglomerate Royal Numico.

Indeed, wherever its point of origin, GNC seems well poised to take over the world, at least vitaminically. Which is odd, as the stores seem to fly under our collective cultural radar. Most people, I suspect, would be more than a bit shocked to discover GNC overshadows the Gap in terms of presence. But once you first notice GNC’s proliferation, as I did about a year back, you can’t help but see those big red letters literally everywhere you turn.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be overly surprising, considering Body for Life’s multi-year stint on the bestseller lists, MetRx’s heavy sports arena advertising, and society’s increasing fascination with six-packed abs and pumped pecs. In fact, I myself venture into the GNC around the corner every few months to pick up a box of Balance Bars, which I keep in my desk for mid-day or late-night snacking.

Each time I head into a GNC, however, I’m caught a bit off guard. First, the employees themselves never strike me as particularly fit or robust. “This WeightGain 8000 has worked wonders for me,” I’ll hear a marathon-runner type intone. And I have to wonder, if the guy looks that emaciated now, how exactly did he look before he started ‘bulking up’? Worse, though, are the customers, who by and large look downright sickly. They whip out their GNC Gold Cards, plunk down a few hundred dollars for several tubs of scientifically named powders (‘tri-oxy-methyl-antipaunch’) and plod wheezingly out the door, apparently out of breath from the exertion of standing upright.

Easter is just around the corner, which means the time of Marshmallow Peeps is at hand. Not for me, as I’m Jewish and stay far, far away from those fluorescent little birds. But for many other people. Therefore, in a selfless show of great humanitarianism, I’m taking time from my busy schedule to share these three crucially important pieces of Peep information:

1. While the US budget for basic science research has plummeted in recent years, some enterprising young academics have managed to obtain private funding for research on science’s most important topics, such as Marshmallow Peeps. A compendium of their Peep findings has carefully been collected on the web.

2. Balancing science with art is an indication of human intelligence expressed at the highest level. Therefore, sites such as this careful literary analysis of Marshmallow Peeps can enhance our understanding of the Peep phenomenon. Sadly, unlike the relatively optimistic scientific findings, this analysis seems to imply that Peeps may be, as foreshadowed by Yeats, harbingers of doom for the human race.

3. Two years ago, for Halloween, one of my coworkers seized upon the idea of taping Peeps to his clothing, thereby dressing as a ‘chick magnet.’ Sadly, Peeps are only produced during the Easter season, and he was forced to use marshmallow black cats instead. (Nota bene: While most women find the Peeps idea cute, they are not similarly amused by a ‘pussy magnet’ costume).