The Art of Living Other People's Lives Page 8

  Some parents are nicer than others, and instead of asking for an eventual payment of the full amount of money spent plus interest, parents can select an option to simply request a small percentage back of total money spent. For example, maybe a parent just wants 3 percent back of the total amount of money they spent directly on their child from the child’s twenty-first birthday up until whenever it is they can start paying their own phone bills and stop relying on Mom and Dad, who surely abandoned their retire-at-sixty plan a long time ago.

  Many parents will wish Made of Money Interest Tracker were invented years ago. They would be expecting a pretty hefty return right about now. Though something tells me as millennials begin having babies and starting families, they’ll be quick to jump on a service like this one. Especially because they know best just how much a kid can drain a family’s life savings.

  Business lesson: If you can find a way to save people money, you can make money.

  Vintage Pal

  There’s been a steadily increasing interest in vintage clothing and accessories in America. I won’t use the word hipster because I don’t believe in it, but you catch my drift. Young people all over this great country flock to thrift stores to stock their wardrobe with used jeans and shirts from decades past. Sometimes you’ll even find designer pieces among the musty sprawl.

  Thrifting has become so popular that it’s used as a verb. Personally, I have nothing against it. I’ve thrifted a handful of times in my life and have walked away with some great pieces of clothing I’d never have found otherwise. The only real problem with thrifting is that the search never really ends. You have to constantly check stores for new merchandise, and once you’re there it’s a battle royale between you and the other customers. People furiously tear through clothing racks, hoping to get their hands on that one gem before the next person does. From afar, it eerily resembles animals of prey tearing at a fresh carcass, reaching their jaws toward that prime piece of meat before one of its carnivorous neighbors grabs it. It’s all about ruthlessness and speed, and that’s not a fun shopping experience for anyone.

  The solution? Vintage Pal, an online community of elderly people from around the world with wardrobes any halfway decent thrifter would desire. With Vintage Pal, you’re not just making a one-off purchase for an article of clothing from an old person—you could use eBay for that. The idea of Vintage Pal is that you can bid to secure an exclusive relationship with the old person of your choice. You can of course browse the person’s entire wardrobe to make sure it’s worth buying into. Naturally, the Vintage Pal (old person) with the most desirable wardrobe will have their price driven up. Each Vintage Pal will be required to write up a will that leaves their wardrobe (and any agreed upon accessories) to the highest bidder when they pass away. So the real strategy behind choosing the right Vintage Pal is about picking one whose bed could become their deathbed at any moment. Like any investment, it’s a risk. What if that person lives years beyond what he was expected to? What if she falls into a coma and their family refuses to pull the plug? But for any dedicated thrifter, the chance for a completely exclusive, truly vintage wardrobe is totally worth it.

  Business lesson: Always make sure the reward you’re offering is worth the risk.

  a If anyone actually wants to pursue one of these ideas I will give you Mark Cuban’s e-mail address and connect you with other real investors. Just keep in mind I own a 20 percent stake in the business. This is nonnegotiable.

  James Franco Syndrome

  (Or, The Time Mark Cuban Gave Me Life Advice)

  On the morning of my twenty-fifth birthday, I woke to a nagging voice in my head reminding me of all the things I’ve yet to accomplish. Why don’t you have a million dollars? Why have you never been to Asia? Why haven’t you scrubbed the toilet bowl since you moved in? I turned on my phone and was greeted by a text message from a friend that read, “Congrats, you’re halfway to fifty.”

  Desperate, I decided to reach out to the one person I knew who could deliver some reassuring words: Mark Cuban. I was introduced to Mark, the billionaire businessman, investor, NBA team owner, and TV personality, when he was interviewed for Elite Daily, and we’d kept a semiregular conversation going for a short time after. I figured if anyone could understand the pressure of that inner voice constantly urging me to do more and be better, it’d be him. After all, the man has built a multi-billion-dollar brand by being ruthlessly competitive and hard on himself.

  The last quote he gave for the interview about his key to success was, “I work harder than you. I am more competitive than you. I hate to lose more than you. I will do everything I can in business to kick your ass and that will never change.”

  A quote like that could only come from a man who’s battled with a few contentious voices of his own.

  I opened up Gmail and typed happily away.

  Hey Mark,

  I wanted to reach out on a personal level. I just turned twenty-five. As an obsessive, self-analytical, and most of all, passionate young professional, I was wondering what you would tell your twenty-five-year-old self if you could. I really appreciate it. Greg

  I clicked send and immediately felt better.

  That persistent, pessimistic voice that led me to randomly e-mail a billionaire for advice is a symptom of what I’ve come to call James Franco Syndrome, which, in medical-speak, is an obsessive desire to accomplish as much as possible in the shortest amount of time. And who better than James Franco to epitomize this desire? Aside from being James Franco the movie star and director, he’s also James Franco the writer, having published multiple poetry collections, a book of short stories, a novel, and probably a hundred other books I don’t even know about. He’s also the official face of Gucci’s fragrance line for men. He hosted the Oscars, and he seemed to be high the entire time (quite a feat). He teaches classes at NYU, UCLA, USC, and even at Palo Alto High School. He also has degrees from UCLA, Columbia University, NYU, Brooklyn College, and Warren Wilson College, and he’s a PhD student at Yale. He also attended Rhode Island School of Design and was accepted to the University of Houston but chose not to attend. He’s in a band. He starred in the Broadway production of Of Mice and Men. And while it could be easy to argue that he’s spreading himself too thin, he seems to juggle all of his commitments with relative ease.

  Most people who know me see my compulsive, overbearing approach to life as determination and drive, which, to a degree, it is. I don’t want to be good at just one thing. Those people who are less worried about offending me call it overachieving. As my ex-girlfriend put it: “You can’t be the best at every single thing you’re passionate about, asshole.”

  Luckily my girlfriend, Brittany, is a bit more understanding. As long as she remains a main course on an overcrowded plate, she supports everything I do. She gets why I work such long hours and take on more than I can seemingly handle; a list that currently includes, but is not limited to, pleasing millions of Elite Daily readers, writing a book, traveling internationally to speak at media conferences, training for a marathon with no plans to actually run a marathon, reading books by only female authors for three consecutive months, and teaching myself the basics of American Sign Language.

  She even let me figure out on my own, after months of time-consuming preparation, that making a photo book featuring random dog shit dressed up as everyday characters—poolice officers and poopetrators, the poosident of the Poonited States, and an assortment of other poodestrians walking their poodles—was not the genius idea I originally thought it to be. She did draw the line when I proposed a backup idea of dressing the poop as celebrities and staging movie scenes. Who wouldn’t want to see a handcrafted poop replica of Leonardo Di Craprio in The Great Shatsby, or a full recreation of the cast of One Flew Over the Poo Poo’s Nest?a

  Another symptom of James Franco Syndrome is the need for validation. Recently, I made it a goal to get verified on Twitter, no matter what it took. There’s not a college degree or job title out there that tops
the worth of that tiny blue check mark. (Who knew a small, digital symbol would one day have the power to turn a 140-character rant about cargo shorts and cheese into a national conversation?)

  Within months, the opportunity presented itself when Twitter announced that members of the Elite Daily editorial team would be getting verified. When I found out I was one of those members, I nearly pissed myself. But on official verification day, mine was the only blue check mark that never appeared. I watched everyone else exchange high fives and hugs, relishing the fact they’d just been deemed important members of society.

  I spent the weeks following in utter distress. I told everyone I knew about my misfortune, including my eighty-six-year-old grandfather who has never used a computer in his life.

  “Trust me,” I assured him. “Being verified on Twitter is, like, the most valuable thing that can happen to a person.”

  I was reliving fifth grade all over again, when my school handed out monthly awards to “top performing” students in the form of bumper stickers that read “Birchwood Booster.” Even as kids, we understood these stickers were like peewee-league soccer trophies and everyone would get one. But the school year was nearly over and my bumper sticker was nowhere to be found.

  I could hardly bring myself to get in the car with my parents. Driving around Huntington, Long Island, was like swimming in a sea of Birchwood Booster stickers. Every car had a glaring blue sticker on the bumper or back windshield. Our car was bare and meaningless.

  Eventually, I did wake up to the blue check mark next to my name. I stared at it the way I’d stare at a father I’d never known. I’ve yearned for you, and now you show up unexpectedly in my life, I thought. Fine, I’ll accept you. I also ended up getting the Birchwood Booster bumper sticker in the last month of the school year. I’m well aware of the damaging effects of James Franco Syndrome. Among the symptoms already listed, there is also difficulty letting go of failure, a need to study things that don’t pertain to what I do, trouble sitting still, and the inability to wear sweatpants in public. Though that last one might just be vanity.

  So you see, it made sense for me to elicit advice from Mark Cuban, a guy I can only assume is on the James Franco spectrum. He’s got like two hundred businesses, stars in a hit TV show, and owns a basketball team. Perhaps you can be ambitious to a fault, but that’s not something I want to believe. Why wouldn’t I want to do everything and anything I’m capable of? The hard part is not beating myself up over the things I’ve yet to do. I was hoping Mark (and James, if you’re reading this) could provide some soothing insight.

  It was late on the night of my twenty-fifth birthday when my phone buzzed to life with a new e-mail alert. It was Mark. He’d responded. I didn’t open it right away. I wanted to cherish the moment. I knew one personal e-mail from Mark Cuban would help subdue all the symptoms I’d been experiencing. I’d print it out and frame it, and the next time I didn’t succeed right away or the nagging voice became too much of a distraction, I’d glance over at it and say, “You’re right, Mark. I will keep my head up and try harder. Thanks for reassuring me of my self-worth.”

  I climbed into bed and made sure the mood was right before reading the e-mail. I considered lighting candles, but couldn’t find any matches.

  The e-mail read,

  dont use credit cards, keep learning and keep selling

  thats what I would say

  m

  That was it. Nothing more. It wasn’t grand. There were no quotable affirmations. It didn’t even have any capitalized letters or apostrophes. I read it over and over again, positive there was something I was missing—perhaps a hidden message if I rearranged the letters. Nothing.

  I decided to examine it at face value. I didn’t have much to sell, but it seemed like sound financial advice. To keep learning was a given. After all, knowledge is power. But there was no way I was going to stop using credit cards. I’d been working hard earning enough points for a free flight, and the voice in my head said I had to visit Asia before I turned twenty-six.

  a Other poop names include Bradley Pooper, Cate Blanshit, Shartin Scorsese, Charlie Craplin, Brad Shit, Whitney Pooston, Poopita Nyong’o, Walt Shitman, Edgar Allen Poo, Abraham Stinkin, Adolf Shitler, leader of the Turd Reich, Vladimir Pootin Crapula, To Kill a Mocking Turd, Forrest Dump, Bravefart, 21 Dump Street, The Desharted, A Tale of Two Shitties.

  What a Day

  My father married the girl next door. Literally.

  From the stories I’ve heard, he kept a close eye on his neighbor—my mother—throughout their teenage years, watching from his window in the house directly next to hers as boyfriends came and went, before ultimately making his move. Clearly, my existence is proof the move paid off.

  Despite growing up next-door neighbors, my parents are very different people. My father has a soft-spoken demeanor, usually reserving his words for witty punch lines and insights that require the least number of syllables possible. My mother is the complete opposite, and when comparing my father’s quiet disposition to her loud, in your face, blame-it-on-Italian-roots tendencies, it’s hard not to assume it was the other way around, that she made the move and went after him. Regardless of who gets the credit, it’s a fairytale love story, and one that has set the standards fairly high for my own attempts at romance. Luckily, I’ve come to realize there’s no point in trying to top my parents’ origins of love when I can instead ride its coattails. The story of their neighborly romance has become a go-to topic of conversation on first dates, and it works like a charm. After all, I am the spawn of two hometown soul mates. Who wouldn’t trust that I turned out right?

  Though the biggest advantage of having parents that grew up next door to each other isn’t that it’s a shameless icebreaker. The real perk was growing up with two sets of grandparents who live next door to each other. (Not two sets exactly, considering my father never knew his father, but you get my point.)

  After I was born, my parents moved to a town only ten minutes away from where they grew up, so visits to my grandparents’ respective homes were frequent. By the time it took to decide which song to listen to on the radio we would have already arrived, both houses standing quaint and inviting next to one another. It was my own personal sanctuary, and it spanned the length of two front lawns. Looking on from the street, my mother’s parents, Nanny and Pop as we called them, lived in the house to the left. My father’s mother, Grammy, to the right. It was my choice as to which house I’d want to enter first, guaranteed to get spoiled with freshly prepared meals and crisp dollar bills in each. I was living every child’s fantasy.

  My girlfriend, Brittany, whose parents also happen to be hometown sweethearts, experienced an even more tight-knit family geography growing up. The house she grew up in is across the street from her grandparents’ house. Next door to her grandparents’ house is the house her grandfather grew up in. A few houses down is her aunt’s house. A few more houses over are her cousins, and even more cousins live on the next street over. Her family takes the Everybody Loves Raymond gag to an entirely new level. Though even she would have to travel a few states over to see her other set of grandparents.

  Growing up with such favorable circumstances meant that I always had two sets of support systems close by. This support was especially beneficial when life transitioned from playdates and scraped knees to SATs and overly dramatic high-school heartbreaks. When I lost a varsity lacrosse game or couldn’t understand why my parents wouldn’t let me do whatever it was I wanted to do, I’d take the short drive over to my grandparents’ houses, the distance between them appearing even closer than when I was a child. I’d spend hours abandoning the weight of adolescence by playing cards at Nanny and Pop’s or being a volunteer food taster at Grammy’s. Even as a college student I felt the same childlike excitement each time I stepped out of my car and took in the comforting sight of the two houses side by side.

  While I’d always appreciated the convenience of my grandparents living next door to each other, my
understanding of just how much I’d come to depend on their one, central location came later, when I was a junior in college. In 2009, Nanny began a long battle with lung cancer, and in late 2010 she was moved from her house to hospice care. Like so many families, mine became even stronger the day she was diagnosed. What I had the hardest time facing was the fact that the dynamics of my perfect setup—me at point a and my grandparents’ two homes, teeming with life and separated only by a sliver of driveway, at point b—had been altered for the first time. It was unnerving knowing my grandmother wasn’t where she’d always been my whole life.

  Nanny ended up passing away shortly after she moved to hospice care with most of my family by her side. It was a peaceful departure, the kind of death that allows you to still eat a full meal after the funeral at whatever local restaurant has a big enough back room to fit your entire family. This meal doesn’t stem at all from a place of insensitivity. It’s simply a sign that a full life has been lived, and that alone is something worth celebrating. I hope when my time comes people can’t wait to stuff their faces with pasta once I’m in the ground.

  Only a few months after Nanny’s passing, it was Grammy’s turn to venture from the setting with which I’d always associated her. After a bad fall and resulting hip surgery, she was moved into a nursing home. It was at that moment I realized my childhood place of serenity—the same place my parents first tried on each other’s love to see how it would fit, the place where I’d spent countless weekends as a child running from house to house to equally distribute my time between grandparents—had officially been dismantled on both sides.