Crying while...Golfing?

I was in the NYC area this weekend, taking a blissful repose from the everyday blah-ness that is also known as "life in LA" (for those not as hip as me, this is also known as "being stuck in traffic, screaming at no one about a lack of adequate public transportation"). As part of my family routine, I stayed for a few days with my father in Connecticut.

While I love my dad, I'm not sure I love staying there. I mean, OK, there's a lot to do. For example, watching TV while eating dinner, watching TV while napping, and watching TV while wistfully pining about how you've wasted the best years of your life...but being there always leaves me in an existential state - questioning why I'm alive; or rather "why I'm watching the Tennis Channel at 4pm on a Thursday afternoon".

There are always those moments in your life when you say to yourself, "Dear God, I'm within 10 seconds of literally killing myself. And yes, I do mean literally literally - not literally figuratively - like all those hyperbolic so and sos who use the term "literally" like it means "kinda" do". Last Friday afternoon was one of those days.

Believe it or nuts, I enjoy playing golf. In fact, if my back didn't hurt when I sneezed, I would actually most likely-probably-maybe go out on a weekly basis. As it stands, I hit the links a good 1 or 2 times a decade. Because I know my father enjoys to play, I use my visits to him as an excuse to get behind a 7 iron and swat maddeningly at a tiny ball until my eyes pop out of my socket. So that's what I did last Friday.

While approaching the driving range (for I am not good enough to hit the literal links, dear reader - and I do mean literal) I came across one of my father's friends - a former film kinda guy, who still has stars (and cataracts) in his eyes. Let's kindly say that he's 74 years old.

He walked up to me and this was our conversation:

Him: Hey, how is your movie coming?
Me: Well, you know it's like starting a business. A little slow until you find the right people to collaborate with.
H: Oh don't worry about it. You've got plenty of time. How old are you?
M: I'm, uh...31.
H (suddenly serious). You've got 4 years. After that, no one wants to listen to you. All the executives are in their mid 20s to early 30s. If you're older than they are, they don't want to talk to you. They're so young, it makes me sick.
My Father: Did you hear about that young executive who made that movie at Disney? They lost 200 million! Those kids! What's the movie called?
H: John Carter: who wants to watch that movie? But the kids. They think they know best. (to me) You've got 4 years. I'm serious.
My Father (to me): I should have messed you up more. Your career would really be taking off if I just messed you up more.
M: Well, I'm writing things...
H: What do you do to make money?
M: I write and direct commercials.
H: Yeah, Ok, but what do you really do to make money?
M: I write and direct commercials.
H: That pays?
M: Yes.
H: Are you in the DGA?
M: No.
H: I guess they've lowered the standards since my day.

And scene.

The next 30 minutes or so were pretty hilarious, if you think "swatting miserably at a tiny ball with tears in your eyes" is comic gold.

My lesson? I either get more fucked up or my father and his strange elderly friend won't respect me. I guess it's time to start that cocaine habit...