Why are acceptance speeches so dull? Because humans are delivering them and humans are dull. Sadly, attractiveness doesn’t help. Just look at the graph below.

When I tell people that I went to the Oscars, which I always bring up within five minutes of meeting someone, they usually want to know about the celebrities. It’s almost like we don’t watch these shows solely for the recognition of achievements in the art of cinema. The thing is, if you’re following the rules, you don’t actually “meet” anyone because seat fillers are told in no uncertain terms that we are not to initiate conversation with the stars. Only if spoken to may we respond, which is the same directive I give to my barber.

If people could be trusted to just make polite small talk as they would with any stranger, I’m sure this rule would not be necessary. Unfortunately, people can’t be trusted. This has been empirically proven at every celebrity book signing when at least one audience member uses the Q&A to invite the speaker to their family Easter brunch. Having said that, it is somewhat awkward to sit up front at the Oscars in total silence, while the nominees around you converse excitedly. For one 45-minute stretch, I was seated next to Octavia Spencer. I followed the rule and avoided all interaction until there came a moment when she was concernedly looking around her seat.

“Do you see my purse?”

I had been spoken to.

In an awe-inspiring act of chivalry, I shifted my eyes around the immediate area. It quickly became apparent, however, that the purse was most likely under her seat, and therefore visually obstructed by the bottom of her dress. She started to move around her dress as we looked and managed to locate it quickly. I was glad, too, because this didn’t seem like something I should be helping with. Even though “Don’t look under the actors’ clothes” was not one of the explicitly stated rules, I’ve always been a master of inference.

Aside from that slightly amusing half-anecdote, I had one other brief interaction with a star when I was told to occupy Melissa McCarthy’s seat. As I headed over, I was abruptly sent away by British actor Richard E. Grant.

“Melissa’s coming back! Melissa’s coming back!”

“Okay.”

I hope Richard cherishes that memory as fondly as I do.

The most humbling moment for me came at the end of the night. By this point, I was feeling pretty special. Look at me, I’m at the Oscars. I must be an important person. It had been a long day of orientations and security checkpoints, but I had finally made it into the elite world of big-time show biz. The show was now over and I asked one of the organizers where I was to go next. He motioned to the exit.

“Walk out that door.”

Suddenly I was alone on Hollywood Boulevard, just an ordinary schmuck in a rented tuxedo. Time to go home.

I jumped on a bus, paid my $1.75, and filled another seat.

Here is one of my favorite Academy Award openings. Billy Crystal embodies everything I want show business to be.

It was a seemingly unremarkable Thursday last fall. As a remote worker, I had developed an expensive habit of beginning the first half of my day in a coffee shop. I sat down with my bank-breaking cup of Los Angeles $4.25 drip and opened my computer. The first email I saw was from several people in my company whom I had never worked with or even met.

“We would like to meet with you to discuss organizational changes. Please be in a private location for this meeting. Thank you.”

Well, crap.

For any readers not fluent in euphemisms, I have translated this email into standard English:

They had scheduled the meeting for 9:30am. I looked at the clock and realized that time was of the essence. I informed the barista that I would be needing a to-go cup because I needed to rush home in time to be fired. We both chuckled at life’s irony.

Once home, I logged on for the meeting. The man tasked with the dirty work seemed uncomfortable. While informing me that my “position was being eliminated,” he looked me over as if trying to determine if I was the type who was going to make his job easier or harder.

Maybe I should’ve made it harder?

“Oh really, my position is being eliminated? Which position am I being moved into?”

Or

“I can’t believe this is happening on the same day that my pug got diagnosed with lupus!”

Or

“Sorry, you froze there for a second. Could you repeat that? Oh no, you froze again. Nope, still frozen.”

The possibilities are endless, but those are not nice things to say, so I did not say them. Instead, I simply nodded and drifted off during his prepared remarks about my “hard work, dedication, something, something, blah, blah, blah…”

At least my lay-off hadn’t coincided with my work anniversary. One of my coworkers was let go on the same day that he received an automated email congratulating him on a five-year working relationship. Oy. Seems like a few other “organizational changes” may be needed at the company.

Following each round of “workforce reductions,” a company-wide virtual town hall was held to address “restructuring” and “new directions.” I remember seeing on my Outlook calendar that the next town hall had been scheduled for after my departure. This made sense, as I recalled previous meetings where the information presented did not seem particularly relevant to those who had just been fired. Like this unsolicited update from one of the higher-ups:

“I don’t want you guys to think that the company is in any trouble. We’re going to be fine. We’re still in a great position. I know it’s been a tough year for the industry, but rest assured, we’re going to come through this stronger than ever!”

Not quite the flavor of reassurance craved by the newly vagrant.

Per company tradition, I assume that the surviving employees also received an email informing them of which of their coworkers had been “released.” That’s a fun word choice. It implies a certain sense of freedom. I visualize the door of one of those vintage golden bird cages being opened.

“Fly! Be free!” exclaims the owner, as he releases his canary from its bondage.

But the reality isn’t quite so romantic. After being “released,” I had severance documents to complete, unemployment insurance claims to file, company equipment to return, a brief spiritual journey to undertake, and ultimately a new job search to begin. In fact, I believe that I’m doing more work unemployed than when I was working. (There’s that irony again that we were talking about earlier.)

Oh yeah, and I’m doing a Substack because it never hurts to have a back-up plan like a free newsletter.

Please enjoy this short clip of yet another relevant example of irony:

But first, let me state that I really don’t know anything about poetry. In my senior year of high school, I was assigned a project in which I was tasked with writing poems in multiple different styles. One of them was free verse, aka no rules. I think I submitted something along these lines:

My name is Gregory

This is my poem

Goodbye

I was tempted to make it easy on myself and repeat that style here. But then I remembered that there’s something special about rhymes. People win arguments with rhymes. Think “silence is violence” or “smelt it, dealt it.” Case closed. If it rhymes, it’s true. More importantly, rhymes sound nice, and my home deserves something nice.

Enough chatter, here it is. We hope you like it.

My dear apartment, you may be small

But oh how I cherish thee;

Number six on the left, straight down the hall…

You are where I like to be.

Life got weird, I needed out

And then you came along;

Packed my bags, no need to pout,

I found where I belong.

Week by week and piece by piece

I worked so hard to make you shine;

New couch, new chair, new bed, new sheets

Who knew my knack for interior design!

I still shower you with gifts

And clean obsessively;

You’ll be the best damn bachelor pad that exists!

You have my guarantee.

Perhaps one day we’ll add a third

With your consent of course;

Maybe a dog, or a cat, or a fish, or a bird…

A companion of sorts.

Or there may come a time when we have to part ways

But for now, it’s still you and me,

And since nights can get lonesome, I mean when I say

Thank you for your company.

Here’s one of my favorite poems:

I don’t think I have ever introduced myself as Greg, nor have I ever written my name as Greg. I use my full name on everything. It’s on all of my social media profiles. It’s on every paper I ever wrote in school. I sign my full name. Look at the top of this newsletter. In my mind, I’m a Gregory. I think like a Gregory, I feel like a Gregory, and I act like a Gregory. And yet, I could count on one hand the number of people who actually call me Gregory. So how did we get here?

When I meet someone, the initial exchange usually goes something like this:

“Hi, I’m Gregory.”

“Nice to meet you. Do you prefer Greg or Gregory?”

I often scratch my head at this point because I can’t figure out why someone would introduce themselves by a name they don’t wish to be called.

“Hi, my name is Lula.”

“Nice to meet you, Lula.”

“Actually, I prefer Frank.”

When these situations came up in the past, I would simply reiterate that I preferred Gregory, which often took people by surprise. I could see the wheels spinning in their heads as they anticipated the mental acuity they would need to muster in order to keep track of these unforeseen extra syllables. Inevitably, our next exchange would go something like this:

“So Greg, where are you fro—sorry, I mean Gregory.”

“It’s okay.”

My laissez-faire response to the minor transgression would apparently leak into the offender’s subconscious because before long, they would be calling me Greg every time, sans apology.

After witnessing this pattern repeat throughout my life, it occurred to me one day that almost everyone I knew was calling me Greg, in spite of never having received my explicit permission to do so. Then I had a second thought…Do I care? To which, the answer is no. It does not bother me one iota when people call me Greg. In fact, consistent field testing has demonstrated that I will respond to any mention of the name Greg within a 100-foot radius.

One would assume that this newfound acceptance of my unsolicited nickname would have made things easier for me. Tragically, this has not proven to be the case. These days when I meet new people, it usually goes something like this:

“Hi, I’m Gregory.”

“Nice to meet you. Do you prefer Greg or Gregory?”

“Either one is fine.”

“But which do you prefer?”

“You can call me Greg.”

“But is that what you want to be called?”

“Well it’s what I’m going to be called.”

“This is your name! You should be called what you want to be called!”

“Okay fine, call me Gregory.”

“I will!”

“Great. Glad that’s settled.”

“So Greg, where are you fro—sorry, I mean Gregory.”

“It’s okay.”

I suppose if I really wanted to make my life simple, I would just adopt Greg as my name in all of my verbal and written communication. Gregory would be reserved exclusively for my dealings with the state of California and the IRS. Yet somehow I just can’t bring myself to do that. The day that I completely give up on Gregory will be the day a part of my soul dies. (And life has already killed off several parts of my soul, so I can’t afford to lose any more!)

Still confused about where I stand on my name? Consider Robert De Niro. If you’ve ever seen an interview where any of his colleagues talk about him, it’s always Bob.

“Bob was a joy to work with.”

“Bob is one of the great actors of our time.”

“Bob likes black women.”

But you’re never going to see a poster for a movie starring Bob De Niro. Not even for Dirty Grandpa. If you know him personally, you can call him Bob. But to the rest of the world, he’s Robert.

And I’m Gregory. But if you know me, you can call me Greg.*

*Unless you’re one of the few who already calls me Gregory. You’ve been grandfathered in, and you must continue to call me Gregory. You know who you are.