Then, one day, I happened to spend a few hours in the presence of famous actor and bon-vivant ladies' man George Clooney, who is a well-known Green Irish Tweed fan (not that he needs a panty dropper, of course) and a guy who would undoubtedly take note of the genius on my skin and make comment. I hung close to his side in his house, in his garden, in his office. I had the stuff laid on so thick it's a wonder he could even see me through the haze. But he said nothing. I couldn't figure out why. Clearly, he had to smell it. Just as clearly, he had to love it. I started to get a little agitated. My time was up. He was showing me to the door, his friendly little cocker spaniel buzzing around my ankles. We shook hands. And then I couldn't help myself. I shoved my neck at him, said something about cologne, and demanded to know what he thought of what I had on.
Clooney took a step back and said, "Well, do you like it?"
I said, "Yup, I love it."
Clooney smiled his easygoing Clooney smile. "Then that's all that matters."
What the hell kind of thing is that to say? What does that even mean? I spent countless hours on the flight back home trying to parse his words. They riddled me with anxiety. I told my girlfriend about it, and her response was, "Would you be offended if I asked you to take a shower before you came to bed tonight? You smell like airplane, B.O., and dirty Band-Aids."
In the end, I decided that maybe Harrods wasn't so great after all, that I needed a new signature scent, that Clooney can go to hell, and that one of my larger problems is that my little slice of Rhode Island heaven is filled mainly with beach-town derelicts and surfers, none of whom would know their oud from a hole in the ground. What a bunch of knuckleheads.