I have the most marvelous, eclectic assortment of friends, but occasionally they’ll slip and let me know what they really think about me, usually after a cocktail or 12.
One of them recently made me a co-host of a party she was throwing, but in front of me, she told someone “Michael won’t draw anyone. We need to work on getting more people to come!”
Another friend looked agog when I told him I’ve been to the Oscars twice. “So they have seats way up in the second balcony?” he asked, sincerely, eyelashes batting.
The same guy gushed to a fellow reporter–again, right in front of me–that while I’m merely comic relief, HE’S a real critic who provides important analysis.
And yet another buddy called to invite me to a screening, charmingly adding, “I’ve asked around, and no one else wants to go.”
But hey, I simply adore these people. They give me just the humbling I need, providing the tough love required to keep me grounded and sane. And I feel that’s far preferable to telling you what I really think.