I was walking down the beautiful, white washed streets of my home in sunny, southern Spain when I saw two things that combined to bring back a long suppressed memory; a drunken father staggering along with his son in tow, and a dead cat under a parked car . See my dad was sometimes a dick, to put it mildly. He was a heavy drinker, with a penchant for terrorizing his son practical jokes.

Starting a conversation in mixed company is almost prohibitively difficult. However, there are some clues to help us along. Here I have entered some observations into a brief outline and following commentary regarding the worst ways one might start a dinner conversation in mixed company. By simply avoiding these gaffes, you will be well on your way to an evening that satisfies you and your new friends.

“Why you are never coming with us to our boat in Antibes?” Giancarlo, my father’s Italian business partner, asks me through his thick accent as he furrows his brow. “You are not liking to be with us?”

It’s a dark boreal evening in January, 1977, and I’m in Paris for my junior year of college, living in a palatial duplex in the chic Montparnasse neighborhood with Giancarlo and Patricia, his American wife. When I arrived in September, they invited me to crash in their chambre de bonne—maid’s quarters. When I went to look for my own place, not wanting to be the homme who came to dîner, they were offended, and insisted I stay with them.

I first felt pure hatred in kindergarten, when I met a boy named Travis. He was humanlike in appearance, jelly-stained and sticky like the rest of us, but in reality he was a putrid beast, crafted out of pure malevolence and hellfire. He probably hated me for the same reasons most people did—because I was the annoying little chunker with big glasses and blunt-cut bangs—but I’d like to think that he was just intimidated, acting out of fear. That, perhaps, behind my huge glasses were eyes so full of wisdom and truth that it pained him to be in the same room as me. Maybe he knew that I was destined for greatness, and despised me for it. Maybe he had never encountered such an electric energy before. Either that or my stupid haircut.

I’m very concerned about marriage; not mine, mind you – I enjoy all the benefits of life as a trophy husband – but matrimony as an institution is in trouble, and infidelity is a major contributing factor.

I’m very familiar with the best resources: “The Five Love Languages,” “Weekend to Remember” conferences, Marriage Encounter, and “Love and Respect” seminars. As I studied each approach, though, I grew troubled. Something crucial had been overlooked. I racked my brain, but I could never put my finger on it.