Not Another Christmas Story: Epilogue

 

Oliver Mosier · Not Another Christmas Story: Epilogue

Not Another Christmas Story: Part IV

 

Oliver Mosier · Not Another Christmas Story: Part IV

Not Another Christmas Story: Part III

 

Oliver Mosier · Not Another Christmas Story: Part III

Not Another Christmas Story: Part II

 

Oliver Mosier · Not Another Christmas Story: Part II

Not Another Christmas Story: Part I

Oliver Mosier · Not Another Christmas Story: Part I

Academia Nut

Most emails I receive end up in the trash. It’s doesn’t matter if they’re from a relative or a relatively high up person in a shadowy government organization. Since I rarely have the time or the patience to respond, they are generally deleted unread. Over a pot of coffee, I mark a significant portion as spam and simply ignore the rest. It’s probably why your fawning three-thousand-word fan letter fell on deaf ears (blind eyes?). It’s akin to taking out the garbage. I don’t unfold every receipt or dust off each apple core for a solemn remembrance. I merely check the bag for weak spots. No one wants a leaky trail of trash juice following them out of the house. 

That said, I did happen to read one email the other day. How come? Easy. The subject line intrigued me, implying there was potential value in further engagement. It said, quite succinctly, “YOU MUST BE SMART.” I must be, yes. So I read on.

The note was from Gardiner Crenshaw Stokes III, the provost of a small illiberal arts school in unsunny New England, Chair-Latin College, within the exceptionally depressed hamlet of Chug Harbor. I’m not sure whether it’s in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, or somewhere like Maine, but the town sure sounds picaresque. A place built on the back of whaling. No, really. The town’s grid was laid out along the spine of a dead Sperm Whale. You can still see some bones after normal street repairs. I’ll definitely consult a map sometime between now and the new year. 

Stokes got right to the point, “you say a lot of things that make sense. More than a lot. Maybe more than many. Maybe more than most. Is what you say that much different than half of our tenured professors? I don’t think so.”

Now you have to understand that I’ve deliberately avoided academia since graduation. Have I had offers? Naturally. Who hasn’t? But this one felt different. Stokes offered me the chair of the philosophy department. I told him that the only way I’d accept such an offer is if they changed the spelling of philosophy to filosophy in all the academic handbooks. That way, it’s much more accessible to the average unexamined student. He agreed instantly.

As of January 4^th, I’ll be teaching two courses at Chair-Latin. The first is Arisdawdle: The Philosophy of Procrastination from Ancient Greece to some Greek Diner in Queens (don’t worry, there will be no exams, papers, grades, and very few classes to speak of). But that’ll leave me plenty of time to partner with the phys-ed department for a practical seminar in Asteroid Preparedness. Plus, I’ll be coaching the Mollusks, the school’s well-regarded bocce club. The academic freedom Stokes guaranteed me was essential. That and putting it in my contract that I’ll be paid solely in chowder. And no, not the tomato-based disgrace from the island of Manhattan. That's in my contract, too.

I have much to discover about campus. Like why the quadrangle is serpentine. Why there’s kindling and other fire starters in the library. And the reason the improv troupe improvised their way out of existence with a few too many “yes and...we're not funny. We should attend law school.” I look forward to what the students bring to the classroom as well. Namely in the form of contraband and terrible dispositions. I’ll be routinely betraying their trust in these pages, so stay tuned for that. I have a lot to learn. 

Merry Christmas Eve.

Interview: Guillermo Tablero

At any reputable Driving School, they teach you to always keep your eyes on the road. The highway is the eye way, they say. It’s a mantra of sorts. You find it on bumper stickers and t-shirts, even though by reading those you can’t possibly be also focusing on the pavement. What are you really supposed to do? This is the question I frequently ask professors of driving education. What if a car up ahead has an obscene accessory hanging from its undercarriage that will provide you great cocktail conversation for years to come? What about those delightful vanity plates that produce several guttural guffaws? Like a Californian cruiser with one that reads, “CarMAN San Diego.” You’re not looking at the road if you see this. What’s the cure for white line fever? Staring into the bubbling asphalt, praying for a sign? My next guest made a fortune on the presumption that people do anything but keep their eyes on the road. He’s spent a lifetime installing billboards across the vast interstate system, banking on the wandering corneas of drivers. I caught up with Guillermo Tablero earlier this morning. This is a transcript from our video call, helping explain all the visual references.

MTP: Looking good, pal.

GT: Do I know you? 

MTP: You sure see me. 

GT: What exactly are you wearing? 

MTP: Two robes. One’s wool, the other’s flannel. The pilot light went out last night, so I had to layer up.

GT: And what was it you wanted to talk about?

MTP: How you fell into the billboard business.

GT: Technically speaking, I climbed into the biz. 

MTP: Sorry, what? I think we have a bad connection. Let me call you back.

7 minutes later.

MTP: You there?

GT: Still here. 

MTP: Where were we?

GT: I was telling you how I got into the billboard business.

MTP: Right. Please go on.

GT: It was a typical hot morning in West Texas. I had gone to the grocery store to buy several dozen eggs, planning on a whole afternoon of yolking cars. Approaching my favorite intersection I noticed the familiar blue lights of the police. Annoyed and now perplexed at what I was going to do with rest of my day, a stranger passing by told me he knew of a much better vantage point for pelting vehicles. He said he’d take me there.

MTP: What was his name?

GT: What?

MTP: The stranger. I’d like to know his name.

GT: Gus, I think. It's not important. 

MTP: This Gus have a last name or what?

GT: Not that I knew of. 

MTP: Is there a perfect amount of highway distraction?

GT: I think so. You want to get someone’s attention without causing a wreck. But you also don’t want to cause traffic to halt. It’s all about striking the right balance. There was this one time in the late 70s when the Friends of Espãna wanted me to project a sixteen-part documentary on the Spanish Civil War on loop high above I-40. The sound wasn’t great, plus most of it was in subtitles. You’d get pileups and arguments over Hemingway. After a week, they decided to replace it with a simpler, perfunctory “F--- FRANCO” sign. That did the trick. And the fine we received was more than worth it.

MTP: What did Franco think? And where was Gus in all this?

GT: I’m pretty sure Franco was dead by then and Gus was a street person. I never saw either again. 

MTP: But I hope you thanked them both in your acceptance speech...moving on. What is it about billboards and why do they matter? 

GT: There’s an honesty in them. Are they always the most clever things? No. But neither are we. Some of my favorites like “DUI?” or “Good Food at Exit 17” get right to the point, ya know? They don’t try to do too much. I’m a big believer in understanding the society around you. Take Herman Melville. Would Moby-Dick have been as successful in a society that consumes a lot of sushi? I doubt it.

MTP: You eat whale?

GT: You’re missing my point entirely. 

MTP: Thank you.  

Be (a) Present

‘Tis the season of giving – or so you’re told. It’s a time of slide rules and T-squares, where gifters relish each extra moment standing over the rusted blade of an ancient paper cutter. If there’s one thing you want to get right this time of year, it’s the angle of your wrapping paper. Flat, clean edges are a must. That’s something beaten into your head – metaphorically – as a child. Avoid air bubbles, creases, and tears. The goal is for the present to look so good, so pristine, that the recipient is torn over opening. Regret is the feeling one should have when ruining your hard work. Because before you open something, it’s perfect. Until it’s an ugly pair of vintage sunglasses, your imagination can take you places your loved ones would never go. Unwrapped, it can be birdseed, a corkscrew, flypaper – the stuff you need, the stuff you want, the stuff you love.

Those with a philosophical bent tend to harp on being present, begging you to exclusively reside in the moment. This is no easy task, especially when you’d like nothing more than to drive the conversation in two opposite directions. Whether it’s a lively discussion of 12^th century snack foods or musings on how boring teleportation will be after just a few hundred trips. I’m told these conversations are pointless since neither exist in my proper time. Why talk about the Bonapartes, Martian exploration, or the future of Tupperware when there’s something stuck to you shoe that you need to deal with right now? 

I choose to take their advice halfway. While I won’t be present, I will be a present. Does this mean that I’m going to wrap myself in the finest wrapping paper available and wear a floppy sombrero-shaped bow? I could, though it’s not likely. I would end up spending most of time sewing elaborate paper costumes, cravats and coats with images of Santa and his merry reindeer. None of which would help me when it rains or snows. Waterproof wrapping paper is a problem for the future, which as it turns out, isn’t a problem for me. 

But what I will do is upon entering any room with at least one other person, loudly and unapologetically declare, “I got your present, right here” - pointing at my chest like a crazed cave person. It's not like I could top myself. I'm fairly young, in decent condition and less offensive than licorice haphazardly shoved into a stocking that's a little too close to an open fireplace. 

That should be tolerated until about mid-January when everyone in my life cuts me off. But that’s okay. I’ll probably run out of paper by then anyway. 

The Friend Times

 

I don’t have many friends. Why would I? It’s an onerous task maintaining relationships through text or everyone’s favorite new high-end tech, Face Fone. You must be familiar with it by now. It’s where you take a regular smartphone and duct tape it to your face, stubble be damned. That way, when you’re walking around glad-handing local pets and pols, people see another face on your face. While I suggest shaving before installation, some use their FF as a replacement for their monthly waxing. Sadly, rotary phones and old-fashioned landlines are too heavy, and lack an essential camera function. 

But I’m not a member in good standing of the Geek Squad, here to regale you with the latest technology. I’m here to talk about friendship. You see, I have one friend left. He’s a loyal, working stiff. Don’t believe me? Head out west to ol’ Bill Freeland’s Ford dealership and see for yourself. My pal, my buddy, my closest confidante is an oversized wood cutout of a man. Bunyanesque in physique, he’s there to greet potential buyers on Route 17 near Binghamton (yes I realize that Johnson City is a more accurate location, but this is for out-of-towners). Maybe that explains why I’ve taken to calling him Paul. He’s got the beard, the ax, the overalls, and a stoic personality. Although it’s not clear to me why a man with those attributes would help you find a car, I’m not here to question the universe or the marketing decisions of ol' Bill. 

What’s great about a friend like Paul is how little I have to think about him. There he is, somewhere sturdy enough to weather the harsh conditions of Central New York, never asking me anything in return. He never calls me late at night asking why I haven’t started watching Breaking Bad. He isn't incredulous when I give a mediocre answer. He doesn’t text me over the holidays wishing me glad tidings. He doesn’t give me things that require gratitude. He’s just there, waiting.

Is there a chance the dealership could go out of business and I see him in one of the many overpriced antique outlets lining the East Coast? Sure. But buying back one’s friendship is a small price to pay. 

However, Lars Freeland, ol Bill’s mercurial brother, just got word to me that Big Paul was destroyed during last week’s 40 incher – the blizzard that blanketed most of the Southern Tier. Even in my relative grief, things are great. Now it’s onto the next inanimate roadside attraction. I heard there are a few highways in Northern Vermont that look promising from a purely signage perspective. 

Idle Worship

Repeatedly revving my engine at a red light to goad a pack of rambunctious teenagers pouring out of a pickup truck isn’t my idea of holiday relaxation. There’s something to be said for circling the block a few times before settling on the ideal parking space, avoiding conflict and abstaining from argument. By now, we should know the various gears of a vehicle and when they’re most appropriate. Although, I’ve never understood why emergency brakes are used in situations that are hardly exigent. Pulling the E-Brake ought to be a maneuver akin to using a parachute ripcord or hitting the eject button inside a fighter jet. Parking on a slight incline doesn’t cut it. Perhaps a renaming is in order. Helpful brake anyone?

Given our obsession with making progress, it’s easy to forget the most comfortable gear of all – neutral. In neutral, you can text, since you’re not actually driving. Neutrality is a laudable position these days, in the face of much polarization. It’s why when I see a couple of young people fighting over broken Snapple jars in front of a bodega with broken Snapple jars, I don’t get involved. I don’t step in. I’ve come to accept that something made from the best stuff on earth, can occasionally bring out the worst in us. 

 

Ever since World War II, neutrality as a concept has been derided and scorned, with one nation bearing the brunt of crude jokes from lazy late night hosts. Yes, we know that Switzerland opted to sit that one out, but why should they alone take the pings and arrows from critics? You likely know the litany by heart. The Swiss have holes in their national consciousness, painfully similar to the consistency of their eponymous fromage. They have an army that relies on a pocketknife. They aren’t quite French, and yet, they aren’t quite German. In their defense, I think many of us would sign up for individually numbered anonymous bank accounts considering the massive threat of identity theft today. 

The Swiss were not the only ones who remained on the sidelines during the hottest glare of this nearly global conflict. But you wouldn’t know that unless you quickly read a paragraph on Wikipedia this morning. Where are the caustic barbs from lounge comics aimed at the tiny principality of Andorra? How about predictable monologues from cruise acts bemoaning the inadequacy of Spain and Portugal? The Irish and the Swedish stayed neutral, too. Where are their detractors?  

We could all benefit from taking our foot off the gas every so often. If you’re concerned that one step forward might mean two steps backward, then you should really consider staying put. Text, shave, sleep - do whatever you want, as long as you always pull your side mirror in.  

Flake Snowbegone Days

The scene repeated itself again and again, year after year. A child, anywhere between 5 and 18, would land on the next day’s weather forecast, brightening up at the jolly good news delivered by some amateur meteorologist with a strange devotion to doppler. Despite a great deal of snow predicted, every kid knows that you must pull out all the stops to ensure a day of frosty peace. Nothing should be left untried when there's the potential of a day off. From under their pillow, they take out a yellowed copy of the The Snowman’s Bible, a thin pamphlet (Knopf, ©1968) outlining many snowy tales, including that of Jean Neige and his stunning transition from unimpressive Swiss mountaineer frozen solid into the regal image of Old Man Winter. 

Prayer alone isn’t enough – not here, not now. A few sacrifices must be made, too. They empty each ice tray from the freezer onto the backyard patio, despite the risk to squirrels and shovelers. An ice try is the closest thing to a Snow God’s collection plate. Yes, there are many Snow Gods, too many to speak of. For each snowflake, there is a deity. There’s Jim McFlurry, Tony Sleet, Geoff Flake, Ava Lanche. They all must be contacted when a snow day is in the offing.

There’s no hot cocoa on the menu either. Every dish must be frozen solid and then picked at with a garden axe to show to the Gods above that you’re serious about taking the arctic plunge. Nothing says I want it to be summer more than a steaming plate of lasagna. For many children, a snow day is their initiation into the sordid world of gambling. With OTB dead and gone, a bureaucratic debacle of the highest order, there are few places to go besides the track or casino to learn the ways of wagering. But when a snow day is expected, every kid closes their schoolbooks, hoping they won’t be necessary during tomorrow’s all-day sledding spectacular. They gamble.

It’s never too early to learn the biggest lesson about gambling, the one thing you can always rely on – that you’ll lose. Eventually and precipitously. Now a generation of kids will grow up without ever knowing what a snow day is. Some loss, if you ask me. As long as your internet connection is semi-strong, it shouldn’t matter whether the accumulation is six feet or six inches, the result must be the same. Be online when the bell rings, or else. There are perks though. While corporal punishment is tougher across Zoom, emotional terror can still reign fairly easily. 

Some may say that eliminating snow days deprives children of a fundamental part of childhood – spontaneous joy. But what’s more joyous than an uninterrupted, seamless education? 

Call Me Up in Teamland

 

I don’t play golf. I’m not interested in the scenery much, nor am I jazzed about hacking through tall weeds for hours in search of a tiny ball. Scuba diving in the sky-blue waters of the Caribbean is one thing, while mucking it up in the muddy marshes of a public course for an errant shot is quite another. And I’m not about to take advice from a little man holding my bag, literally telling me which way the wind blows. I do appreciate the concept of a mulligan though, something which ought to extend far beyond the fairway and into everyday life. What I want is to be a part of a team. The real issue is that I’m not good enough at golf to collect any gold trophies or cash prizes. 

Any pro athlete will tell you - off the record of course - that the best part of being on a successful team is the lack of work that’s required. All you need is one generational talent to lead the way, while the rest of the squad rides safely on the coattails of the dynamic genius. Teamwork is a terrific boon to the lazy and lethargic. It’s how people like Mark Madsen are able to receive championship rings, more famous for a wonderfully off beat dance during the victory parade than anything done on the court. Imagine you're a stowaway on the first circumnavigation of the world. There you are, below deck, surrounded by dry goods and rotten food, wondering what's next. Guess what? When that ship crosses the finish line, you deserve the same credit as ol’ Ferry Magellan. You were there, and that's what counts.

You’re the last guy to sign the Declaration of Independence. The last person to say, “Yeah, yeah, I guess I’m also Spartacus.” You washed Leonardo's brushes, sharpened Einstein's pencils, tied Jesse Owens' shoes. Sometimes, in my brightest dreams I think of myself as a young worker bee at Los Alamos during the second World War. Playing with plutonium, isolating isotopes, shooting at speedy coyotes in the vast desert. I’m no Dick Feynman, but I’m present. Oppenheimer has more to say, as does Fermi. But I chime in whenever it’s safe, “anyone hungry? Lunch would do us all some good.” And then, when the time comes, I get to say I was there. 

The point of joining a team is not to be the star. It’s to determine the exact amount of effort demanded in order to remain quietly under the radar and then, take credit when it's acceptable to do so. The best part of this philosophy is that when things go wrong, you’re out of the blast radius of blame. There are no guilty consciences on the furtherest end of the bench. Let others do the work while you have the fun.

Plumb the Brakes

Given all the problems in the world right now, the biggest one, the most pressing one as far as I can tell, is how Hollywood portrays other professions. Those jobs existing comfortably outside the sterile lots of major movie studios aren’t shown in the wholly positive light they deserve. While there’s very little they get wrong, this particular blind spot is extremely glaring. But not the good type of glaring, like the phosphorescent glow emanating from glamour and positivity. And like anything that isn’t truly about you, it’s wise to take it personally.

Have you ever had the pleasure of attending a movie premiere with an outstanding veteran plumber? Good, I thought so. These sterling individuals, taking a break from the job, tired of the grime and the dirt, discover that they can’t turn off what makes them special (how beautiful, really, since they devote their lives to turning things off). Even in the concocted fantasy world of well-paid Californian pretenders, movie plumbing isn’t actual plumbing. It's a fake, a Fugazi. During a pivotal scene where the main characters debate the true borders of the former Yugoslavia in their unrenovated kitchen, your plumber pal is completely taken out of the movie. He can't stand the inauthenticity. One of the actors kneels down for a sink soliloquy, to both plug an incessant leak and encapsulate the complicated career of Joey Broz. 

“That’s not right. You’d never kneel beneath a sink like that. You need an open stance. No plumber worth his salt in soap calls pipes, pipes. It’s just the metal. Always the metal.” 

They just can’t seem to get a simple thing like that right. Now is it possible that no two plumbers are alike and this person’s irritation should by no means lead to industry-wide generalizations? Perhaps. Some plumbers don overalls, while overs prefer rubber tuxedos. That's the exception though. The rule is that they are all the same.

Once you’ve cashed that first check for doing something – you are a professional. And with that, you understand every single person who’s ever done the same thing. You fry a tiny single sausage link on a 24-hour diner’s filthy griddle and you’re immediately invited into the rarefied minds of people like James Beard and Tony Bourdain. Suddenly, you know what makes them tick. You get them on a deep level that a novice could never understand. You've tried to remove bacon grease from cashmere - we haven't.

I’m a writer. And as a writer, I understand, almost by divine intervention, what transpires between the ears of every other writer, living or dead. You ask me, “what do you think Chaucer ate for breakfast.” I’ll say, “you mean, after the grog and the mead and the madeira?” That’s my gift. I have it and you don’t. Unless you’re also a writer. Then you could probably finish my next sentence. 

But I know better. 

Hourly Ratings

 

Some motels won’t even leave the light on for you. Although, they might leave the water running to drown out the sound of static coming from the miraculously-still-functioning Trinitron. But you’re better off using an actual rabbit’s ears here to get a good signal than the coat hangers they provide. Room service? Please. Unless you count a tiny melted Twix bar tucked behind your pillow (it's okay if you do). This is not the Motel California. You can check out any time you like and obviously leave whenever you want. Rates are flexible and everything’s negotiable. Some people stay for days, others for hours, and still others pop in for a 15-minute relaxation session paid entirely in cash. No questions asked, no IDs required. 

Which brings me to the subject of annual employee performance reviews. The better the company, the more they take these reviews seriously. However, I’ve never heard of anywhere doing more than mandatory quarterly chats. It’s not enough. Not if you want to see real progress. Most people walk out of the dentist committed to an electric toothbrush and a bulk order of floss from their floss guy in Bay Ridge. Yet without a live-in hygienist, watching your every move, critiquing your technique from a chair behind the toilet, this fervor soon fades. 

When I began revolutionizing performance reviews, I proposed enacting weekly conversations with employees. Unfortunately, weekends poison the soul and ossify the mind. They soon shifted to daily, and then, of course hourly. What I like about hourly reviews the most is how pointed and succinct they can be. You see someone walking in the hall and yell, “That’s not a Windsor knot, hombre.” Yes, that counts as a review. You’re in the bathroom or holding court in a stalled elevator and you remark, “Nice try.” It’s vague, yes, ominous, of course, but that’s what reviews can be when you are getting dozens a week. You can’t prepare for something this frequent. Of course, participants are encouraged to give reviews as well. Not that they ever do. It's a lot of work.

Everyone can improve as an employee - one hour at a time.

Tryin' Reynolds

Ryan Reynolds is revolutionizing advertising one yuck at a time. Yet for many in the industry, the sound of the Canadian actor’s maple syrupy pipes is cause for panic. What can we do in the face of such an obvious and alarming disrupter? Like Odysseus before him, he’s entered our walled city under false pretenses, waiting for the perfect time to burn it to the ground. If the analogy holds, then we should get a much-needed 10-year break from his unmatched creativity. 

Just not yet.

That doesn’t mean you should worry. The only way to take on someone like Reynolds is to mirror his masterplan. He entered advertising relatively late in life as a slightly amusing half-wit thespian. Ads revived a career that was approaching an inevitable flatline. At the time, he wasn’t even the most famous Canadian named Ryan. Should Gosling ever adopt the title of Creative Director, then we’re all finished. Reynolds included. 

 

Instead of trying to make better ads than him, which isn’t going to happen, we must take a different tack. You don’t look like him, you don’t have millions of dollars to toss into the breeze, and you certainly don't have other North Country pals like Rick Moranis to help you in a pinch. So we’re not going to make better commercials. We can't. But we can still compete - only in a different way.

Because we can definitely make better movies than him. That’s not even up for debate. And it won’t take much. Van Wilder? Deadpool? I’m sure there are more, but honestly, who cares? Let's get rolling.

The Hollywood system is broken. You walk into a studio today (after a rigorously sanitizing) with a clipboard and a blank piece of paper, you’ll walk out with three to five films green lit. Start with the superhero genre using the formula that never fails [insert-any-word + man/woman/boy/girl]. 

Have no fear, Treeman is here to protect the mighty sequoias of the Sierra with his lanky sidekick, Willow Woman, assisting him down by the riverside. Birdboy, formerly Birchboy, the sworn protector of all feathered frenemies yearns to fly. And of course the deeply conflicted Gravelgirl, is here to pave a road straight through your heart - as well as your nearest National Forest. 

You see? Conflict, intrigue - everything's there and in a short paragraph no less. Do that and then sprinkle in a few sequels, a couple prequels, a crossover film or two and you, my friend, will have a dominant franchise on your hands. For the final piece, enlist a semi-famous British actor who insists on being called 
“Sir” and watch as the money rolls in by the ducat. Now if you want to produce an art film like The Hot Dog Salesman of San Jose, you still can. But that’s for passion, not profit. Superheroes must come first.

Where are my midlevel creatives uncomfortably fitting into spandex suits for a blockbuster film? That would send a message to all actors in Hollywood that advertising will not go quietly into the night. You want to make ads? Fine. That just means we're going to make a few movies, too.

Ryan Reynolds came to our world and changed the entire industry. It’s high time we did the same to his.

The De-socratic Method

I don’t want to know what I don’t already know. Understand? I know that I know something, which is more than enough to get by. My global expertise happens to be conveniently self-sustaining. What can I possibly learn from someone else? Asking too many questions runs the risk of ruining a good thing. It’s why I don’t stir soup that’s plated directly in front of me. I assume whatever’s in the bottom – fish, fowl or farro - is there for a reason. Why scoop to see it? Surprise, hope you can digest dairy.

Why waste years of your life accruing experience before spouting off? Seems to me that’s something which ought to occur immediately. I’ve routinely found myself lecturing superiors about a wide variety of subjects. An interview is a great time to scold your interviewer on the proper use of the subjunctive. 

The less I know about something, the simpler the answer has to be. Why would something be so complicated that I of all people can’t comprehend? That I don’t understand. Why? Because it doesn’t make any sense. It’s why I’ve been able to make a career reviewing books and movies I’ve never read. I don’t need to. I see a cover, a blurb, and form a strong opinion right then and there. 

Am I really going to be humbled by someone with greater knowledge and deeper insights? Are these mysterious figures going to explain why “hand-cut fries” while cut by hand aren’t cut with hands? I doubt it. They’ll probably argue that a good Henckel does the job in ways a smooth palm never can. Maybe. Maybe not. But I want to see a steaming hot potato block sliced with the side of someone’s paw. Then, and only then, will I refer to fries as “hand-cut.” You see, these are the answers I’m after. But they aren’t the answers I’m getting. What are second-degree burns compared to retaining your integrity? 

Because an unexamined life is definitely worth living.  

All's Wall that Ends Wall

 

Sometimes, talking to you is like talking to a wall. Is that the first, second, third or fourth, you ask? Don’t get cute, I say – this is a serious matter. Though I’m not here to scold. Speaking to a wall, at least where I come from, is the highest of compliments. However, within the working world exists the unfounded belief that “talking to a wall” is an insult, or a sign of something far more sinister residing in one’s psyche. 

When it’s part of a storied communication tradition between man and thing. Before walls, we talked to trees and stars, wood piles and seashells. As long as there have been walls, there have been walls to talk to. Long before the pyramids, human beings found emotional refuge in conversing with something, anything that doesn’t talk back.

Maybe it was a nonjudgmental mud brick, still wet from its recent insertion into a gaudy hut with substantial Nile frontage that provided a good many Egyptian the genuine support they so desired. Bricks don’t ask questions. They don't make arguments either. Their sole purpose isn’t to needle or nitpick – they are only there to listen. People comment, chiming in with their opinions and thoughts whether you want them or not. Not drywall or particle board. Not straw or redwood. You find a good wall, a legit sounding board, and you hold on to that sucker for dear life. 

Don’t ruin your relationship with screws and nails, hanging weird, expensive art and idiotic movie posters. Keep the surface fresh and clean, so the lines of communication always remain open. Watch out for smudges and scuffs, too. This is how you treat a real friend – one that lets you wash them with antibacterial wipes every couple weeks. 

That’s the beauty. A wall allows you to speak your mind without needlessly inserting themselves into the conversation. But it’s still quite different than a monologue, which requires a sturdy and spacious balcony. 

Should you, for whatever reason, actually want the wall to respond, try throwing a rubber ball at it. Since that usually works for me.  

Vent Free

 

“Houston, we are venting something out into space.” 

When Jim Lovell told that to the highly caffeinated and well-dressed members of Mission Control thousands of miles away in Texas, he was speaking for anyone who’s ever held a desk job. Venting, as you’ll see, is a fundamental part of getting through the day. I would argue that one of the main reasons the crew of Apollo 13 survived was due to their unique ability to vent freely. While it initially contributed to their perilous situation, they soon learned what an incredible gift it was to watch precious oxygen leave their midst. Finally, after all that training and all those rules, they were able to tell the bureaucrats down below the truth. And in this case, they lived because of it. 

Venting, even when the stakes are seemingly lower, cannot be understated. For some, the first day on the job is all handshakes and smiles. Free doughnuts and chit chat, paperwork and back pats. But not for me. I first take a self-guided tour of the building, seeing what I can learn without professional help. Once I hit a wall, often near an emergency exit or stairwell, I contact someone from the building staff. They have the maps, the schematics – which happen to be just what I’m looking for. 

What I want to know – what I absolutely need to know - is the proximity of my desk to the ventilation system. Now I don’t need to work directly under a vent – though that certainly wouldn’t hurt. However, the vent must be close. Because it’s where I’ll seek refuge when buckling under the stress or too anxious to hit the spacebar. But before I do so, climbing my way into the ceiling for a little HVAC me time, I must ensure that it can hold my weight. Though it may be hard to believe, very few systems were designed to hold the wayward employee on a mental sabbatical. So once that’s been determined to my satisfaction, I can gently tackle my duties worry-free. 

Venting happens all year long. Whether heating or cooling, every employee needs to know where to go to let loose and center themselves. Next time you’re in an aggravating situation, step away and open the first duct you see. Then take a deep breath and always make sure not to strip the screws when you first remove them. Otherwise, you’ll have a real chore reattaching the panel. 

Fake Newsletter

To Whom It Doesn’t Concern:

The question you’re probably muttering to yourself hunched over your computer screen is this: has it really been a year since the last family newsletter? Yes. Maybe not a year exactly, but close enough. In 2020, the family’s been up to big things like never before. Huge things. Enormous things. Things that deserve more than a few life sentences. Which, as you’ll see, is rather fitting. 

Much to the dismay of his neighbors, Cousin Petey has taken up the piccolo, insisting family members call him “Piccolo Pietro” from now on. He started with Bach and Beethoven (“the boys”),
before moving onto Prince and Ravel (“the fellas”). His dog, Pete Jr., (yes, he named his pooch after himself) barks a perfect bolero. 

Aunt Nancy is very into CBD. But who isn’t these days? She even opened her own specialty shop specializing in various oils and creams in Elkhart, Indiana.

Uncle Fred was the subject of a semi-popular meme back in August. He spilled a bowl of Museli all over his surgical mask and I believe it became infamous as an unforgettable “COVID fail” – or something. 

Diane joined a cult, so we haven’t heard much from her lately. It sure does sound like a blast from the little I gleaned from the group’s rather extensive Wikipedia page. My understanding is that “7-Eleven's Gate" believes that the stores contain hidden portals to another world. Practically speaking, cult members have to shop there every day. That means no big Walmart or Costco trips. Each transaction according to the scripture increases the odds you'll find a secret entrance. You can pick out these people by who shops at 7-Eleven with a roll cart. They bring luggage with them even on gum runs. The last thing you want is to discover an inter-dimensional portal and not have your toothbrush. So Diane's doing just fine.

Big Jim, only a couple weeks from retirement, got arrested for embezzlement and “other crimes.” However, since he wasn’t the biggest name on the list of indictments, the Feds didn’t give have the decency to give us the satisfaction of an old-fashioned perp walk. 

To save his own skin, Little Jimmy testified against Big Jim at the trial causing a major rift within the family. The thing is, the two Jims are only related by marriage, so the lack of loyalty didn’t come as much of a surprise. After serving two years in prison, he’ll enter witness protection somewhere in the southwest. Scottsdale? 

After decades of rejections, Gramps had a poem published in an obscure Limerick quarterly based out of the republic of Georgia. There once was a man without a will, yet his family fought over it still, when he buried his loot, under dirt for a hoot, so how much? Oh, maybe a few mil.

Gram finally caught up on Matlock. Streaming services sure are a lifesaver, huh?

Tony Bags, though not technically a member of the family, has lived in a few of our attics, basements, and garages over the last few months. The man makes a good Sunday gravy though. 

Jake the pet rat learned how to use a yo-yo and make grilled cheese, tired of “uncooked formaggio" dropped on the kitchen floor.

Baby Nikki was voted best the “backgammon playing infant in Suffolk County, New York.” Sadly, it’s not a title she can hope to retain next year, when she’ll be competing against players twice her age. But it’s a nice shiny trophy that looks great on the mantle beside the stuffed pheasant.  

It’s been an eventful year, I’d say. As would the rest of the family – that’s if they hadn’t already signed strict NDAs. 

Ad-vice

Without sound advice – advice that perfectly reverberates like a lone grace note traveling from bandshell to picnic blanket, French horn to French Dip – advertising professionals would be lost. The thing is, there’s no standard place to seek out and grapple with a reliably sagacious source. I’m contributing to the discourse by collecting some of the most compelling queries from my adoring fanbase.  

Should I stop speaking to my TV commercial loving friends?  

Yes. Friendships that can’t rupture from something as trivial as the flickering GIF within a pop-up window are probably too strong. How many times can you listen to someone drone on about the smooth edges of a cathode ray tube without logging a formal objection? I realize that few creatives show up to work with gavels and are forced instead to bang staplers to get their point across.

I haven’t done much in my career. Is it too early to start pontificating across various social media platforms? 

No. The more you’ve done in advertising, the less you have to say. Plus, there’s an inverse relationship between experience and confidence.

 

How much do I have to read to get ahead in the business?

Very little. Your mind should be stay fresh, nimble, loose. Most of the contrarians out there who use phrases like “your mind is a sieve” have never spent hours in the desert looking for fossils. Because if they had, they would realize that you can’t hope to find bones in the dirt without a sieve.   

What are the main problems of “in-house” advertising?

Here again is an issue with the imprecision of language. I see people all the time arguing for the merits of working in-house. Yet despite their obvious biases, they never once give credit where it’s due – the great Bob Vila. Where do these people work anyway? In an office or in a house? It's all so confusing. Smells like someone's been huffing deck stain.

Content? 

That’s a loaded question. 

Hungry?

Sure. You cooking?

Hiring? 

On a keyboard, any keyboard, the only thing in between the “f” and “h” keys is the lowly “g.” Firing, hiring – what’s the difference? One slip is all it takes. Imagine if the word for death was dife or the word for life was leath? I don’t know what that would mean, but it would be a lot like the sublime comingling of fire and hire. 

The Movies That Made Me

Everything I know about myself I learned from moving pictures. Stationary pictures or “photographs” don’t cut it. They sit there motionless, begging for action, taking up precious wall space, silent and boring. How I dress, what I say, where I go, what I eat – all of it comes from film. Without movies, I’d be another confused fella frequently adjusting my aluminum hat for better reception. Occasionally, I’d make contact with a distant entity, but more often than not, the other line would lay dormant. There’s a reason radios haven’t found a way to incorporate Gyro sauce into their manufacturing. Unfortunately, that explains the tin foil I had to work with.

I never wore robes before seeing Matador Dreams. However, watching it altered the way I understood the world. Much like how serious robe lovers pay for imperceptible alterations to account for their lifestyle and anatomical contours, I changed my course. The film’s arc, a love story between man (Steve Guttenberg) and bull (Carol Kane), is far too complicated and explicit to elaborate on here. I will say this though – to disrobe, one must first be wearing a robe. 

I grew up starving – not just for artistic recognition and well-done chicken – but for catchphrases. My classmates tried to convince me that regular people didn’t have catchphrases. They repeated themselves, sure, but that’s not that same. I knew the premise was absurd. There were phrases in the air, I just had to catch them. The first one I adopted was the lovely “boppin’ on main street”, borrowed from the film of the same name. It's a very loose adaption of Robert Caro’s The Power Broker, with Robert Mitchum playing the Robert Moses inspired role of “Robert Jesus.” It’s about bulldozers, concrete, construction, eminent domain, politics, bonds, infrastructure, fairs, swimming in the Long Island Sound and half-melted ice cream sundaes on sweltering summer afternoons. And catchphrases.

I drink my coffee black because of Roasted!, a zany comedy about the journey of a single bean searching for a life partner. Spoiler alert – it ain’t cream. The bean, played by Gabe Kaplan, wanders from Colombia to Camden, New Jersey, bouncing between railroad ties and burlap sacks, avoiding every dairy product in sight. 

The reason I clap stems from the popular disaster film, Ash Wednesday. Redd Foxx in a rare serious part, stars as world-renowned volcanologist Russel T. Ember, PhD, warning the townsfolk of an impending blast. He finally gets their attention by clapping, pointing to the absent critters who’ve already fled their little town in eruption anticipation. “What do they know that we don’t?,” he asks. The film, while extremely heavy-handed in its chosen religious themes, nonetheless shows why clapping beats whistling. Except of course in an avalanche, which Dr. Ember is caught up in the lackluster sequel, White Christmas.   

There are more. How could there not be? Everything I do, everything I am, is thanks to movies. I bought stock in a startup apiary because of the beehive heist film, Follow the Honey. I write thank you notes to relatives, regardless of gift quality, because of lessons learned from Bad Gratitude. I floss in between meals because of The Molar Express.

I’m not the product of my parents or society. It’s movies that made me who I am today.