Jeer up

In these uncertain times, very little is certain. That much I know. And it’s the obvious part. The part you’ve heard before, read earlier and thought about just a second ago. Don’t worry though, you’ll see it again real soon. The one aspect of our current predicament that I’m confident saying with certainty is that people are saying with certainty how uncertain things are. This they know. Of course, it’s certainly the case that with great uncertainty comes greater visibility. Those who never noticed you are presently held in captivity, incapable of missing an update, thus scrolling endlessly all day, every day, pausing only to disinfect their crusty keyboard. Because with gyms and playgrounds closed, typing is now considered exercise. 

Things are different and far from the same as they once were. There are few precedents taking precedence during such unprecedented events. We’re navigating blindly through uncharted metaphors, grasping for straws as long as they aren’t plastic. In New York City, it’s a sin. But the new normal isn’t set yet. Far from it. I ask you: who’s out there in a robe and sandals chiseling new commandments on fresh tablets? No one. We’re all home. But I am a robe guy.

We can still sculpt norms in ways Bernini and the boys never imagined, carving new ideas out of marble, alabaster and thin air. Personally, I prefer alabaster. Unfortunately, my alabaster guy switched to a new business model that involves no business at all. So thin air it is.  

When comedians aren’t on podcasts comparing comedy to nuclear physics, they are complaining about hecklers. But hecklers are the only legitimate barometers of art. Spoken, sung or sketched. Because these usually verbose inebriates embody the soul of the populace. They decide whether or not something is good, not pipe-smoking tweed-wearing, horn-rimmed nincompoops. Comics, self-proclaimed Jester Robert Oppenheimers, require feedback to make it in show business. And hecklers, despite what they say, are the only honest actors around. I long for the days when throwing fruit still signified a poor punchline or tired premise. Puns might make you smile, but a tomato will always make you cry. Especially if it gets in your eyes. 

Getting critical feedback is critically important. It’s why, for the last three weeks I’ve worked directly in front of a mirror, taking on the role of the platonic heckler. Adopting his peerless techniques of abuse and refuse in order to push myself to greater heights. I yell, I spit and I curse at the reflection staring back at me. At the end of each long work day, I wipe down a mirror covered in produce and take a few last bites before heading off to bed a few ticks after 6 o'clock.

If you can’t heckle yourself within the safe confines of home, where can you do it? 

Deep space

I bet more than a few of us took granted for how easy it once was to invade someone’s personal space. We barely gave it much thought, but we did it anyway. Boy were we naïve. Say a colleague goes out for an important working lunch with the goal of stumbling back into the office questionably conscious two to three hours later. Like a prisoner incarcerated for a crime he probably didn’t commit (not that it’s really relevant here) caught gazing at a man-size hole in the side of the prison wall – this was your opening. So you didn’t waste it. 

Perhaps you dissemble their chair piece-by-piece and in a bit of wry commentary, replace it with a post-it note that in bold sharpie lettering reads, “chair.” Maybe you douse the entire area in water but from a bottle that says “kerosene” and leave matches strewn about. That’s not you though. It’s too overstated, too dramatic. You’re the type who waits under their desk with an industrial strength airhorn planning to ring them back into sobriety. Whispering “I know you pilfered the supply closet last Tuesday” before returning to an unapologetic sense of normalcy.

Invading personal space affects everyone from normally good-humored relatives and standoffish neighbors to trapped pets and strangers cursed with sharing your commute. Shrill calls for social distancing shouldn’t have to end this timeless global pastime. There are other ways, easier ways. Could we all give up, content on being separated by time and space? Potentially. But that’s not the American way. We all have to adapt and come together while still very much apart. Irritating someone else cannot die out simply because we’re not in the same room. Look at the great strides made by cyber bullies in recent years. They were staring down the barrel of irrelevance and instead of giving up and succumbing to bouts of self-pity, they changed with the times. Good for them. Now they are much stronger because of it. You don’t have to literally steal someone’s lunch money anymore to send them spiraling towards a life of confusion and low self-esteem.

The moral of the story is not to give up on technology because it’s different. But to use it as a tool. In the old days, you could probably make a few dozen laps around the office with the sole purpose of engaging a rival in mindless banter, distracting them from their job and hopefully ruining any chances of a quarterly raise. These subtle acts of kamikaze small talk take their toll on even the most cold-blooded employee. 

The siren song of a vibrating phone should sound off every eight to fourteen seconds. Stretch out your texts, sending a single letter per minute. Ping them. Ring them. Ding them. Before you could only bother someone in your presence. Invading personal space had to take place in person. Today, ruining someone’s dinner with a barrage of idiotic messages and persistent requests to video chat is very much on the table. 

It takes very little intelligence or time to open up a texting thread, email chain and slack channel, bombarding someone with infinite levels of inanity not seen since the heyday of Two and a Half Men. A weekly televised drama about the intersection of two old friends and their tragic roommate, a time-traveling centaur named Johnson, who's caught in a love triangle between the demigods Kleos and Hubris. The series ended in fabulous fashion with Johnson, newly single and for once happy, entering the Belmont Stakes in the dual role as  jockey and horse. The finale is left wonderfully ambiguous as to whether or not he broke Secretariat's track record. 

What's not ambiguous is how simple it is to bug someone virtually. All you need is a smartphone and no shame. 

I have to spell it out

Despite an early passion for words – especially those that seemingly walked up to the line of obscenity (feckless, habitual, dastardly, sects), leaned over to look but not touch – I never participated in a spelling bee. Had I done so there are two distinct possibilities. One is that I would have set records untouched and unbroken to this very day. Equestrian statues of my likeness would line countless town squares, but instead of a horse I'd be astride an anthropomorphized Webster's dictionary with 4 legs and eating from a feedbag of letters. 

The other much more likely scenario is that upon hearing an adult repeat the word “masticate” several times at the request of an opponent, I would have found myself overcome with laughter, unable to go forward. DQ by uncontrollable hysterics is at least an honorable exit. Teary-eyed, snot-nosed and red-faced, I’d proceed to hang up my spikes for good, never again spelling a word for money. In other situations, I’ve discovered that wearing cleats indoors gives me a firmer grip on reality than I would otherwise have. My one piece of public speaking advice is to carefully affix yourself to the podium to prevent falling in the event of fainting. It’s half harness, half straightjacket, half crazy. Pass out and a stagehand will prop you up with no one in the audience the wiser. Similarly, I’ve never quite understood why seatbelts outside of cars still haven’t caught on. I guess standing desks have extinguished that dream entirely.    

But it’s errors that continue to fascinate me. For they stimulate the mind in ways correct answers never can. There’s only one right answer. Frankly, that's pretty boring. Getting something wrong opens up an endless ocean of possibilities. If I ask you who the third president of the United States is and you correctly respond, “Thomas Jefferson.” Great, but that’s the end of the conversation. Should you say “Bart Sampson,” “Gary Potter,” “a team of young, restless armadillos living inside a long, flowing trench coat,” or “trick question, pal. There was no third president. Like the 13th floor in office buildings, we skipped it," now we're talking. Even if it means ending a sentence in a preposition, this I can work with. 

Is it any surprise that the word “misspelled” is repeatedly misspelled? In terms of letters, adversity precedes advertising. Fitting, really. The two words are too close to be ignored. Friends, rivals, lovers? Great advertising, like great living, must overcome some obstacle to transcend time, space and social mores.

When I walk the block and a half to get a bagel my life suffers immeasurably if I don’t come up against a little adversity. It could be a stranger wielding a 2X4 who whacks me across the face without either warning or provocation. Should he “stand down” and live to build another termite-infested back porch using untreated pine, my everything bagel with lox just wouldn’t be the same. It could be a heckler, waiting from well over six feet away, who reminds me of all my inadequacies turned up from a routine Google search. You still can violate the social contract without also violating proper social distance. But the cream cheese wouldn’t taste as sweet. 

Physical pain and emotional humiliation complements flavor. And for that, there is no substitute.  

Let's ban together

I like bacon. So call me “bacon boy” if it gives you a warm and crispy feeling on the inside. Amazingly, not everyone shares my passion for the crinkly pork product, sizzling away on the stovetop and stirring up childhood memories with an unmistakably Proustian flavor. No, there are those who can’t figure the meat out, viewing it as an enemy to be defeated rather than an ally to be respected. Maybe Porky Pig resides within their emotional core, preventing them from eating cousins of the silly but lovable cartoon character. It’s not something I can relate to, having spent a lifetime admiring and praying to Daffy Duck while also feasting on the delicious fowl during many a late night bacchanal.

These people burn themselves constantly – mostly the unnatural byproduct of nude cooking, notoriously in vogue during our troubling and solitary times. They say self-expression and self-love go hand-in-hand (though not literally, since that would be a clear violation of the six-foot rule) with self-quarantining. Thus being a result of too much time spent at home. It’s worth noting that kitchens and bathrooms do indeed have a great deal in common. They are where the real action happens. 

Given that certain people can’t seem to cook bacon without boiling their own skin instead of the pig’s, I’d be in favor of an unequivocal bacon ban. New York City’s recent plastic bag prohibition inspired me to imagine a world that’s full of bans, both big and small. It’s only fair that everything in society should be either mandated or forbidden. And my personal joy at cracklin’ fat is not relevant to the discussion. We don’t have the time or the intellect to decide what’s safe or smart any longer. I need someone telling me if my straw is up to snuff. Or if my pants are biodegradable. Or if my shorts are edible and my sandals are combustible. It’s appointed officials chosen by elected officials not chosen by me who are the ones born to do it. If at all possible, I'd rather not think.

Mandate smiling at strangers unless you’re wearing a face mask, then waving and giving an extended thumbs up is a fair alternative. Require coffee shops to become tea houses since “coffee” and “cough” are dangerously close in sound if not also in substance. Because nose picking is such an economic and cultural driver, it should be only done with cotton skewers. Gone are days when someone can casually bury their knuckle at wounded nostril using techniques straight out of mines of Harlan County, West Virginny. 

Banning gatherings over 10, handshakes of any kind and team sports is a nice start. There are creative solutions that’ll arise from the crisis, too. One can imagine a new type of bed that gives couples the six feet necessary to sleep safely and comfortably. Let’s call it a “Corona King.” Better separate than sorry.  

You could try banning the virus. Though it’s probably too late for that. Mandating it might be a little easier. 

Family heirlooms

What has the digital revolution done for us lately? Before you answer, would you please for the love of Poseidon, let me do so first? I think I know what's going on here. Thanks. Even though it’s nearly impossible to legally (and safely) dispose of my closet full of decrepit laptops with grotesquely swollen batteries, it is not the same thing as leaving something for the next generation. Which, might I add, is an integral part of life. Entrusting an artifact or memento to your descendants is a sign of humility and selflessness. Bestowing on them a burden, whether in the form of a decaying piece of technology or an equally volatile piece of emotional baggage, should not be the aim here.

Every family’s different in how they practice this. Some are content with leaving floppy fedoras and penny loafers – archaic souvenirs from a different time that will prove less and less useful as the years go on. Others opt for sentimentality over utility, usually a Swiss Army knife or a modest Patek Phillipe wristwatch. A vintage herringbone overcoat, while nice, doesn’t evolve to suit each subsequent epoch – unless you count a sudden influx of moths into its capacious pockets. In my family, we’ve been passing down the same item through the years. And should we pass down an album of vibrant color photographs, it’s based on a shared loved of Kodachrome, not the human subjects. 

My most precious family heirloom is a tomato, said to be pilfered from the still-smoldering field in the aftermath of the Battle of Princeton, January 3, 1777. To be fair, it’s hard to know when a battle, even one in the 18^th century, was truly over. They didn't have referees with stopwatches, yellow flags and gambling debts, ready to call the contest at a moment’s notice. Wetting their whistle to control the action and put their own mark on the proceedings. You get a sense though that things are slowing down from an absence of cannon fire and incessant drumming by the drummer boys. That latter of which could simply mean that the drummer boy is, to borrow the euphemistic language so often employed in our current illiterate century, "is no longer in the band." Nonetheless, a distant relative named Azariah or Matthias or maybe it was just Tom, got this sense. Knowing New Jersey’s strong claim to the juiciest tomatoes in the 13 colonies, he decided to abscond with a whole stalk. That was dinner. That was Tom.

For whatever reason, drunkenness, stupidity, foresight – or some combination of all three – he left one tomato for his young son, Jebediah or Jedidiah or maybe it was just Bob. Either way, the boy hated tomatoes. He thought they were quite literally the devil’s snack food, sent here from below to corrupt mankind. He had this whole theory, based on nothing concrete that it was a tomato and not an apple in the Garden of Eden. A fruit in vegetable’s clothing, he'd say. His mother, Patience or Prudence or maybe it was just Kate, agreed and wouldn’t let him eat it. But she wouldn't let him dispose of it either, lest he disturb the Prince of Darkness

So it stayed there, in a wooden box, all the way up to the present. Because unlike that herringbone overcoat, tomatoes change over time. They blush and they rot just like people. Which makes them very rather vile to keep while still maintaining healthy relationships. 

And what a two hundred and fifty year old tomato lacks in sentimentality, it more than makes up for in botulism. 

Gratitude adjuster

Why do ad agencies always end their presentations with “thanks” or “thank you?” Was this always the case? Or was there a time when they felt confident enough to conclude an important pitch with a simple, direct “FIN.” I’d like to think that era existed in black and white. Though something tells me it’s just another French-press-fueled fever dream. 

As I rarely say, “if it’s good enough for Jean-Luc Godard, then it’s good enough for me.” French New Wave cineastes never quite figured out story arc, coherent screenwriting, the best color for subtitles, or a replacement for the overwhelming banality of cigarette smoke, but boy did they know how to end things. To do it with such style. Aren’t the words panache and élan French, too? Finally things are starting to make sense. It’s why spoiling a film involves the ending. You can’t spoil the opening sequence or a tiresome montage of clichéd resilience in the middle.

In a business built on deference, gratitude often takes the place of confidence. What are we thanking these people for? We haven’t won the business yet. It’s wildly premature to thank someone in advance. Do you thank someone for a wrapped present? No, never. You tear it to shreds, assess the item’s worth, then and only then do you offer up a hollow thank you. You should be thanking consumers, not clients, since they are the ones who are the final arbiters of success. There are some rules you might be wise to abide by. I’ve done you a favor and compiled the most essential ones that should be printed and displayed in every agency bathroom, elevator bank and stairwell. Here goes.

If you think your consumers are tall, then there’s a very real chance they will walk all over you.

If you think they wear suspenders, you’ll be shocked and dismayed to see them donning a gaudy leather belt.

If you think they get “high on life,” you might forget what exactly defines a drug. Caffeine. Heard of it? Now that’s a drug.

If you don’t think ads shouldn’t shock people, well, you’ve probably never shoved a metal spork into an outlet just to see what happens.

If you think they smell like ancient redwood trees, you won’t know whether or not that means they work in the logging industry or are somehow the reincarnation of John Muir. 

If you think they relish doing long crossword puzzles in their spare time – yes, using ballpoint pen, then you won’t ever consider making a TV commercial with a Sudoku Easter egg. 

If you think they all have moon roofs, you might not remember that sunroofs are also a thing. But then you might stop and say out loud, “shouldn’t it be ‘moon rooves?’” Of course, you realize rather quickly that the pro hockey team up in Toronto is known as the Maple Leafs, not the Maple Leaves. So who are you to question norms?

If you think ideas don’t matter, then one day you’ll be poolside at some hoity-toity resort in Hawaii, lost in a haze of afternoon sun and one-too-many Mai Tais, casually reading The Making of the Atomic Bomb by Richard Rhodes only to find yourself mercifully coming around to a new perspective on the subject. 

FIN.

You can't see it to believe it

You should already be wearing a mask. Just not the type you’re thinking of. 

Masks, while decent protection from germs and infections, are actually significantly better at obscuring personality defects and character flaws. But hiding those pesky features from a nosy public is equally as important. And unlike a virus, what’s wrong with your soul doesn’t dissipate in a few weeks or months. It’s in it for the long haul, getting stronger and stronger each year. So you need something sturdier to throw off the scent of the howling hoi polloi. A pair of specs may have worked for Clark Kent, but they won’t work for you. Because what you’re keeping under wraps isn’t a superpower.  

Would you believe me if I said that Jim Carrey the man was a mask, while the role he adopted in that famous film was his true persona and not some toxic green construct? No one wants to know who you really are - not friends, family, strangers or even enemies. They want to know who you'd like to be. That's what matters. 

Treat your personality the way you treat a backyard deck. With care, yes, but also a thick coat of waterproof wood stain. Something that’ll seal its exterior from the elements and any unwanted imperfections that occur with time. Regrettably, the smell is too strong, too toxic to be worn regularly. What you want is a mask that’s not nearly noticeable, but twice as effective. When that monsoon finally arrives, you want to be ready. And you want to be dry. 

When I was a boy growing up in medieval Sicily, chugging olive oil by the galloon and inhaling olives by the gross, masks were commonplace. They were worn by all sorts of people from across the social spectrum. There was no clear distinction between who wore a mask and who didn’t because everyone had something to hide. But they were too heavy to hold, too hot to breathe and way too hard to see through. Today’s masks are miles away from the silly, termite-infested ones of yesteryear. 

Today, our social media platforms are where we get fitted for the proper mask. For it to succeed, it needs to be comfortable. You’re going to wear this thing every day and night. Sleep is no respite from what you become. You need to ingest hashtags, emojis and constant line breaks in order to develop an uncritical audience. The last thing you want is push back of any kind. What comment sections should provide is a forum for fawning and out-of-joint back patting. Just be a regular guy to the folks. 

Even the finest, artisanal masks handmade from Gowanus canal driftwood rot and decay over time. The cracks show, revealing your true personality. This is no good. Unless you have an appropriate contingency plan for exactly this type of potentiality. Let’s say you’re in a meeting and it’s a video call, since that’s the norm nowadays. Your mask starts to slip. Your voice starts to crack. You don’t wave the white flag. No, you remove the old, weathered, worn out mask that’s served you oh so well lo these many years. You seemingly come clean, admitting what’s now quite obvious. You're not who you said you were. You do so only to reveal something, new, thinner, and practically invisible.

Another mask.

Worth the wait in gold

I remember when being born with a silver spoon was nothing out of the ordinary. It was simply part of eating cereal. An act that was frankly typical of my breakfast-loving peer group. It started not as the formula for affluence but instead the best way to ingest baby formula. My birth, which took place near the great Comstock Lode sometime in 1859, occurred within the backdrop of one of the world’s greatest silver rushes. You see a silver rush is by its very essence a humble undertaking. Silver, let’s remember, isn’t gold. Because of this convenient fact, silver rushes attract ambitious but relaxed people who are okay with finishing second. Picture Jerry Garcia in between puffs slowly diving in face first. In other words, no one ran – why would they? It’s only silver. There’s no ostentatious, silver-soaked El Dorado waiting behind shimmering concertina wire, now is there? 

Gold, as we know, poisons the mind as well as the soul. Silver, on the other hand, is basically another metal with just a little bit more shine. Unpretentious, easygoing and affable. That’s the metal for me. The kind of element you’d be proud to call a son. Whereas, when gold stumbles into your poorly lit saloon and insists on marrying your daughter at once, you’re entering a universe of problems. Silver’s not like that. Silver wouldn’t do that. And certainly not in spoon form, it’s holiest of manifestations. 

My childhood was a happy one. In a community like Comstock, people didn’t bicker, they didn’t argue. They bowed their heads, scooped up their daily allotment of silver shavings and went on their merry way. Everyone in town was an underdog. Everyone came in second. But no one ever complained. 

Hence why I read with childlike delight that Cannes, that the glorious gold-obsessed festival de la creativity, will be postponed until October. The event is another week that pays lip service to Au’s blinding power. It’s crazy that we’re all still fighting the same battles that Hank Cortez and the boys fought so many centuries ago. Very little has changed since those early days. We may not think of creatives like conquistadors, but the latter were always forced to pitch to the King and Queen for support. The relationship is not unlike that between agencies and clients. Only then the client controlled a little more than the budget.  

Despite my numerous misgivings, it’s a tragedy that no one will be in attendance to indulge. Think of all that caviar and all those bottles of champagne destined to be ceremoniously dumped into the Mediterranean. What about those cornichons, too? While that tends to happen anyway, somehow, this feels different. I suppose there remains a semblance of solace knowing that in some parallel universe men wearing jeans, sneakers, a dark blazer, and a t-shirt of an unknown, unloved 80s rock band struggle to accept 7 trophies onstage. Not that he’s against it, but that they are cumbersome awards, tough to grasp. It’s fitting that something that takes hundreds, if not thousands of people to create, should be held up by a single individual.

I mean, does anyone remember who flanked Cortez in his Great Adventure™?

Baiting a dead horse

In the coming minutes and months you will read a great deal about working from home. How to do it. How not to do it. The inevitable pitfalls. The incredible pratfalls. That said, I’m not here (home) to belabor the point. I’m here to miss it. We can all agree that working from home is among the most challenging things life has yet to throw at us. This includes acorns by angry squirrels and meteors by angry aliens. The distractions in my fridge are enough procrastination material to give the most diligent remote employee both pause and goosebumps. Do you know what happens to sour cream after you leave it alone for 18 months? How about guacamole? They say deli turkey reanimates with a ready-made spiel on why Ben Franklin was right to proclaim them our true national bird. That’s to say nothing of my freezer’s frosty contents. Snow peas anyone? 

But no, I won’t do that. I won’t say that the WFH economy will put a strain on the country’s pipes and water supply. Showering, once an afterthought if not the downright enemy of creative work, now exists in a glass (or a safer, softer equivalent) sanctuary from which ideas continually flow. Day 4 and I’m averaging 8 showers a day. Throw in 5 or 6 baths and you’re talking about enough water to refill the once great Aral Sea. And that’s just me. We already know this. So I don’t need to go on and on about it.

Similarly, I won’t say that we’re headed for a pajama and robe (naturally, my favorite article of clothing) shortage. Looks like we're just going to have to learn to sleep in jeans and collared shirts. I already have a set of what are often referred to as “night blazers.”

I’m not going to say that working from home is easy. Somehow, people think that absent a long, germ-ridden commute, things get simpler. They don’t. My commute hasn’t evaporated to zero either. It’s ongoing, all day, every day. From the couch to the desk. From the desk to the bed. From the shower to the stairs. And from the bath back again to the bath. Ya know, the ol’ “double bubble.’

I definitely won’t say that working from home is a high concept not to be taken seriously in the strictest sense of the word. Home is where the heat is. In better days, I slept in my car for weeks on end. That’s because I take the “utility” part seriously in Sports Utility Vehicle. This is something J.S. Mill, among many other dead philosophers, would certainly understand. Too bad they aren’t around to figuratively pat me on the back. I wouldn’t want to risk infecting someone born in 1806.

I won’t say that my workday, presently deprived of protracted elevator rides feels a large banter-sized void in it. Small talk about the weather, sports or the random comment on the causes of the Civil War is now all in my head. I won’t say that talking to myself about the Yankees championship prospects is as fulfilling as talking to strangers. That's despite having more disagreements. 

And I won’t say that working from home is nothing new. That we’re merely following the long, storied tradition set forth by the likes of Augustus and Stanley Kubrick. Or that over time, no matter how great it seems, the practice will start to feel like house arrest. Something akin to the experience of that famous Italian creative, Galileo Galilei. 

No, I won’t say any of that. Wouldn’t even think of it. It’s best left for others to do and say. And trust me, they will.

Not in the cards

The real victims of this global pandemic are the gamblers, the bettors, the bookmakers, the handicappers. Those who need a little action to spice up their otherwise miserable lives. Their marriage may be in the toilet and their job may be on the toilet, but have you seen the line on Boise State? You don’t have to be a gambler to accept that life is indeed a gamble. But right now, a lot of that is being called into question. While we all suffer, some of us suffer a little more than others. And everybody loses when no one can beat the spread.  

Coronavirus has changed the way we think about gambling. Without a major sport to bet on, these once productive members of society are left to fend for themselves, weighing options they’ve never considered before. Here’s my advice for how a gambler can get through this outbreak, however long it goes on for. 

While it’s not exactly the National Pastime, feeding the local fauna is a significant part of outdoor recreation. At the country’s numerous public parks, it’s nearly as common as defecating behind overgrown, poorly manicured bushes or counting used syringes to simply pass the time. Let’s not forget who started this mess either. It was, after all, animals. So you might say that they owe us. It’ll require some creativity to come up with compelling enough prop bets, but I think we can do all it. Which pigeon will hold a cigarette in its mouth and for how long. If you happen to be in a municipality where vaping outnumbers smoking, then you’ll just have to work with what you’ve got. 

Wagering on the number of infections is not a wise decision if you either believe in God or have anything even remotely resembling a moral compass. That said, you can in good conscience bet on when your favorite bar will go out of business or reopen under questionable circumstances. If ever there was a time for speakeasies to return, and not the overpriced hipster-variety, the time is now. Similarly, the number of insurance fires may start to rise, too.

There are a whole host of prop bets waiting to be made. How quickly your food arrives. How many coughs it takes before you say confront a stranger. I’m putting that number at 1.5.The number of times you touch your face versus the number of times you admit to touching your face. 

The other, much less popular option is to just stop and smell the roses. A life without gambling, while obviously unfulfilling at first, is one that should see a steady rise in your credit score. What’s great for the gambler, is that as a neglectful parent, they won’t have to start hugging Junior and the Missus right away. They can ease into it. Nevertheless, will most choose this life instead of wagering on a subway rat’s ability to deftly dodge the deadly third rail? 

I wouldn’t bet on it. 

Listen up

When I find myself in times of trouble, it’s best to remember why we were put here on earth - to lecture others on how to live. Sure, this may be a crisis, the likes of which we’ve never seen, but it’ll be infinitely easier to get through if we’re out there on the lecture circuit, avoiding our own itchy reflection. I’m already consumed with more homespun bromides than the average thought leader. The only trouble is, I don’t have nearly enough recipients. Unlike the current hand sanitizer situation, my supply far outweighs the demand. 

Being in unfamiliar territory doesn’t mean we can’t play the part of an expert. It’s just another role in this Chris Columbus produced tragicomedy called existence. And actual expertise is far from a prerequisite here. On the contrary, the less you know, the freer you are and the freer you’ll remain. Simply take cursory glances at the news and do it weekly – never daily. That way, you’ll approach things from a fresh perspective, one that optimizes ignorance. You don’t want to be bogged down in the mire of facts. This is about selling a point of view not a set of statistics. Plus, the more you do it, the less you have to worry about yourself.  

Others cannot get through this without you. We must stand tall, courageously telling them what to eat, what shows to binge on, and when to leave their homes for a stroll. They need answers and they need them now.

Follow these three simple rules and you’ll be just fine. I call it the “Shhhhh, the adults are talking now guide to surviving a pandemic.” To help you remember, each rule begins with the letters “sh.” 

Show. Show them what it’s like to live a productive penned-in life and that quarantines aren’t half bad. It could be something as simple as a piece of your daily routine, like say, showering. Now you don’t have to show yourself showering. Maybe a before and after type thing or only allude to it. Now more than ever, people need examples and role models. This is where influencers must step up. 

Shame. This one is hugely important. Shaming people, especially those who you’ve never met is what civilization depends on. It's proven that while vaccines are essential they cannot do the heavy lifting that shame and humiliation does. Making people understand the error of their choices through bullying and handwringing is a nakedly heroic act. But are you up to it?

Sha na na. They’re a great band who deserve another look. This is as good a time as any to revisit their varied oeuvre. 

Please remember that this isn't about you. It's about others. But right now, they need you to tell them that. 

Watch out

I’ve never understood why anyone would opt for Lasik – elective eye surgery, when you can just buy an expensive pair of binoculars. Better optics without messing with your optic nerve. Well, my boss noticed I had several pairs stacked one on top of the other at my ever-shrinking desk. There was a tiny pair, good for grabbing at a moment’s notice, smoothly fitting in the tightest denim pockets. A piece of equipment that barely forms a bulge. Then there was a much larger, more refined family heirloom – my great-grandfather’s field glasses. Sharp enough to spot a wild turkey taking the edge off with a tall glass of Wild Turkey. Our true national bird appreciates good bourbon as much as anyone else. My boss – obviously, disgusted – asked me, “what exactly is the meaning of this? Are you some kind birdwatcher? We got a regular JJ Audubon ovah heah.” 

This was a telling remark. You see, Audubon was not your average birdwatcher. He painted, but he also dined and dined well. Feasting on whatever his subject was that afternoon. Unfortunately, birds aren’t the most obedient models. But dead ones are. Good thing I had already eaten a non-avian lunch this particular afternoon.

He would’ve called me into his office had we not gotten rid of offices years before. Instead, he did the best he could, sitting me down and saying without a hint of irony, “I like you. I really do. But bird watching is a pastime for the past, not the present, and definitely not the future.”

It never occurred to him that binoculars could be used to look at other things besides our feathered compadres. Tragic to go through life that lost. There’s no map he can buy to help either.

“Birds watch you whether you watch them or not. And whether you like it or not. Don’t you think it’s wise to take back control of the narrative.”

He didn’t get it. He didn’t comprehend that birds have wonderful eyesight, spying on us for pleasure. 

But we feed the birds, provide them with houses, and yet, when the time comes to spice up our work environments, they are overlooked time after time. No matter how stellar their resume looks on paper (sterling migratory record, perfect pitch, straight V student, an intuitive sense of aerodynamics), to the bottom of the pile they go. Office mangers prefer the deafening silence of inspirational posters when reimagining a floorplan. 

What if the Wright Brothers had been similarly set in their ways? Choosing to take a dip at Kitty Hawk instead of admiring our pals from above? Human beings might still be grounded. The birds have given us so much and have asked for very little in return. The occasional sprinkling of seed, but not much else. They deserve better, a lot better.

Birds have something to say. Are we listening?

Going the distance

Social distancing used to mean giving the weirdest kid on the bus some “space” on long rides home after a high school fencing meet. Maybe it was his acne caused by excessive face touching or a certain unarticulated quality that placed him in the pantheon of adolescent outcasts. In later years, such behavior denoted bullying. The darker side of pacificism is total indifference. We didn’t care whether you lived or cried. This means something much different in the last 72 hours or so. 

In an effort to maintain good health, we’re being told to avoid kissing and hugging in public. What in private still demonstrates questionable judgment. In some cases, companies are sending people home. This a huge boon for the working-from-home crowd. Good, honest, enterprising folks who’ve been banging the drum of unshaven, remote work for years. They believe, rightfully so, that the best work goes on behind closed doors and in the privacy of your own home. Without the long eye of Johnny HR, people are free to kick back and really get down to business. Your boss can't see you but most importantly, he can't cough on you. 

There are those who see darker repercussions to what’s transpiring. That in keeping our distance we’ll lose what makes us compassionate human beings. I’m not buying it. And dear God, I hope you’re not selling it. 

The social fabric could benefit from a little gentle fraying. The torn quilt of an era that's perfectly antiquated. The fabric has been nearly threadbare since Silicon Valley desperadoes came into town on palominos made of money. Microchip misanthropes telling us what to do and how to think. To me, large social gatherings have always been disgusting displays of idiocy and mass delusion. Is there a worse moment in human history than Woodstock aka The Triumph of the Hippie?

We’ve been on our own for a long while and that’s just fine. Who needs a hug when you can wave? Handshakes should’ve gone out of fashion with the bowler hat and opium den. Give me a thumbs up and move on with your life. Touching someone is the sort of intimacy I thought we were past. Stare, grin, smile. All three convey varied emotions and nuance that make every cheek peck totally superfluous.  

Mobs aren’t exactly innocent throughout the years either. Large groups have done everything from burn heretics at the stake to shame sports fans into doing the wave. Both evil in their own way. Emails don’t require unnecessary fluids like the insane practice of licking envelopes. It’s 2020, friends. If I want your DNA, there are much, much easier ways to get it. There are websites devoted to the subject, so while I appreciate the gesture, please don’t drop it in the mail. Ok? 

This is what's called, "individual effervescence." Quite a concept. 

Minds racing, brains washing

Behave the way I normally do and you’ll find it impossible to complete anything but the most menial tasks. Like shucking oysters or selflessly re-sodding that little sliver of dirt between the sidewalk and the street. Something invariably comes up. I live my life as Winston Churchill once said not to. The champagne-clinkin’, wine-drinkin’ bulldog is my anti-role model in all cases except one. His love of baths. Baths, not showers, are unmatched in terms of clean contemplation. But that’s not enough for me, old boy. Not nearly enough. To paraphrase the great man, I throw figurative stones at every figurative dog I literally pass. It’s hardly a recipe for efficiency, but it is one for getting creative content in the proverbial hopper for the higherups to salivate over. 

Canis lupus are not the issue, are they? No, not in the slightest. Whether they drool, bite, bark or lick themselves, what gives me extreme pleasure is tracking down content to capture. Running down alley ways and heavily beaten paths for the best in the business. Jewels in the trash. Gems in the recycling. While capturing content remains a lucrative gig, I am often left wondering with what do with all of it. I don’t have a basement or garage to shackle the content in a temperature-controlled environment, safe until the whims of next season. Trends change, and with those changes, content that was once so, so cool is now cold. Freezing cold. So I release it back into the wild, usually in dumpsters or down sewer drains for the crocs to take a chomp at. 

I’d capture content it if I had to pay for the privilege and if the only audience were the flies on the wall. Like my daddy and granddaddy before me, I capture content – it’s what I do. They toiled over the creeks and cricks itching for the remote possibility that content would show its slimy face. Let’s just say, they taught me well. 

Here’s the rub. Content is filthy and requires immense sanitizing. The world, thanks to people like Walt Disney and too many Ayatollahs to name, has become quite sanitized. But we still have miles to go before purell covers everything mildly creative or interesting. While we can wash our hands (and we will) what’s to be done with our minds? They are too far gone. Every other brain needs a good, long washing. I know mine could use a rinse. Maybe there is a silver lining to all of this, after all. 

You gotta hand it to disruptors

Last night, I asked my cat to name her top fifty agency thought leaders. Since she tends to avoid conversation at the dinner table, she ignored me at first. Looking like I taught her well. Nevertheless, I wanted to force the issue, holding her accountable for what ails the industry right now and, at the same time, cultivate a more dynamic dining dynamic. There’s a great deal written and spoken about disruption, but if you’re disrupting by day and snuggling safely under layer upon layer of thick, thermal Hudson’s Bay blankets, you’re not practicing what you preach. And more importantly, not practicing while you sleep. Disruption only matters if your home is in chaos, too. 

Predictably, she gave me the standard answers that I could’ve found within the pages (behind a firm paywall) of advertising’s most popular trade periodicals. For whatever reason, she responded with only 49 names. Why? At first, I chalked it up to routine feline insolence. Then I thought better of it. I noticed she still hadn’t cancelled her trip to SXSW, insisting on going despite fear of the unknown. Though to be honest, I prefer empty convention halls to packed ones. What she was saying, in her silence mind you, was that the next great thought leader is out there. You just have to be open to the idea and look in the right place.  

I have identified a disruptor who’s leveraging havoc on the industry, bringing data-obsessed iconoclasts to their knees. It’s not a man or woman or even a cat, but a virus. 

Because when you really think about it, what’s more disruptive than a pandemic? 

I’m seeing the greatest hands of my generation hiding behind face masks and antibacterial soap. When this is the disruptor they’ve been waiting for all along. After years of praying to the golden lions lining lobbies to no avail, someone finally listened. Apparently, this is the wrong type of disruption. Stupidly, I didn’t realize there was such a thing. 

Because you can’t have it both ways. You can’t sing to the melodious tune of worldwide disruption only to dismiss it immediately upon arrival. So this slide might have been left out of your last presentation, that’s okay. We’re adaptable. There is historical precedence for this type of muted reaction. though. Does the name Jesus Christ ring a bell? If it doesn’t, then you might want to check your bell.

I’m not saying viruses are a good thing. But I am saying they are the purest form of disruption there is. Disruptors have come and gone through the hallowed halls of SXSW with pithy keynote speeches and memorable slogans. And yet, none of them were able to cancel the entire event. Not like this. Not even close. 

Now that’s what I call disruptive. 

Some things never change

The other day I walked by a co-worker crying. In the ad world, this isn’t particularly alarming. Tears flow all day in the face of foreseen obstacles. Instead of reacting with the standard New Yorker response to ignore and move on with my life, I stopped and inquired. What possessed me to address this situation head on despite walking past sobbing colleagues thousands of times before? We’ll never know. It could’ve had something to do with the fact that my morning was fairly clear due to the impending worm moon, with no meetings on the docket until late afternoon. In search of purpose, I confronted. What I didn’t do was offer tissues. Teardrops are natural, wiping them away is not. Yes, we’re still talking about crying. 

How can something sink in if you don’t let it sink in? Let that sink in.

“Why are you crying? If it’s about the construction across the street, I can assure you, they’re almost done. And while it may look like they are violating city and state laws putting up shoddy scaffolding, I checked on that, too. They are 100% in the clear. Good guys all around. They recommend a strong taqueria nearby if you're interested. I know when I'm sad, stewed meat is usually better than any multi-vitamin."

“It’s not that, thank you. I'd be lying if I said it was on my mind. But I did I witness a mouse scurry across my desk earlier.” 

“And?”

“I went to HR who claimed there was nothing they could do.”

“Why is that?”

“HR avoids the rodential, seeing as they’re Human Resources.”

The tears kept flowing and I kept thinking. In 50 years, our grandchildren will cry too upon discovering the callousness endemic in agency offices. HR only dealt with human beings, forsaking every other living thing. It's bad enough we don't pay rodents. Interns have it better. 

The mouse on the desk, the bird on the printer, the plant on the ledge. This is why more and more people are choosing the freelance life over the comfort and security of a desk job. We’re all expendable, a number to the people in charge. But animals, as usual, have it much worse. Your boss isn’t actively trying to kill you with booby-trapped cheese no gourmand named Gustave could resist. At least I don’t think that’s the case. 

Most of the rodents I’ve interviewed are quite blasé about their shaky position in the agency world. They make excuses, pointing to reasons why they’ve been passed over from taking top-tier roles. It’s because of their close connection to disease, propensity to shed at the most inopportune moments, or their insistence on eating garbage at their desks. Whatever it is, it’s never because they’re rodents. No, of course not. Acknowledging that seems to be self-defeating. So they don’t. 

“People naturally fear change. But they’ll learn, I guarantee it.”  

With that remark I dumped my entire bag of buffalo nickels, silver dollars and rare Roman coins on the floor. The tears suddenly stopped.

Change everyone can believe in. Just remember to wash your hands after handling it. You never know where it's been. 

Start spreading the news

I’m startled at the number of copywriters who don’t know how to churn butter. Only a couple hundred years ago it wasn’t all that rare of a skill. It was practically a given considering that most people came from farms straight to agencies. There, they were expected to sharpen their abilities but never lose the barnyard je ne said quoi associated with manual labor. While you clogged minds with words during the day, it was understood that by night you’d be out there clogging arteries, too. 

These days, writing is too rarefied. Writers think that because they get paid to write, they are a privileged class, deserving special rights and respect. When the fact is, most people know how to write. You don’t see other people getting all high and mighty about their deftness at breathing. That would be absurd. But here are writers, droning on about what makes their combination and placement of words unique. How meter and syllables figure into daily conversation. The time will come when most animals learn how to write. Then they'll be sorry for manipulating them for cruel television spots in absurd situations. It's only a matter of time. We already know they can read and listen. They understand us better than we understand them. I'd take a dolphin over a poet any day of the week.

The same people who’d tear up in abject terror at the sight of a plunger and wooden barrel usually prefer their coffee with cream. Yet it never occurs to them to violently shake their cup of Joe until the substance inside is of an adequate consistency to spread on a piece of steaming hot toast. Unbelievable. And these are the same folks who think just because slicing bread is an accepted, objective good, they are somehow content living in a world ignorant of what it takes for something to become spreadable.

It doesn’t just happen on its own. Yes, milk will curdle eventually. But imagine attending a wine and cheese party at the home of a young diplomat living in a palatial 5^th Avenue townhouse, where cottage cheese is all that’s available. You’d be out the door before the toast pops.   

Butter is a different story. We’re always telling clients not to be so literal, when in reality, living through abstractions is completely naïve. 

How are we as an industry supposed to avoid the so-called “churn” inside agencies if the very concept remains so remote as to be an utter udder abstraction. And don’t get me started on account directors who don’t know how sausage is made. 

See ‘round the farm. 

Outrunning your demons

Mike Phelps seems like a nice guy, but do we actually know what kind of swimmer he is outside the pool? Has he ever had to deal with legitimate adversity like a rogue wave, ocean liner or ornery sea lion? I doubt it. Has he ever been truly put to the test? I don’t think so.

That’s life. Life isn’t a marathon or a sprint. Nor is it a pole vault or something called “equestrian dressage.” In fact, there’s very little that Olympic competition can teach us about living. The environment is too controlled, too perfect. Life doesn’t happen on a circular track with oversized grandstands and overpriced concessions. You shouldn’t need a bank loan to get a beer and a dog. Life is a slow tumble off the side of a rock face into the abyss. You can’t run down a cliff, only off of one. 

Running, besides being extremely bad for your health, is no way to get around. Whether you’re running from a bandit, parental expectations, or your own dark past, you’re always running from something. It’s a mistake to think that runners run towards things. While finish lines exist, they aren’t essential. Running is a curious pastime, and much like religious fervor or veganism, it requires constant conversation. The moment a runner stops telling everyone they meet where they run and how far, the whole endeavor ceases to matter. If no one knows you run, what's the point?

In offices where walking is complicated, running is damn near impossible. But that doesn’t stop furious employees sprinting from the copier to the elevators, the kitchen to the mailroom. They aren’t in it for exercise. Not really. This is about vanity. Unless you’re a leg model, raking in the cash for selling soccer shin guards, there’s no reason to ever wear shorts. Even shin guards fit quite nicely under denim. It’s not so much that you’re showing too much skin, as much as you’re showing the wrong type. Reminiscent of poultry it brings everyone down, especially in an office. Runners don’t seem to understand that whatever they do, they can absolutely do it in pants. 

You’re seeing more and more proposals now to retrofit office buildings with tracks. Whatever one thinks they achieve running is at least equaled by punching a pillow or yelling inside a bathroom stall. These are the old-fashioned ways people outran their demons. 

But here’s the real point, the one worth remembering. If you’re genuinely being chased by pitchfork-wielding goblins, incensed from their time in the netherworld, running isn’t going to cut it. They will catch you and they will win. Haven’t lost a race yet. You might as well catch your breath and stroll. It’s foolish to think that the immortal beasts preoccupied with your terrestrial decisions will be demoralized by your seasoned marathon running. The Prince of D bides his time, always. He knows that you know that eventually you’ll need a water break. 

And I think you know how rest of the story goes.