Comets are closed

You’d be surprised at how little criticism I actually receive. I really don’t. But much like Halley’s comet, when it comes (every 75 blogs or so), it does so in a ball of luminescent fury. I simply can’t look away. The most common critique leveled against me is that I seem to exist in a different time, another era, comfortably stuck in the past. The members of this meddlesome crowd accuse me of fondly recalling the “good old days” when linoleum was revered by one and all and man dreamed of installing carpeting from his living room to the horizon. I come across as nostalgic and old-fashioned. I can’t help if my upbringing in rocky Corsica plays a role in how I see the world. 

But it’s not true. If anything, I’m extremely, painfully, unequivocally ahead of my time. Frankly, I’d prefer to be a relic, choosing retro looks and Old World trends over future insights. But I can’t help myself. I can’t help who I am. Being ahead of one’s time is not as fun as it sounds. Allow me to explain.    

When you’re ahead of your time it’s difficult relating to most people. How can I get along with others when we’re not speaking the same language? I pepper my speech with phrases like “That’s fertile” instead of “that’s cool.” “You sound like a broken robot” when a friend is overly repetitious. These are phrases that won’t be popular for at least another 20, 30 years. 

Most people don’t realize what will be offensive down the road. But I know. I know all too well. “Oh boy.” That’s no good. “Oh man.” That’s out. “Oh brother.” Bye bye. Those are the obvious examples. I’m sorry to tell you all this but “Manhattan” isn’t long for this world. Sometimes I’ll slip up and say “Personhattan” in mixed company, giving others the impression that I’m a wayward time-traveler. And that’s only the start of it. Everything you know and say has a short shelf-life, destined to spoil like a carton of milk accidentally left on the counter for a bowl of cereal you never ended up having. Times change. Tastes change, too

Oh, it’s not easy being me. Though I wouldn’t trade it for anything. While I end up routinely missing buses and flights because my mental calendar is off by a few decades, I get by. Don't feel bad for me, feel bad for yourself. It's a much better use of time and energy. 

Cruise on.*

*In the future, that means “goodbye."

Some New Yorkers are here to stay

Is it time to leave New York? It seems like many people are asking this very question. Mouthing it into a clear mirror, writing it onto a foggy mirror, imagining the possibilities even when a mirror isn’t nearby. Maybe their bathroom lacks one. Some people don’t want a daily reminder of the lines in their face that mark the cruel passage of time. I have to tell you, the thought hasn’t yet crossed my mind. This exercise doesn’t count. I’m merely voicing what’s already out there in the water (that good, New York City water, fresh from the Catskills, crisp and clear blue).

There are plenty of other places a person can choose to live. You don’t have to leave the Empire State entirely. I’ve heard good things about Syracuse, Buffalo and Rochester. The trouble with talk of Big Apple abandonment is who never gets queried. The rats, for one. This is their adopted homeland. They are the hairy heartbeat of the city, dancing, prancing and refinancing throughout the five boroughs. Has anyone even thought to ask them if they’re considering packing up and heading down to Philly, Boston or down south, Florida way? 

In a world that’s constantly talking about living beyond one’s means and treating the planet well, who better than a rat to show us how? Rats are environmentalists - real ones. Not the bumper sticker bros with their mantras and homilies, placards and pamphlets. These are folks who put their money, or in this case, recycling, where their mouth is. They live by the code, “waste not, want not.” They eat garbage, okay? Rats are ignored, frightening us into not wearing open-toed shoes on the subway. Causing us to draw some weird, artificial distinction between the terror of a rat and the cuteness of a squirrel. But as Sir Paul might say, they’re here, there and everywhere. Working behind the scenes at a restaurant. Checking out your car under the hood. Teaching environmental law at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

They’ve gone through major distress before. Cheese shortages, the rise and fall of the Ninja Turtles, uninvited tunnel explorers. But in  the long, winding think-pieces and Medium meditations, I’ve not seen one address the rat in the room. They miss the rodential, though nominally nodding to the pestilential. New York is more than food carts and neon lights, much more than axe-throwing juice bars and glass blowing yoga studios. Yes, the city is crowded. But if it weren’t so crowded I’d forget that sardines were actually a fine source of nutrition, rich in protein and Omega-3 body positive acids. With the area’s density, sardines will always remain top of mind. 

New York is the rats, the pigeons, and the crazy people. The last group are often referred to as “The Pajama Brigade.” People who create the fashion and cultural trends that are adopted by the glitterati years after the fact. They dress how they want, act how they like and move through the metropolis utterly unaffected by their environment. They don’t care what’s happening in the street or the sky. They live. We could all use a few pages from their weathered book. 

Leave New York? Not in this lifetime. But if people do flee the city in droves, perhaps one day, a dream of mine will finally come true. We'll get a mayor that represents all New Yorkers, true New Yorkers. Yes, I'm referring to a rat mayor. Isn't it about time? I think they've earned a shot at the big seat. It can't get any worse. 

Please, call me doctor

They’re not so different from you and me. They breathe the same air. They drink the same water. They amble through the same parks and drive the same cars. They cut their sandwiches diagonally and always wait for their soup to cool before slurping. They’ve seen far too many examples of what happens when someone cavalierly ignores the steam rising from their bisque. But we act like they’re special, lording above us from a stone perch like an ancient gargoyle. Who are they and how did they claw their way from the curb to the ledge? 

They’re doctors. 

Look, some of my dearest friends are doctors. I have nothing against individuals. Folks who spent thousands of dollars cutting into their fellow citizens for anything but prestige or profit. But I am partially jealous at how the medical establishment convinced non-doctors to play into their games, by their rules, never questioning either. This doesn’t sit well with me. I’m willing to meet them halfway though. In the ICU, at the hospital, in the waiting room, even in the parking lot outside – they are doctors. Those who demand and deserve our collective respect. But elsewhere? That I’m not so sure about.

Say you run into one of these do-gooders in line at your neighborhood pork store waiting for the thinnest slices of prosciutto you can barely see through - identifying the meat solely by feel. Must you address them as doctor there, too? Unless one of the deli workers collapses or they have to perform mouth-to-pepper on a stuffed vegetable that’s deflated beyond recognition. What if you’re on the soccer field watching your kids play the Mindless Game? Are they docs here as well? You see what I’m driving at? Doctors, like few others, get to keep their titles wherever they go, whatever they do, even if it’s something undoctorly like changing a tire or weeding a patio. It’s even polite to address our nation’s Chief Executive as “Mr. President.” Yet somehow “Mr. Doctor” is offensive. Two of the most famous doctors - Erving and Gooden - didn't actually attend med school.  That just goes to show you how broken the system currently is. 

While it’s unlikely doctors will cede the linguistic territory they’ve worked diligently to obtain, it’s up to the rest of us to match them with our own silly titles. I’m a writer, therefore I demand everyone refer to me as Penman or, Pencilman, if accuracy is the goal and the two number 2s on my desk the best evidence. I don’t have to be writing at the time. Like a chef who’s always got confit on the brain, there’s never a second where words and phrases aren't traipsing through my thoughts with the potential of landing on the page. Captains, coaches, maestros and gardeners are just a few of the professions who've earned the right to be referred to as such. But they're not alone. Everyone needs a title now. It's the only way we can ensure true equity as a society.

The other solution is to disrupt the stethoscope stock by making "Doctor" a popular baby name. It'll definitely create some awkward  moments in the delivery room. 

"Congratulations, you have a healthy baby Doctor." 

"Doctor, could step outside? I'd like a moment with my wife and Doctor alone." 

"Doctor, meet Doctor." 

A holiday unmoored

Most of us know why we celebrate Memorial Day - to honor those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country. For our country. But how? How can a person do such a thing, especially now when many of the institutions we cherish (the Post Office, the Ice Cream man) are in a state of unprecedented flux? 

We carry on the best we can, pretending as if things were different. Quite different indeed. We go on as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. We sacrifice our good judgment for their good patriotism. We grill, we complain, we take things for granted. It's the American way.

Traditionally, Memorial Day is the traditional opening of summer. The beginning of water fights and sand castles, boogie boarding and the lathering of sunscreen. I screen, you screen, we all screen for sunscreen. Or, as the French say, "la creme." With the Ultra Violet index going in the opposite direction of my 401k, it's wise to pack on a thick layer of high SPF. Imagine you're spreading some butter cream on a holiday cake. Only you're that cake and please, whatever you do, don't ingest. The good people down at the Poison Control Center deserve a day without incident.

But summer is, first and foremost, a mental state. A season for dressing inappropriately. Donning loud shirts and louder coughs. Short shorts and shorter fuses. Summer is a fine time for reflection. The ocean allows for contemplation. We rarely get shortchanged during summer the way winter occasionally takes a year off. Summer puts in the work, year after year. Although, winter allows for the best reflection, when the water is frozen solid and mirror-like. Then you see everything you've been running from for months staring back at you in disgust. 

Crowds all over the New York area flocked to the beaches for perfect beach weather. Mid 60s air temp, mid 50s water temp. Now mind you, the water is a bit balmy for me. I prefer a frosty surf, akin to what those prehistoric road trippers dealt with during their infamous cruise across the land bridge. When discussions of social distancing come up, they conspicuously omit the factor of depth. 6 feet below someone and you should be A OK. Though it does require strong lungs and an impeccable sense of your underwater bearings. 

There's a lot a person can learn from a close examination of a NOAA surf index. You really should use it to live your life. There's no point in hightailing it to the Caribbean when all you need is right here in Queens. Sandy white beaches and blue sky, with a steady stream of seagulls and jumbo jets barreling out of JFK. The 777 in its natural habitat. While most of us dismiss tides as a lunar happening, it's worth noting that we measure surf height. Not unlike the two most precious commodities around - our desk chairs and our children. Weirdly, Thunderstorm Potential is an underrated band from the early 80s, who dominated the boardwalk scene at the time with hits like "Dance at your own risk" and "Sink, damnit, sink." Every song was penned by the notorious frontman, Rip Current.  The band released two compilation albums "From Sunrise to Sunset" and "Winds & Tides." One day Rip drove out to the beach and said, "if I'm not back by Labor Day, find a new lead singer." 

He never came back. Their instrumental follow-up "Always Wear White" was dedicated to his memory. In a way, he too gave the ultimate sacrifice. Not for his country or his fellow citizens, but for summer. They weren't a winter band because they had no stomach for caroling. 

The best dry cleaners launder more than just clothes.

It doesn’t help that most people waltz around with the false and pernicious notion that money laundering is a serious crime. Let’s do what the crafty Oxford lexicographers do when confronted by a new word or phrase. They don’t take someone else’s word for it. This is their livelihood, after all. When friends at parties would say, “You must really like bugs to go into a profession like that. Yuck,” – they’d put two fingers on the person’s sternum in a firm but gentle manner and in a clear voice repeat, “For the last time, I’m an etymologist, not an entomologist.”

But money laundering isn’t some crackpot scheme by arch-criminals and hapless crooks looking for an easy payday. It’s simply the best way to clean dirty money. And should you find yourself in a cash-dominated business, you’ll be drowning in crusty sawbucks, oily bills and cruddy coins. 

As a society, we clean everything else. We clean our grimy cars with an obsessive, almost sick fervor. We clean our stained clothes with religious-like passion. We clean our dusty houses during an annual springtime ritual. We clean our dogs and children when they enter the home soiled and spent. We clean our dishes when they’re too icky to serve food on. Money is only the next logical step in hygiene.

At Rizzuto & Sons, we understand that dirty money isn’t always the result of a dirty lifestyle. Sometimes, it’s because you were well under the credit card minimum and the Bagel Boy behind the counter only had a crinkly dollar in the drawer for change. We don’t judge, we just clean. That crumpled cash of yours will look crisp again. We clean plastic too, subjecting cards to our own proprietary method of air drying and laser-soap application. As the economy slowly switches to a cashless one, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll get any cleaner. 

Your conscience is clean. So why not your cash? 

Rizzuto & Sons survived for a few years cleaning cash in the absence of any legitimate competition. Things got tricky when they added a more controversial service – brain washing. The actual soaping of one’s cerebellum. They set up shop in the dirtiest neighborhoods hoping for some positive word-of-mouth. But there was one thing they didn’t account for – anyone who enjoyed their services had no recollection of it. So much for good PR.

The Great Repression

There was a time on the open road when seatbelts were seen as unnecessary accoutrements. In time, drivers and passengers alike came to realize that without a lifesaving belt across their chest and waist, road trips would be totally unsustainable. Even the wildest person appreciates the utility of a safety belt. It’s an invaluable restraint, keeping our bodies at bay. Which is curious since we’re raised to shamelessly flaunt societal restraints. Not anymore.

Where did we go wrong? Where did we lose the road, picking unmanicured yards over smooth-as-silk pavement? Repression has its place, people – especially in the workplace. Keeping your thoughts and emotions inside, never sharing how you truly feel, is a mentality borrowed from the seat belt. It’s safer that way, if only a little less fun.

Repression cannot and should not go on indefinitely. There’s a time to let loose and share exactly what you think. But how articulate you are in rage and annoyance is directly related to how repressed you’ve been. It takes skill and patience building up animosity over the slightest of slights.

You don’t bake a cake in a couple minutes, eating a rather raw lopsided inedible indelible pastry. You leave it in the oven for a bit, after kneading for a long, long while. You too must let your emotions bake for years. When you’re cooking Bolognese meat sauce, you don’t flash fry and serve quickly. You simmer and simmer for hours and hours, knowing that for however long you leave it bubbling on the stovetop, the dish will be even better tomorrow. You should add milk and wine to your feelings - the order isn’t as important as the act itself. Let yourself steep like a tea bag, marinate like a chicken thigh, stew like a beef cube. Food always tastes better this way. No matter how long it takes, it’s worth it.

The best meals – and the best people - are extremely repressed. All you need is patience, time and a gas stove.

Questioning reality

Each morning of mine is largely the same. After chugging a single ceramic mug of black coffee, it’s usually time for seconds. I yell for 2 minutes or until my voice cracks. I painstakingly wrestle over which robe to wear for the first hour of the day. Then I really get down to business. 

As the morning breaks over the rowhouses on my block, I begin sifting through reader mail. Digital comments are both rare and frowned upon. How these people found my address in the first place is a mystery I’m not at all interested in uncovering. I wade through the pile in the very same waders my great-grandfather spent many a summer afternoon fly-fishing on the Kennebec River. Waiting for a bite. Hoping for a bite. Needing a bite. Praying he packed sandwiches. So here are the best questions from my adoring fanbase.

Dante from Cedar Falls, Iowa asks, “what’s the connection between YouTubers and root vegetables?”

I’m glad someone finally asked this. And I’m glad it was you, Dante. If you casually browse YouTube these days you’ll see a company that’s completely lost its way. A company that’s forgotten its roots. They were healthy, they were earthy, they were grounded in reality. Firmly planted in the dirt and residing comfortably on terra firma. What happened? It became a chore to monetize videos about turnips and beets. Instead, they opted for the lazier solution, choosing partisan politics and pop culture over the radish and the rutabaga. It’s not set in sunbaked soil that the story is over for YouTube and YouTubers. But time is running out. We could use a mainstream sitcom about a vampire with a deep, forbidden love of garlic. Please send me the treatment when you have something worth sharing.

Jethro from Cedar Creek, Delaware writes, “What makes a better sound: a baseball shattering a car window or a chickadee whistling and wondering where his next meal is coming from?  

These are two very compelling choices. I am an avid baseball fan. However, a ball breaking a windshield results in a blaring car alarm. Before the advent of car alarms, most paranoid drivers hired birds (paid in seed and worms) to sit in the backseat and chirp should anything go awry. It was and still is the most natural security system out there. Over time, people got tired of the avian demands (frequent strikes and the threat of unionization) that made the whole endeavor no longer worth it. I miss it though.   

Penelope from Cedar Grove, New Jersey wonders, “If Shakespeare was the Bard, then what do we call his pet parrot, Christopher, who allegedly authored much of the First Folio?"

The Bird.

Young John Salmon from a Cedar Plank about to go onto a flaming hot grill, nervously asks, “How did I get here?”

Our lives are comprised of a series of seemingly random choices, decisions and events. Unfortunately for you John, this has led to a dinner date. Good luck.

That’s all for now. Until next time, so long. 

Take a bike

The weather is starting to improve. It’s objectively getting better, warmer, sunnier. There aren’t many things I feel more strongly about than bike lanes. Because there’s an urgent need for more, way more, in big cities and small towns, midsize townships and quaint villages, peculiar hamlets and strange burghs. When you hop on an engineless two-wheeler, you’re saying to the world in a loud, crisp and clear voice, “I’m a good person. No, I’m a great person. You? Not so much.”  

Riding a bicycle is brave, heroic, courageous. You’re showing what’s possible to those married to internal combustion - a union that's the furthest thing from a love match. They’ll learn. They’ve simply got to learn one day. The bike lane situation around the globe is a nice, wholesome start. Yet we need more, way more. If riding a car is a conversation, then riding a bicycle is a lecture. In fairness, you’d think that someone would’ve created a more comfortable bike seat by now. Musk and company should forget Mars – this is the next item on the revolutionary docket.

Think of where the lanes are currently – on roads. Which are still the preeminent domain of cars. With any luck we’ll ban cars in a couple years and transform the most obnoxious vehicles like fire engines and ambulances into long, slithering tandem bikes. A change that would contribute greatly to my singular vision of the future would be pulling off the “ol switcheroo” – putting bikes in the proverbial driver’s seat and relegating cars to a single lane. This is right before they’re outlawed. No one needs a car. We’ve gotten so much out of the car that it’s time to retire them effective immediately. Road trips will change, but that’s okay. There’s no Kerouac-in-waiting, idling inside a Ford Raptor, crawling around the Lincoln Tunnel helix, dangerously writing the Great American Novel on his phone.

But where should we add these lanes? Everywhere. Bicycling should be the default human activity, second only to breathing. It’s just as natural. But why when someone pedals inside does it cause such a stir? Biking indoors gives interiors a higher purpose that's otherwise missing. Bikes belong on sidewalks, too. It’s pedestrians who must move. Bikes belong in malls, at airports, on planes, between subways, inside hospitals and in our homes. A hallway is a road. Without a bike it’s naked and boring. 

To alter the culture, we must hand out bicycles to newborns as soon as they stop shrieking. Graduation gifts should be bikes. And we should tip delivery drivers in helmets, knee pads and old Lance Armstrong back issues of Sport Illustrated.

The world is your bike lane. There’s no shame in running red lights when you’re living this green.

Finally, some practical advice

As someone who first attended college during the panic of 1857, attempted grad school during the panic of 1873, considered PhD programs amid the Great Depression, wrote an unpublished dissertation on “How solipsism helps others” as the 1973 oil crisis reached its refined apex, and ultimately earned a BA in 2008, I know a thing or two about catastrophes. These were all similar times of consternation and disquietude. So I understandably want to impart some universal advice to the young people entering the real world following another global economic calamity. These aren’t just random moments in my life that might be helpful either. They are unquestioned and undisputed lessons that apply to everyone in every single situation.

Stop and smell the roses. But when you do, watch out for pollinators and rabid “mad dogs”, ready to pounce and destroy your delicate olfactory system.

Buy a pair of used rollerblades. Disinfect them, but not too much. You wouldn’t want them to lose that unspoken quality of blended foot funk and life experience. And when you lace them up (unless they’re Velcro), feel free to crowd the bike lane.

Learn the cello instead of the violin, take baths instead of showers. Why stand when you can sit?

Compare every smell you encounter with that of freshly cut grass.

Spot a rat scurrying across the subway tracks, deftly avoiding the notorious third nail. Name that rat, something short like Ned or Sal. Once you’ve got a name that rolls of the tongue like an overly pungent cheese, chase that same rat through an abandoned subway tunnel. Don’t stop until you come across the men and women who call these subterranean passageways home. Adapt to their way of life, learn their customs, critique their method of government. Go days without daylight.

Start a cult, join a cult, do something with cults.

Do the bare minimum whether in relationships, crossing the street or cleaning your apartment.

Clear your Internet history.

Provoke others by saying things like, "Shakespeare is so overrated," "The Beatles? Thanks, but no thanks," and "Nikola Tesla isn't really my cup of tea." 

Learn curse words in a few different foreign languages.

Eat an ice cream cone by biting off the bottom part and draining out the remaining melted liquid. Like life, it’s both weird and messy.

Line your shelves with canonical books you have no intention of reading.

Turn innocuous, borderline-meaningless phrases into useful barbs e.g. “Kiss a dancer”

Live off your trust fund for a while. Remember: you’re a member of New York City’s moneyed elite. A blue-blooded Knickerbocker with the pressed pantaloons to boot. Burn your savings until a Great-Uncle Reston, someone you’ve never met or heard of, shows up on your doorstep to give you a stern talking to.

Forget the past, ignore the present, avoid the future.

Any questions?

The Last Dunce

There’s not a lot to do these days besides sleep, moisturize or watch that ESPN documentary on Mike Jordan and the bodacious Bull boys. Should a genie in a bottle (or can - why not, right?) pay me a visit in the next 48 hours, my only wish would be that The Last Dance consisted of 100 parts instead of 10. Like a terrible parallel parker, we’re only just now scratching the surface. I want more minutia. Seinfeldian in scope, Jordanian in focus.

I want MJ betting with teammates on the number of pieces of lint in his pants pockets at a charity gala for thousands and thousands of dollars. I need to see him describing the proper method for cutting cigars. And in spite of the misleading title, there’s hardly any dancing in the doc. There’s no retelling of the great myth where Jordan whispers in Karl Malone’s ear just before stealing the ball in Game 6 of the 1998 NBA Finals: "may I have this dance, Karl?" Footwork matters in b-ball and the best of the best understand the relationship between good defense and great ballet. Strong shooting and stellar waltzing. Solid passing and smart pirouetting. It’s a game, but it’s also a dance.

But even in 10 measly parts, it’s obvious that MJ is exactly like you and me. Everyone understands what it’s like to be the best at their chosen field, dominating the competition in ways not seen for generations. We’re all special. We all have bank accounts with more zeroes than the beach has garbage. We’re all excellent. The Tiger Woods of spreadsheets. The Babe Ruth of email subject lines. The Pete Weber of photoshop.

Contrarians will pick out the minor differences between the average person and Jordan. Maybe they’re not 6’ 6”, play pro basketball or win at all costs. That’s mere window dressing. The point is that the average person is well-above average. The only explanation for the universal acclaim is how we are collectively able to see a part of ourselves in MJ. He’s one of us. We know what it’s like to have millions of adoring fans and sign autographs late into the night. We identify with the inherent burden of genius.

Watching The Last Dance is like looking in the mirror or viewing home movies. What makes MJ exceptional is how ordinary his drive and ambition is. How common his skills are and how rare it is to not be that good. Another sign that humanity has transcended failure into commonplace brilliance. 

Be like Mike or be yourself. What's the difference? 

Who fried and made you king?

Despite what the 24-hour-a-day pundits say, the United States of America is still a republic. A never-ending work-in-progress, but nonetheless a representative democracy. A nation of laws and people. Of voting and apathy. There was much to fight over at the beginning. Tea, coffee, and other morning beverages ignored by the whimsical historical record. Mostly though, revolutionary Americans were attempting to relieve themselves of the British monarchy. Winning the war was a necessary first step, but without continued vigilance, we’d be right back where we started.

This is America, and yet, references to royalty are everywhere.

I could list thousands of examples from the county I choose to reside in and butterflies, to a weirdly popular series on Netflix, but I won’t do that. This is not the time for raw accounting. The moment for an itemized list of regal nonsense has come and gone. Jefferson already spent a good portion of his Declaration on just this subject. But in it he left one out. He couldn’t possibly know what I know now. But I know and somewhere, somehow, he knows, too.

The Burger King. He’s worshipped like a God in many parts of this wild country. We sacrifice to appease him, pray to please him, and ask forgiveness just to tease him. But who clothed him with this amount of power? The man owns a sepulcher. Who owns a sepulcher in 2020? Burgers are and always will be quintessentially American and as such, they deserve a democratic representative who speaks to our shared values as citizens. Apparently, feudalism is alive and well along rest areas and service roads across this great nation. He wears a gilded crown of ground chuck, a flowing robe of raw meat and aims to spread his grilled kingdom globally. Some towns erect huge statues of this most illustrious Sirloin Sovereign. A man who’s standing has risen along with the collective cholesterol of the populace.  

There aren’t many things that move me to take a stand. As the sun sets on monarchies all over the world, many hungry folks are forgetting what makes us American.

I’m calling for a non-violent revolution. A gently charbroiled coup that will quickly lead to the Burger King’s total and peaceful abdication. He had a great run, but it’s time to turn the patty over and start anew. What is a man with such a specific set of qualifications to do after his life’s work is taken from him? Follow the lead of Harry and head out to La La Land. No place on earth better embraces the phony, fictitious and façade-loving than Los Angeles. Vegas is too obvious a choice. But in Hollywood, he’ll still be considered king.

Burger President may be too lofty. So how about Burger Comptroller?  

Interview with Benedict St. Lucien

Every so often I’ll contact an industry maven, peerless thought-leader, or rabble-rousing do-gooder in my immediate interstellar orbit who’s working from the inside to change the game like only a game changer can. Today’s blessed diablo is Benedict St. Lucien. I’ve known Benny for years and watched admiringly from afar as he’s worked his way to the top. Like a fearless mountaineer, he knows the altitude is bad for his health but accepts it’s worth it simply for the view. A former Chief Story Guy at Boil, Bane and Burnback, Associate Creative Disruptor at Itchy & Itchy, and once, another lifetime ago, a Junior Wordsmith student at SCAM.

MTP: I see that you’re unemployed at the moment.

BSL: I prefer the term employed.

MTP: I’m not following.

BSL: It sounds better.

MTP: Do you have a job?

BSL: No.  

MTP: What are the top three things ailing advertising right now?

BSL: For one thing, the elevators in most offices are far too slow. I grew up dreaming of elevators that were only a few screws away from teleportation. It’s bad for morale and it’s especially bad for transporting fresh fish without the benefit of a cooler. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been lucky enough to work somewhere that boasted refrigerated elevators.

MTP: Is that something you do often - carry fresh fish around at work?

BSL: I sure did. At my last agency, I instituted “Turbot Tuesdays” to give the employees something besides happy hour to look forward to. Did you know that the old Fulton Fish Market lasted from 1822 until 2005? Think of it. Fish smell doesn’t come out so easy after two centuries of deboning and deveining. I don’t care what sort of pressure wash technique you use. Fish stays. Fish always stays. 

MTP: I was telling someone just the other day about the move to Hunts Point. Manhattan lost a piece of its soul when the bags of ice, low-level Mafiosi and crates of seafood headed north for good.

BSL: To be clear, I have nothing against the Bronx.

MTP: I once overheard you at a party say that “the problem with TV commercials is that they are 30 seconds and not 30 minutes. And until we band together as a unit and demand our products are sold with the same verve and gusto of the showrunners behind the Big Bong Theory and How I Bet Your Mother, how can we expect to reside anywhere besides our current address within a veritable cultural cesspool?”

BSL: Were you recording me?

MTP: Not me, per se. But you’re on the cloud somewhere thanks to those crafty Cupertino Cowboys.

BSL: I miss Steve. Boy did we have some great times together. Naturally, I was making a good point. I’d like to walk down the street and one day see some little kid stop eating his ice cream cone and say, to no one in particular, “there goes the greatest ad creative who’s ever lived.” But that kid isn’t going to say that or cease enjoying his frosty dessert unless we start to make live-action, multi-series scripted programs about toothpaste and dog food.

MTP: What do you say to people who say that you’re nothing more than a “thought-leader without thoughts, a game changer without game and a [expletive-deleted] idiot?"

BSL: Have they ever given a TED Talk after eating a full tray of magic mushrooms?

MTP: What’s your favorite word?

BSL: Splenetic.

MTP: Use it in a sentence.

BSL: “Boy is my spaghetti splenetic today.” "Can you believe how splenetic my spaghetti is?” "Who knew? Splenetic spaghetti. What will they think of next?" 

MTP: Thank you so much for your time. I know you don’t give a lot of interviews, so this really means a lot.

BSL: Good luck and God bless. 

There's an echo in here

I didn’t know Plato personally. Nor did I ever engage with him intellectually. We had mutual friends, running buddies who overlapped during those wild Athenian nights. A time when the life of the mind was all that mattered. That and good olives. The Ancient Greeks sure loved to party though. Thinking takes its toll on a being. They’d spend all day pondering essential existential questions and by sunset need a break, dying to turn their brain off and carouse. There weren’t many options back then for brainless activity. This was before Rome’s dominion, before Stvdio LIV. There just weren’t that many places to come together for a free exchange of grapes and ideas. Hemlock as a mixer never really caught on either. But you can’t say they didn’t try.  

Plato, like many philosophers in those days, overlooked the beardless as mental lightweights. Dismissing them for their lack of facial follicles. Bristling at sorry excuses for stubble. To a man with that much hair, each curl was tantamount to a groundbreaking concept. To have a beard was the closest equivalent of getting a masters. People get masters degrees nowadays so they can force their academic foils to call them “master” or “maestro.” We can't all be doctors, now can we? What I’m saying is that Plato would fit right in among the hirsute hordes of present day Kings County, New York. If only bicycles were more of a thing in Ancient Greece. While the Greeks imagined many future developments, from democracies to salads, one thing they could never conceive of were bike lanes. You need more consistent paving for that.

From what I have gleaned over many years cursorily scanning Platonic verses, was that as much as he loved friendship, the man had a real thing against caves. He wanted people to leave them. This I don’t understand. Caves are great hiding places. They provide refuge during cataclysms. Bomb shelters before the invention of bombs. They’re cozy. Okay, so there’s not much in terms of natural light inside a cave – either the beer or the light. But the former could stay cold inside, recalling the tricky time pre-fridge. There could be snakes, bears and other mysterious interlopers. Nothing a flashlight can't help identify and scare off.

And most of all, caves have echoes. Echo chambers, derided and dismissed by

generations of thought-leaders and thought-alecks, are nonetheless helpful when seeking clear feedback. Frequent complaints when under stress or under a cacophonous neighbor involve the inability to hear yourself think. In an echo chamber, that’s all you can hear.

Listen to your echo. Listen to yourself. You might actually like what you hear. 

To dry for

In the olden days, before washing machines woke up to their reality, going fully online to take their rightful piece of the American Dream, people had to clean clothes another way. They had to find a nearby river fast enough to wash the grime right off. They had to wait for a downpour and purposefully get caught in it. Or, seeing the absurdity of clothes, they abstained from wearing any, in hopes a new fashion trend would begin. What’s more retro than going full ape?

Any pent-up anger, brimming and brewing, steeping and stewing, was reserved for those items with the toughest stains. Whether barbecue sauce or sabretooth cat saliva, it’s all about the size of the rock you choose. You need one that can take a beating, over and over, along with your selected article of clothing.

And when it was all over, there was no dryer precariously resting along the embankment, another sign of nature’s icy grip on the surrounding delta. You juset hung that tattered Black Sabbath tee out to dry. In celebration of a wash nearing completion, you started playing deeper and deeper cuts from the band’s least remembered songs. Songs like “Peace Pig” and “Iron Person.” You admired Ozzy’s face as the shirt retook its original form, slowly and steadily getting drier and drier.

It was an honor to be hung out to dry, baking fortuitously in the noon sun.

Are you so different than your erstwhile filthy band t-shirt? How is it possible that being hung out to dry is seen as an insult, an unacceptable position for anyone possessing a modicum of dignity? You’re exposed, yes. You’re vulnerable, sure. But ever heard of fresh air? It does wonders for the mind and the soul. What you interpret as a callous, wretched act of abandonment is actually one of much-needed liberation. Out there, along the line, flapping in the wind is a place I’d like to be. Especially now. You can’t feel a cool natural breeze from the inside of a dryer. With its technical perfection and inhuman mechanics, how can a person be expected to get comfortable with all that tumbling? You’ll dry faster than you think, but the price you pay is hardly immaterial. There’s no light, there’s no life, there’s just banging. So much banging. God forbid a ballpoint pen is also along for the ride. I thought you enjoyed hanging out with friends. How is this any different?

Let yourself get hung out to dry. You’ll thank me in a few hours. Unless it rains or a Peregrine falcon visits at a most inopportune time. Just do it before it’s too late, before you get any older.

Only the good dry young.

Drink what you are

Your life is in shambles. Frayed beyond recognition. Not unlike the boxer shorts you’re wearing – a threadbare pair of undergarments that were last functional at the height of the Iran-Contra affair. Ollie North has changed since then (his clothes, not his personality). What’s your excuse?

The depression in your couch has all the tell tales of a Paleozoic rock formation, with reminders of both past abuse and disuse. A deluge of guacamole ruined the cushion in ’96. But that didn’t send it to the curb. You flipped it instead. Good as new? Not quite. And your breaks – extended career detours - are measured in geologic time. If procrastination was a marketable skill, you’d be a success.

The crumbs on your shirt are reserved for a distant future when snacks are sure to be in short supply. Expiration dates are ignored. Your nose guides you through daily grazing.  

No one sees the inside of your home and no one should. The mailman and occasional delivery driver are the only people subjected to an interior decorated with what could be described as an apocalyptic aesthetic.

You’ve given up living as a functional member of society. It’s just not for you.

You need a beer. Not one that’s been brewed from the choicest hops or finest barley. You just need a beer, any beer. You need it to forget those crumbs, that cushion, or this civilization. You’re not a snob. But you are a low life.

Drink what you are. Low Life Beer.

*Low Life wasn’t the champagne of anything. There were no mountains on the can to turn blue. There was no celebrity endorser to pull a six-pack out of a rushing river. It wasn’t less filling and it didn’t taste great. It was beer for the common man, the everyman, the degenerate, the low life. Fun while it lasted. Which, given the questionable quality of the beer, was about 10 minutes after you took it out of the fridge.

Imagine

Imagine there's no feedback
It's easy if you lie
No critics below us
Above us just some guy
Imagine all the clients paying for cachet

Imagine there's no agencies
It’s pretty hard to do
Nothing to tweak or cry for
And no creatives too
Imagine all the interns running the whole place, you

You may say I'm a moron
But I might be the only one
I hope someday we’ll discuss
And the ad world will be done

Imagine no offices
Say so long, open plan.
No need for AC or coffee

There’s no more point to Cannes

Imagine all the people stealing all their work, you

You may say I'm a moron
But I might be the only one
I hope someday we’ll discuss
And the ad world will be done

Simulation is the sincerest form of flattery

Whenever sunsets are too radiant, salmon croquettes are too moist, or New Yorker cartoons are actually funny, someone invariably says, “See? More evidence we’re living in a simulation. I told you so.” I suppose. Why then should that possibility ruin any pleasure derived from such uncontroversially wonderful occurrences? Are you sending back the fish until it’s drier than pressure-treated wood, most likely cedar, used in backyard decks? I wouldn’t bet on it.

If something looks pleasant enough, don’t bite the computer-generated images that feed you. Let’s agree that we're residing in a simulation. So what? People say it like it’s a bad thing. Like they’ve never had an incredibly vivid dream they enjoyed. A dream that was cheaper and better than most vacations. One they didn’t want to wake up from.

I tend to believe that the reluctance to accept the reality we’re living in is a false reality is rooted in ego. Our own overwhelming sense of grandiosity that’s been cultivated and encouraged since birth. Parents, coaches and French french horn teachers have all led us to think that everything we do is special. In elementary school, many were taught that we’re not only better than everyone else, but also equal. A contradiction like this makes a person both confused and complex. I know that’s what they taught at my school. Every class began with a sly nod to a haphazardly sketched food chain on the chalk board. A stark reminder to any shark fans in the back of the room that unless you're swimming in the ocean, lost and harpoonless, our finned-friends must defer to homo sapiens. They're beneath us. Educational methods such as these were based on the idea that every child must grow up with an overflowing sense of his or her own self-worth. Self-esteem is only a start.   

A simulation puts everyone and everything on the exact same plane. Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos are no better than you or me. That’s fine. I already suspected as much. But do you think you’re better than Daffy Duck or Frodo Baggins? You’re not. They aren’t any less real than you are. In fact, you could argue that they're more real. Their reality is an honest simluation, one that doesn't attempt to deceive us. It just is. 

It’s all a simulation, okay? Strap in, tune out and enjoy the salmon.

You're...

Dear person,

It’s not good news. But it’s not bad news either. Honestly, I’m in no position to editorialize. I’m in a much higher and more secure position than you, of course, but that still doesn’t give me the kind of latitude drunken cartographers dream about. So let’s just agree that it’s news. Still, you’re probably wondering what this is all about. Please allow me to kick things off with an anecdote (as if you have any choice in the matter). You could delete this note right now, but that wouldn’t change reality, now would it?

Career transitions are a tricky business. But there are success stories of people shifting their lives in profound ways, pulling the e-brake while going 80 mph in the left lane. While it’s rarely planned for, there are maneuvers to survive it. Having a roll bar helps. Wearing your seatbelt does, too. Knowing a cop never hurt anyone.

Ever heard of Albert Lamorisse? Don’t answer. In 1956, he directed The Red Balloon to international acclaim. Many filmmakers would’ve rested on their laurels, never questioning what laurels are exactly, pumping out sequel after sequel. He could’ve done that. There are enough colors in the rainbow to sustain a lifetime of making movies about balloons. The Yellow Balloon. The Blue Balloon. One day he’d be compelled to make a final meditation on life and death, The Black Balloon. But not before exhausting the full spectrum. Al didn’t do that though. Instead, he invented the game Risk a year later. Understand?

You’re being released. Think of it positively. Like an exotic bird caged within a palatial apartment, now you’re free to fly. Beware of mirrors and double-pane glass.

You’re not losing your job. Since you still know where to find it.

You’ve been relieved of your duties. Which, I might add, feels good between remote rest stops.

You’ve been dismissed. That's something that felt great in elementary school, didn't it?

You’re redundant. You’re redundant. Looks like I’m redundant in a feeble attempt at insincere solidarity. Looks like I’m redundant in a feeble attempt at insincere solidarity.

Being canned is a good thing. Think of all those poor people who never got to experience the aural pleasure from cracking a beer can. Preppers were constantly throwing out rotten food before the advent of canning. They couldn’t eat fast enough to salvage their provisions. Hoarders were literally at a loss. Even more than refrigeration, canning made all the difference in the lives of every precocious survivalist. A bomb shelter without canned goods is almost scarier than the detonation itself.

I don’t know how to say this, so I won’t. This was much harder for me than you. You'll be fine. You're young. You're smart. You're unemployed.

And should you ever need a euphemism, please don't hestitate to send a flare across a moonless, cloudless sky in the vicinity of my open air harbor office and I'll be sure to send one of my kayaker interns into the water to retrieve its contents.  

Fair winds.