The Brand Zone

A lot of ad people come to me with their problems. Some naively cling to the belief that they can prosper sans my advice. Eventually, every one of them ends up calling me late in the evening. This is despite knowing that I put my phone on “do not disturb” mode from 10 PM until dawn. That doesn’t dissuade the pestering little guys from sending tedious text messages, riddled with spelling errors and emojis, praying I break my nighttime communication prohibition. The gist of their queries is usually the same: what do people want out of huge brands? 

Like all things, I choose to take it extremely personally. They are calling me, after all. One day, in an early morning haze, I had a momentary epiphany. I know what brands want. Brands do not represent a diverse set of interests, hoping to appeal to a broad base of support. They don’t just “do shoes” – whatever that means. Consumers – smart ones, anyway – wish to see their brands as friends. Ones who annoy, who hound, who are “there for you” when others are not.  

Maybe they’ll even pick up the phone and give you a ring after hours, simply to check in and bend your ear lobe a bit. That’s what’s missing in advertising and marketing – intimacy. While I may view a targeted banner ad on my favorite website as speaking directly to me, it quite different from Mr. Phil Knight of Nike calling my home at 2:30 in the morning. In my home where my wife sleeps, where my imaginary friends come and play with their toys. I don’t have to wonder if that’s personal – he’s saying my name, he’s wishing me a buona fortuna, and inquiring about a long, dead dog of mine. That’s what people want. 

We want to be heard. We need to be heard. And TV commercials are too broad for anyone to identify with the story. The cute thirty seconds are clearly speaking to millions of people. Not good enough. Adults want to cuddle up to brands, playing that stupid beach paddleball game, for which there is no definitive way to win. It’s a game only picks losers. 

Ideally, brands aren’t merely good additions to your life – they are substitutes. Who needs real friends when the fine folks at Coca-Cola and Verizon are oiling you up on a daily basis? Brands understand people in ways people can’t. They have enormous budgets and focus groups, thousands of employees with you in mind. They rely on bulletin boards plastered with your photographs to get a sense of who you are. There are countless pushpins and yarn connecting your passions to your problems and everything in between. When they're done, they'll know you better than your parents. Your friend Dave might remember your birthday if you remind him enough. Yet he’s always sending you short Martin Short videos when any halfway attentive pal would know Marin Lawrence is your true comic hero.

Give the people what they want. Phones ringing off the hook, doorbells ringing off the knob, emails ringing off the desk. When you see a brand, you don’t see a gigantic company with stuffy boardrooms and the random foosball table tucked into an open office space. You see a friend with the same hobbies and issues. Brands aren’t a reflection of society. They are a reflection of you. And it’s why every brand ought to sell mirrors. 

Like what you see?

Facebook's utility

“Facebook is a public utility.”

I hear this said a lot. I hear it in the warm summer breeze, in my cold air-conditioned sleep and from my exceptionally verbal, quite cool cat. And I couldn’t agree more. Facebook, an extremely engaging platform for social stimuli, is indeed a public utility. There are agitated misanthropes who insist on comparing the wisdom within its pages to mean-spirited puns written on bathroom tiles or incendiary remarks tucked onto university bulletin boards. What Facebook has given humanity is not unlike previous breakthroughs in the realm of gas, electricity and the granddaddy of them all, water. 

The Big Three are so ingrained into society that imagining a world absent any of them is as frightening as it is absurd. We need these three to live. But the truth is, you can live without gas and electricity. You can rub a few pieces of wood together for fire or light up your evening under the stars. The sun’s up for about half the day, so what are you worried about? I’d be lying if I put water in the same category. Water is our most versatile commodity. 

And Facebook is the closest thing we have to water. Quite simply, we can’t live without it. Picture a world where you couldn’t check your newsfeed or poke dear friends from the other side of the country? What would happen if you started to use the word “befriend” instead of “friend” again? What’s remarkable is how far we progressed as a civilization prior to the advent of Facebook. It’s almost as if everything that came before was leading up to the moment Zuck delivered the world from boredom.

You can’t learn from a book. They’re too long and too heavy. Learning from those in your network is a significantly simpler proposition. If we back out now and don’t allow the federal government to subsume this social media platform in a monopolistic regulatory coup, who knows what the future won’t bring. It's the only place you can truly count on for Fake News. What's the alternative? To actually read? No chance. 

The possibilities are beautiful. Here’s your ideal day in a world where Facebook is finally treated like H₂O. You wake up with a hot shower of Facebook, individually washing off your weekend regrets. At lunch, you decided to drive a few hours upstate for some white-water rafting on a Facebook tributary, with rapids of snarky comments and incoherent diatribes. This is far more dynamic than doing Facebook laps at your Y. As you wade through the sizzle, you’re thirsty. So you do what’s natural: you grab a tall glass of Facebook, throwing back a few pints to ease the pain. When you finally do get home after a long and arduous day, you draw a Facebook bath, letting the tub slowly fill up with likes and shares.  

Think of all the human beings who’ve come and gone, somehow surviving without Facebook. Are we really going to laugh in their faces, pretending as if this social media platform is just a slightly more complex version of Myspace, ignoring its true essence? A public service that’s unlike any other. One that bands of rambunctious Ramapithecus would gladly trade in for any number of tools. 

It’s dumb luck that we made it to 2005 without Facebook. The only way to ensure humanity’s survival is to codify the platform into law for all time. Otherwise, it'll be a crude joke like geocities and the message boards of yore. I don’t want to wake up in a world where I visit Facebook and instead receive a broken links with an image of a weird-looking dinosaur.

Perhaps there’s a religious aspect to it, as well. God created man to create Facebook. Sounds simple. Sounds beautiful. Sounds right. Let's not forget who we work for. 

Snowflakes: I stand corrected

Does anyone remember snowflakes? I know Kringle does. Up there from his northern outpost, surrounded by fawning caribou and ornery elves, he remembers. He sips from an impossibly large thermos, recalling past blizzards, rough nights and how in all his years, the only gift he’s ever received were over-baked cookies and spoiled milk. He could’ve skimmed off the top of his sack and told the old lady it “fell off the back of a sleigh.” He desperately needs to upgrade their home’s measly electronic setup. This is a man who’s just now getting around to buying a flat screen – decades after they were in vogue. And just once he’d like to use the front door instead of a chimney. His face usually matched his red suit – ya know, from all the eggnog. In his defense, the man’s always been a little bi-polar. 

But it was a different time. When home invasions were welcomed one day a year and being a snowflake was a good thing, a fine thing, a best thing. You see, “snowflaking” – as it was often referred to in latter half of the 20^th century – implied a sort of profound uniqueness. This was the era of Daria and The Animaniacs – distinctive characters with peculiar habits who were like no one else. But snowflakes evaporate on a car’s hood within seconds of making contact – unless it’s freezing and they quickly pile up by the millions. That’s called a snowstorm. Heard of it?

Children would gather around tiny tables and chairs, carefully cutting up pieces of construction paper into snowflakes for arts and crafts. We were taught that snowflakes were like fingerprints, all different in their own special way. And like us, they wouldn't last forever. You could ball them up, build a snowman, or design an elaborate ice sculpture that has people questioning if you’ve chosen the right profession. 

Weird people were the norm in society then. I knew a guy who once liked to carry rocks of various shapes and sizes in his pocket. He called them “pocket rocks.” Said they were good luck and worth a lot money in Liechtenstein, where rocks are considered currency. I didn’t know any better.   

Nowadays, you can’t be a snowflake. It’s a sign of weakness or worse. I’d like to return to a time when snowflakes were a good thing and goats were a bad thing. While probably too much to ask, a man can dream. Here’s to flurries lit by the albedo effect. Whatever they say, we’re all still snowflakes to me.   

CORRECTIONS: An earlier version of this blog incorrectly referred to Kris Kringle as some guy named Dante with a love of cold weather and venison jerky.

  

An earlier version of this blog misstated what happens to snowflakes when they first make contact with an automobile’s exterior. They don’t dance. They evaporate. 

Because of an editing error, an earlier version also referred to a snowstorm as a dance-off.

An earlier version misidentified the class children once created snowflakes in. It was arts and crafts, not AP Calculus with plenty of TI-83 calcs and additional arithmetical accoutrements. 

Because of an editing error, an earlier version erroneously used the term pocket rockets instead of pocket rocks. 

An earlier version of this blog mistakenly referred to the albedo effect as the Alfredo effect: saucy, snowy and an altogether creamy good time. 

Airheads

It wasn’t too long ago that the dream of every person, young or old, was to hover. Children would fall asleep imagining a nation full of hovercrafts, hoverboards and hovershoes. Business meetings would be derailed by hoverchat. Ironic, since hovertrains were supposed to have a low chance of derailing themselves. Pets yearned to float while eating hoverchow from hoverbowls. Hovering was in the air.

There were only two nominally anti-hover contingents among the adult population – magicians and birds. The Copperfields, the Blaines – cornerstones of the landed, mystical gentry - feared territorial encroachment on their levitation skills. It took talent to float above a crowd. What would they do if anyone in their audience also had the ability to suspend themselves in the air? They’d simply come too far to return to pulling bunnies out of crackerjack boxes in poorly lit Bayonne, New Jersey VFW halls. Would they have to actually buy a wand again? Tuxedos went out of fashion with the sinking of the Titanic. But this would change everything. Some young wizards like John Wand out of Bayonne were up for it. The way he figured it, why not give everyone the skills it takes to levitate? Felt more equitable, more American. 

Birds were against it from the beginning. They’d have protracted meetings, not unlike parliamentary question time, debating the subject. There were some birds, like owls, who thought it best to take a rather ecumenical position on hovering. Why should they be the only ones above the fray? Is this an airspace problem? There was plenty to share. Even though hovering was hardly flying at altitude, many anxious avians lived in fear. All it would take would be a single housecat flying several feet off the ground to ruin everything. And they had much more to fear than wizards with their pointy hats and flexible swords. This was more than a threat to their livelihood – it was a threat to their lives. A world of flying cats meant no nest would be safe and no tree impregnable. 

As we now know, their fears were totally unfounded. As quickly as the hovercraze hit, it subsided. It was a veritable hovercrash. Martin St. McFly sure looked cool hovering around town. Too bad it was no way to relate to the common people. Everyone deserves to be on the same level.   

We came to our senses with most people losing interest after realizing hovering just meant surfing on air. Regular folks wondered if they would have to start acting like surfers. Peppering their speech with words like “tubular” “gnarly” and “cowabunga.” What if they liked sunscreen? This proved to be a non-starter, sidelining the hoverdream for good. The birds were elated, the magicians were relieved and the rest of us could remain totally grounded. Sure, some still hoped against hope that they could finally skip their swim classes at the YMCA and learn to walk on water like the bearded boys of yore. They’d been sentenced to a lifetime of perpetual guppiedom. Treading water and doing laps is the fastest way to go nowhere in life. Because walking on water was a metaphor - what they were really doing was hovering. 

Yet we still climbed up staircases and entered tall buildings to touch the clouds. In advertising, normal conversation inevitably turns to a discussion of what’s groundbreaking. Heated seats that warm the coldest souls. Ketchup, through a chemical process no one should witness, that’s a totally clear liquid. Hovering was once firmly in this category, too. But there’s nothing groundbreaking about leaving ground. Earthquakes on the other hand – what’s more groundbreaking than that?  

For my next trick…

Fire works

Fireworks appeal to practically everyone. You don’t even have to possess all your senses to fully appreciate them. The blind feel the boom in their sternum, bracing themselves for a series of terrifying loud bangs and pops. The deaf marvel at the vibrant light display in the distance. The dumb, well, they can’t get enough. But for the rest of us, fireworks are like nothing else. 

Zeus, a friend, tries his best to compete with the pyromaniacs returning from the Keystone state with a trunkful of goodies during the occasional noisy thunderstorm. But it’s usually a pathetic, sorry display of minimal thunder and lightning. The problem for him is that far too many rainstorms have neither. We’re used to drizzle. We’ve accepted light rain as a thing. Imagine that? And if the Z-man wants credit for the good times, he can’t hide from blame for the bad ones. The boring, mindless patter of droplets hitting your roof is enough to make a person sick. Zeus would be better off hooking up the turntable I bought him for Christmas (yes, he celebrates Christmas – it’s 2020) and listen to Aaron Copland. Because the deity's thunderclaps need more timpani. 

New York City residents have been treated to nightly performances of fireworks for what’s going on a month. It’s been a beautiful break from the usual buzz of AC units running out of juice and madmen shrieking. While both still happen all the time, they are harder to hear. It’s good to be home. 

I should mention that a few people find these displays “annoying.” But how troubled is your life that you can’t feel the joy in a blast so deafening you clutch your sternum in fear? How empty is your existence that you can’t see the beauty in a shot so blinding you rub your eyes for 5 minutes straight? What are you going to do – read a book to get your kicks? Binge on another terrible show that you watch with the attentiveness of a goldfish taking their final bow? 

Fireworks haven’t yet been ruined by modern art. I can’t say with absolute certainty it won’t happen one day. But these are things that haven’t been updated in a long time. They remain extremely dangerous. Which is kind of the point. There’s no Jackie Pollock inching his way to center stage, edging ol’ Rembrandt out of the picture. Fireworks are traditional. 

What’s incredible about these luminosity-loving renegades is that they’re rarely waiting until sundown to shoot their payload. When it’s still light out, fireworks are a mood enhancer. You get the essence of them, but not much more than that. Yes, they scare animals. But we're animals, too. Ideas scare us and they're not even illegal. And it's not like you have to go to Pennsylvania to find them.

When the fireworks stop – and they will – you’ll wish you hadn’t complained. You’ll hear what you think is a gunshot, but instead just a neighbor’s car backfiring. Tears will form in your eyes, wistful at what you've lost. We’re lucky to have it every night. Is it disruptive? Yes. Is it selfish? What isn’t? Enjoy the show. 

Statue of limitations

I receive compliments the way Amazon Prime obsessives receive packages - every day between sunrise and sunset. Lately, I’ve thumbed through my dog-eared trapper keeper cataloguing them, a notebook that dates back to the Ford administration. Most of them hold up as coniferous forms of praise, barely losing any luster in the years since. But not all. There’s one word which has seen the cruel marks of my red pen, circled and starred, unsure whether to abandon or support it. 

“Statuesque.” According to this wonderful archive, I was first referred to as such in the fall of 1987, mere moments before the market imploded. A hot dog vendor a few mustard packets from the Stock Exchange delivered the good news. So I know what I’m talking about during our current non-debate about statues - having gone through life thus far with plans on lining the entirety of the eastern seaboard with oversized versions of my likeness. Maybe it was premature of me. Maybe the country isn’t ready for such a display of sculptural might. Like a lucid dream, I have the means and wherewithal to change it. And this is something I’ve done before. For a six month stretch in the early days of our young century, I kept dreaming about ordering lunch at a deli, getting marinated artichoke hearts despite my waking life’s love of sun-dried tomatoes. Needless to say, I changed the order.

Like public parks and gas stations, we have far too many statues in this country. We could just take them all down and be done with it. But it’ll be more gratifying to take our time. Unfortunately, a truly statueless society isn’t going to happen anytime soon. What we need is a reasonable compromise. The whole “who deserves a statue” is not for me. That involves too much deliberation and conversation. Of this, there should be no debate. The Big Guy is one more close reading of the Old Testament from cancellation himself. We must act fast.

The real problem is that statues are extremely well-made and well-maintained. Before we can get started, seriously considering each side of the argument needs to stop. Look, the solution is simple. Statues ought to be constructed using only perishable, ideally edible materials. We enjoy them and then, by the time values and cultural mores shift, the thing is melting away. The only people complaining are those in search of seconds. Is bronze really that much better than a 10-foot brick of Jarlsberg, from which any C+ art student could chisel their way towards artistic and snacking bliss? Remake every controversial statue using cheese and even if someone doesn’t like the subject, with the right cracker, they’ll come around.

Excluding Ray Kurzweil and his cranium cadre of immortality-bound eggheads, none of us regular people will live forever. Why then should a statue? Naturally, this opens up larger questions surrounding how much time in the sun any work of art deserves. Take the blistering Egyptian sun, baking people and sand alike. Isn’t it time we thanked the Great Pyramids for their service and moved on? How about making room for a new shape? There’s a reason nobody builds pyramids anymore – have you seen the penthouse? It’s tiny and windowless – so much for getting what you pay for. Guys like Shakespeare and Homer? Give it a rest, will ya? How many times do we have to sit through Hamlet again? If Cats annoyed you, just imagine it running for hundreds or thousands of years. It's time to set term limits for art. 

We need to forget the past before we're too far in the future. Because nothing lasts forever. Not even good taste. 

Malapropos of something

Wild thyme, huh? I should know, having maced the herbal portion of my SATs. But that was high school, when my future was still very much in front of me. I had a great many influenzal teachers who taught me how to lean. Who provided a fresh box of issues whenever I was under the weather, feeling humid and confused. Remarkably, I attempted college, matriculating every night. A large cash of preferences and letters of recrimination certainly didn’t hurt my briefcase. 

Soon enough, I entered the working world through several unpacked intern shifts. The first couple were reproduction companies, specializing in Doc films and the occasional nurse shorts. As hard as it was, I had to leave New Jersey, the Garden Estate. Communing every day on the train takes its toll. Riding the subway back then was dangerous, as well. This was Jared’s hey, day, after all.

I couldn’t take a chance becoming just another swerving artist, living bed check to bed check. Perpendicularly behind on my rent despite making all the right angles financially. After weighing the pros and cones (remembering to use the tear function) I seriously considered running from president. Although, the pectoral college isn’t as strong as it once was. Joseph Sixpack doesn't vote anymore. My age was a marker against me and there weren’t many good opticians left to speak of. Sure, I could’ve taken up a musical implement, like say, the bag pies, and joined a yokel Fife and Dumb club. Playing timeless tunes like “Larry Owens” or “Amazing Graze.” I think the ladder song is about cows munching on grass, since they never seam to smoke the stuff.

It’s impolite to know that I own a car, a Manuel. With its Styx shift and pearl clutch, I’m quiet lucky. I’ve been memorializing baseball statics since boyhood. Which is hardly a lubricative career path. No one’s going to give you a book of Job out of the goodness of their hearth. Not with our county’s fun and mental separation of church and state. If they ever brought me up on charges, I’d defiantly plead the filth. We’re not that far away from having a Secret Police either - a 21^st century gazpacho. 

Then again, I can’t help but be quite opulent when pixelating the future. My appetizer for news is lower than it used to be. So I consult less, digesting only what’s necessary. Don’t lose hope when you can still win it. 

Carpet diem. 

Bad apples

No one teaches you what to do with bad apples. Unlike say, bananas, where pretty much everyone with a faint pulse knows you can salvage the potassium protuberance decaying on your breakfast nook by baking a quick loaf of banana bread. We’re often told that a bad apple ruins the bunch. It’s so final though. You could’ve toiled for hours, picking away your favorites in any orchard of your choosing, and then upon discovering a single rotten fruit, tossing the entire canvas sack to the curbside. Leaving it for the birds and the worms and those drive-by gleaners untroubled by problematic apples. 

But as a society we must determine how to best deal with bad apples. They’re not going away entirely – not anytime soon. Our standards for apples should be higher. Much higher. I’ve seen people bite into apples with more holes than the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. More blemishes than the pockmarked surface of the moon. A serious bout of teenage acne should be a prerequisite for lunar exploration. To be an impossibly smooth-faced astronaut would be a problem for Houston. I’ve witnessed fools and morons cutting into an apple that’s softer than quicksand. How we went from the days of John Appleseed to accepting substandard apples is a mystery I may never solve. 

Do you really think this enterprising young New Englander, born in the original thirteen colonies, was alone in his affinity for spreading seed? There were others, too. Individuals who tried and failed to see their fruit favorites capture the national appetite. There was Frederick Peachman and John Plum. George Pear and Catherine Strawberry. Horatio Nectarine and Abigail Melon. None of whom were able to rouse their fellow citizens to join them in a futile quest to upend the apple’s nationwide appeal. The fruit’s versatility was unrivaled. Have you ever had plum wine or pear whiskey? It’s nothing compared to the refreshing quality of a tankard of hard cider. John knew that. He banked on it. Ply people with enough drink and they’ll ignore the bad apples in their midst. 

But not any longer. While a foundational American beverage, cider ain’t what it used to be. We’ve swapped it in favor of kombucha and almond milk. Drinks that would’ve sent any good American to the confessional booth for a one-way rant with God. He was the first version of Apple support. There was no genius bar back then, just a lone maniac, walking the land barefoot. We might be wise to enlist the Cupertino cadre in this thankless project. 

If you see an inferior apple, get rid of it. In recent months, I've gravitated towards what apple people call “Gold Rush.” I’ve unilaterally renamed the apple “Golden Dawn,” since it evokes the resonant nomenclature of a religious cult, terrorist organization or off-off-off-Broadway musical. Biting into one tastes like eating a new sun.

It's time for the good apples to step up and say in a single voice, "the world needs compost and that's where you, my little rotten friend, are headed if you don't shape up."

Wise words from a wise fruit. 

Caving to the Mob

This isn’t anything like caving to you and me. We’re civilians. We put on our hiking boots, headlamps and load a few gorp-packed satchels into the trunk. That’s it. We might be gone for a few hours, half a day, at most. The same cannot be said for wise guys. If they’re leaving their natural habitat at all, the whole thing has to be worth their while. 

When they head into the country, miles from the familiar interiors of pork stores and social clubs, they are seeking a respite. They need distractions, too. The hustle doesn’t ever end, per se, but it slows down to a much more manageable pace in bucolic surroundings. It’s hard enough admitting hobbies in front of fellow gangsters back on the street, where every misstep is judged and remembered. “Pass the stuffed peppers and let me tell you about my model train set again.” It’s not the sort of environment conducive to encouragement and positive reinforcement. Undermining is rife, backstabbing is everywhere.

Except of course in a cave. There’s something about that cold, crisp air that changes a person. Even someone who’s entire income stream revolves around football season. While many of these cavers have never paid taxes in their entire lives, that’s not a problem here down in the earth. These are made men, who took an oath – they simply don’t give a schist. Spelunking in an Adidas track suit and a swinging gold chain does wonders for one’s precarious mental health. What a setting. Stalagmites, stalactites and a cooler of thinly-sliced gabagool. 

Caves are silent. They of the old school – when omertà was still valued. If you can do a few hours in a suffocating rock crevice, what’s a few years in solitary? It was different way back when, before Apalachin and dangerous erosion put many of the mafia’s favorite caverns at risk. You had dozens of mobsters in pin striped suits and wing tips sashaying through mammoth cave systems. They didn’t know where they were going. Not like the guys today. 

There was always the practical appeal of caves. A place to go on the lam, laying low for a bit, while the situation back home calms down. With RICO, the Feds can destroy something that took many lifetimes to create. The same can be said for caves. Rocks percolate, dissolve and anyone with a little free time and a lot of dynamite can destroy what took millions of years to form. Some oil from your hands, some olive oil from your pantry – that’s it.

Many mafiosi think of themselves like caves. They're exogene – much, much deeper than they appear. You see only the wads of cash tied with a fraying rubber band. The flashy cars with idiotic vanity plates (Vroombah). But inside they’re lost little boys. Frightened of the dark, scared of troglobites. Caves are nature's answer to the witness protection program. 

Binary code

The world is not a complicated place. Nuance is one more word that should’ve stayed in France, across the vast Atlantique, safely ensconced in excess dough and leftover crème. With Pierre, Gustave and the rest of the carping garcons, cackling away at dumb Amercians pronouncing the t in ballet. The world, simply put, is simple. Issues of the day aren’t multi-faceted or complex. They don’t require research, compassion or both. There aren’t multiple sides to an individual issue. We’re not talking about dodecahedrons here. The shapes worth knowing are much, much simpler than that. Everything is a binary. You’re either smart or you’re stupid. You’re either hungry or you’re starving. You’re either a denim shorts (yes, jorts) person or you prefer madras. Get it? 

That’s just the way it goes. Whenever someone says, “there must be more to the story,” calmly tell them that it’s never the case. Be mindful to do so without putting your hand on their shoulder or any other exposed body part that’s glistening in the moonlight. Because you’re either helping them or hurting them. And there’s no point in making this a criminal matter. Not yet anyway. 

Information isn’t like money. It’s not meant to be hoarded in a diverse portfolio or stuffed carefully beneath a firm mattress. Kept inside porcelain pork banks or glass fish tanks. Information isn’t tip-worthy, destined to be stuck into a jar as a social indicator of your immense appreciation for someone's fine work ethic. The more information you have, the less you understand. When you’re reading an article, stop at the headline. The body of the text will only confuse you. You already know plenty. 

Some will try and convince you that your education is ongoing. That you can always be learning new things. I don’t think so. After the age of 7, you’re set in your ways. Done. Overdone even. Toast. So butter up and move on. 

Human history is a single unbroken story of good and evil. The devil on one side and Steve Jobs on the other. Or something like that. I like to imagine world history like a movie. But there are no bystanders. There are no bit players. No extras. No supporting cast. No prop people. No gaffers or Best Boys. Everyone is a star in this scenario. But there are only two roles to go around. 

And everything is shot in black and white. 

Sandwiches are not a monolith

Not that you’d know that from the weakstream media. Sinking anchors drowning in their own self-importance and parroting talking points while clucking and chirping at mortified guests. These are hosts of major shows with that seizure-inducing red Chyron endlessly flashing on screen. This should not be confused with Chiron, a popular centaur best known for his piercing wit, searing wisdom and sautéing judiciousness. Half man, half horse, all common sense. 

They see no difference between a Reuben, with its sky-high stack of corned beef dripping after a liberal dose of Thousand Island dressing, and a fresh caprese sandwich on ciabatta - just like your Nonna used to bake it. “It’s all bread. So what are we quibbling about?” These are the same fools who draw no distinction between pastrami and corned beef. Good luck convincing Shlomo and Seamus. 

These lunatics sit there under the hot lights of cable news, behind dangerously angular desks without so much as a halved tennis ball to blunt the force of a sharp corner into a soft thigh. Resting atop plush-but-not-too-plush couches. Wouldn’t want any loud upholstery distracting from the important news of the day. They're probably eating wraps and salads in their spare time, passing judgment on food they won't and can't ever understand. 

These nightly ninnyhammers drool over a BLT, but completely ignore the subtle, yet important differences of a turkey club. To them, they're the same. Both are eaten, both are beloved. Why fret about the rest? Lobster Rolls and Po’ Boys are just two individuals in the bready tapestry that comprise the delicious sandwich experience. Each sandwich is unique and special. They have their own hopes and dreams. 

Sandwiches aren’t all the same. Some are cheesy, toasted and spicy. Others are cold, wet and sweet. They are a diverse bunch, varied and complex, and deserve to be treated as such. You can have a sandwich for breakfast, lunch or dinner. You can down one for dessert or a quick snack. You can inhale one on the road or on a smooth piece of chipless china at a fancy bistro. You can eat one at a ballgame high up in the nosebleeds or sprawled across a roof deck under the shimmering Aurora.

When in need of sleep, a sandwich is a pillow. When desperate for beauty, a sandwich is a work of art.  And when dying for companionship, a sandwich is a friend. 

Start listening to your friend.

Here to help

Are you not in the right state of mind to write right now? Do headlines and pop-up banner ads no longer keep your soul burning ? Incinerating good ideas with volcanic heat? Please reach out to me and I’ll take your job. While I’m currently aboard the SS Best Guy, my 75-foot yacht anchored somewhere between Corsica and Delaware, I can offer assistance. While I can’t get into specifics without risking my privacy, I would love nothing more than to help a stranger out. No one should be forced to work for a living. There are other things a person can do. Like learn to wash champagne off a boat’s keel. I too once preferred drinking port on the high seas – for what should be obvious, linguistic reasons. But that didn’t last long. Solar noon in the mid-Atlantic will disabuse anyone, even a swilling Lisbonian of port’s maritime utility. I want to offer my own skills and ability so anyone can focus on whatever matters most. I don’t want money. Though I need money. Yachts aren’t exactly an investment. You understand.

That’s not all I’m willing to do for my fellow aggrieved citizen, lost and anguished amid the world’s daily onslaught of madness. Does your house look foreign to you? Are you no longer moved by the sliding floorboards? Does your bay window seem strangely out of place? Do you feel like an invader in your own home? I’m here to help. I’ll take your home and whatever’s leftover in your fridge. You shouldn’t have to live anywhere you don’t feel comfortable. Try a Saturn for a little mid-afternoon shuteye. Just make sure the windows are cracked a bit. 

You see that croissant you’re eating. I’ll take it off your hands and put into my gullet. You shouldn’t have to eat something you’re not comfortable finishing. 

That paperweight on your desk. The one with the unusual design. It’s mine now. You’ve gone totally digital. Paperweights will just remind you of the past. And that’s something you don’t deserve. When you do ship it, wrap it well, since the slightest imperfection will force me to take it directly from the mailbox to the trashcan. 

Is your dog looking askance during early morning bouts of yoga? Send the pup my way. I’ll do what I can to bring him or her back to “canine cruising.” You shouldn’t have any responsibilities, especially those involving the welfare of other creatures. 

You may call me by my name. Or you can call me Joe Generous, on account of my generosity. You shouldn’t have to do anything that I can’t take care of. 

Letter of wreckommendation

I write to you as your hardly humble, former protégé. A writer, a wordman. Yesterday, you released a vague letter of recommendation for me to use at a later date. It was a reference that I had hoped to cultivate in the future, just as a farmer carefully caresses their dirt. Digging for worms, praying for rain, yelling for sun. Like a rotted-out elm tree with the Keeblers hollering inside during another late afternoon bull session, your words rang hollow. You said I was a “great man and a better writer.” While both are demonstrably true, without comparing me to other great men of history, this sentence lacks context. Who’s going to understand it? What about Homer? Twain? One of the Keeblers? From there, things only got worse. 

In the very next sentence, you write that I possess “all the skills and talents to have a successful career.” In what? Magic? I donated my wand to charity years ago. You know that. You bought packing tape because the Postal Service has a bias against duct. Then my rabbit hitched a ride on a passing train. You know that, too. You drove him to the station. His name was Gerald and he wasn’t ready for the hobo life. But you had to tell him that there’s no hobo-equivalent on planes. Yes, people do stowaway from time-to-time, but that’s different. Where’s the culture in that? The guitars, moonshine and such. And I haven’t worn a tuxedo in a decade. It’s still at the dry cleaners. When I asked Whitman for a reco, he said I contained multitudes. At least that was poetic. 

You did worse than the bare minimum. The stakes are too high to justify a letter with this lack of substance. The closing sent me flying. You write, “Is he the best writer I’ve ever met? Perhaps. But we haven’t technically met. Not yet. I look forward to that day. Maybe at a book signing or a barbecue.” I hate (love) to keep harping on the same thing. But here too, you could’ve made reference to the Keebler family and all their good works. They’ve met me. They know me. Why’d you have to say we don’t know each other? I know we don’t know each other. But they don’t know that. You have a lot to learn.

Thanks for nothin’.

Interview with François Cheval

A few months after the iPhone came out, I forgot what a landline looked like. Well into the 21^st century I couldn’t for the life of me remember what devices that played videotapes were called. VHS player? Video box? Tape thing? It didn’t matter, the world had changed and no one bothered to rewind. Today’s interview is in the same vein – a bulging equine vein that is. François Cheval has held nearly every position within an ad agency (but mostly modeling ones). He offers a unique perspective on many things, but especially automation. I caught up with him at his stable in southern France. He’s a retired horse on a pension, living there in the twilight of his life. 

MTP: Good morning. Or should I say, “bonjour mon ami”? 

FC: My mother was American. Plus, it’s nighttime here. 

MTP: I see. 

FC: No, you don’t see. This is a phoner.

MTP: What do you miss most about agency life?  

FC: Look, when I started, “horsepower” actually meant something. By the time I left, most people thought jockeys were gnomes and fillies were cheesesteaks.

MTP: How have you changed? 

FC: Not much. I know a lot of horses, like my friend Etienne who did some modeling for Renault in the 70s, who get a little fame and immediately are too big for their horseshoes. Prancing around on their hind legs eating chocolate-covered frog legs. Me? I never lost my taste for hay. That was the only thing keeping me sane.  

MTP: What does hay taste like?

FC: Poulet.

MTP: Do you have any advice for people worried about the automation revolution?

FC: I’ll tell you a quick story. Back then I knew a lot of horses. More than I know today. I had a fairly good relationship with Secretariat. An oft-repeated fact about Big Red is that when he died, doctors discovered that his heart was two and a half times bigger than your average horse. What they don’t tell you is the size of his –

MTP: This is a family blog. So if you’re about to  –

FC: Brain. He had a tiny brain. He was a dumb jock, okay? Nice guy. Great guy even.

MTP: And?

FC: I thought my playing the game, studying Quark and Adobe I’d be valued for things besides my looks. But Musk won’t return my calls. People haven’t relied on horses for transportation in years. I have a few decent connections with the Amish community – who, I might add, have been great to me. Here in France, it doesn’t help much though. The point is that horseracing hasn’t really changed. Maybe I was the dumb one, after all.

MTP: What are you saying?

FC: The robots are coming. But they aren’t coming for professional sports. Not yet anyway.

MTP: What's the biggest difference between agencies when you started and now?

FC: Back in my day, no one ever talked about unicorns. It simply wasn't done. How can a guy like me compete with a horned demigod like that?

MTP: What are you reading? 

FC: F.A. Hayek’s The Constitution of Liberty. I got the time. 

MTP: As do I. Anything else you’d like to add before we call it?

FC: Why don’t major thoroughfares in big cities have horse lanes in addition to bike lanes? We were here first.  

MTP: Thanks and good night.