A fish out of water story

“Could you please try and sit still for once? You’re always flopping around. It’s very distracting,” said the boss.

“But I’m a fish. What did you expect when you hired me?” said Joe Pesce.

He expected a hard worker. Pesce had come highly recommended from a friend, who also happened to be his friendly, neighborhood fish monger. Like most local fishmen, the monger was connected to organized crime. Filleting and deveining are just two more rackets for entrepreneurial young wiseguys. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, none of this would have been a surprise. The boss was the kind of fella who when he ordered dessert at a fancy French restaurant, he claimed he did it to make the lonely pastry chef in the back feel better. It was a form of charity, that’s all. Not because he’d ingest chocolate mousse intravenously if it were socially acceptable and scientifically possible. No, of course not. The boss got a thrill from being on the periphery of a world most people only saw in the movies. But what do 500-pound tunas know about graphic design?

“I expected someone who knew how to use Adobe,” said the boss.

“I told you I’d learn. It’s taken some time getting used to the mouse. I don’t exactly have hands,” said Joe.

“This isn’t working out,” said the boss. “You know it, I know it. Anyone who’s had the misfortune of watching you try to pour coffee knows it. Just yesterday I heard you were sleeping inside the lobby fish tank.”

“Technically, I wasn’t asleep.”

“But you were definitely out of office. And did your email auto reply reflect that? I don’t think so,” said the boss.

“I needed to clear my head a little. You know I’m not a cubicle guy.”

The boss knows that there are many different paths into advertising. Not everyone needs to attend ad school. However, Joe didn’t seem to possess any quality you’d want in an employee, even one a little rough around the gills. He was good for the occasional quip, entertaining colleagues with stories about plankton and fights with fisherman.

“The first account we put you on you refused to work for out of some strange moral objection. You know how many people in this building would gladly trade places with you, simply for the chance to work for that client?” said the boss.

“It was a canned tuna fish account. Did you honestly not see a slight conflict of interest there?" 

“I figured you were a team player. Look, I’ve written copy for FIFA and I think soccer, along with fascism and communism, is one of the three greatest evils perpetrated on mankind. But you should see the beautiful work I got to put in my portfolio. Life requires a certain amount of compromise, Joey,” said the Boss.

“That’s hardly analogous, sir,” said Joe.

“I’m gonna have to let you go,” said the boss.

Joe kept flopping, soaking the Herman Miller desk chair. What was once several grand was now garbage. You know how hard it is to get that fish smell out of leather? 

“Rocco’s not gonna like this,” said Joe, shaking his head.

“Rocco not my concern,” said the boss, now standing up, pacing behind his desk.

“And he shouldn’t be. But Rocco has friends. Good friends. Friends of mine. And should I be sent packing for reasons that are deemed unwarranted, then my enemies become their enemies,” said Joe.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Huh? I’m explaining to you how friendship works. Or maybe they didn’t teach you that in ad school.”

“I wanted this to work out, Joey. Really, I did.”

Joe stopped flopping for a second and picked up a picture of the boss and his son on a ski vacation.

“You ski much?”

“I try. That was taken in Vermont. A lotta people say the powder out west is better, but I dunno. I can’t drive to Utah for a quick weekend."

“Me? I’ve never skied. Looks fun though. Works all the muscle groups. It’s gotta be good exercise,” said Joe.

“It is. As I’ve gotten older, it’s one of those things I hope to keep doing. I’m not the golf or tennis type.”

“I hope you keep doing it, too. But the human body is a finicky machine. You never know,” said Joe, trailing off.

There was brief silence.

“It’d be a real shame if something were to prevent you from enjoying ski trips with your grandchildren. God, I’d hate to see that. I’m getting a little lightheaded. Mind if we cut this short?”

“No, of course not,” said the boss.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off."

Joe had no interest in learning photoshop. He took this job for the W2, so he could finally show some legitimate income on his taxes.

“I think it’s probably for the best if I didn’t come into work for a while,” said Joe.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said the boss.

“But you’re gonna keep paying me every week. That’s still our arrangement,” said Joe.

“You won’t regret it,” said the boss.

“I sure hope not,” said Joe.

Capital crimes

English wasn’t always this standardized, with this many rules and regulations. There was room to grow and make mistakes. Even as America entered its early gestation period amid copious amount of spilled (wasted) tea, most of the Founders embraced irregular spelling. Washington was Washingtone, Jefferson was Jeffersone, Franklin was Big Boppin’ Frankie Baby with that smooth electric kite. Everything was up for debate and nothing was written in stone. An extra vowel here, an extra consonant there – it wasn’t the point. 

The closest thing that existed to modern day spell check was the domineering little man (Giuseppe X. Ortographia) who crouched under your desk with a red pen, ready to place a squiggly line under any word he deemed in error. This early editor didn’t have much by way of knowledge, but he had passion, verve, gusto and other words you'd find in your Thesaurus. His lines were the capricious marks of a crazed grammarian, who knew as much about language as you did. Only from his huddled hideaway was he that much closer to the page, getting eye-to-ink before informing you of a grave blunder.

Grammar has become much too complicated. You need a tax attorney to complete a proper sentence these days. This wasn’t always the case. We need to return to a time when everyone writes their own personal English. The easiest thing to do for the individual is to adjust your capitalization techniques. This is something 18^th century scribes knew all too well.

I do it without thinking. I’ve been capitalizing Sandwich and Bocce since the 5^th grade. There are other words that figure into this new paradigm like Paradigm and Porch, Chair and Bagel. They are all integral to my current lifestyle. But as much as capitalizing words that have endured as lowercase for centuries is a worthwhile endeavor, what’s more pressing is to to cut down those unnecessary words that have received praise and fame for undeserved prominence. It's why I’m done capitalizing connecticut. 

It’s what the Founders would’ve wanted. And I should know. I practically raised half of them. John Jay lived at my house for most of the 80s, reading my books, eating my cereal, petting my dog. But that’s a tale for another Time.

The Gall of Silence

When I was growing up under the prospect of nuclear war and a rickety wooden school desk, it often felt wise to keep my mouth shut. If you have nothing nice to say, then say nothing at all. Being quiet was an asset back in those days. You could rise in most industries simply by waiting your turn and never getting out of line. The moment you voiced an opinion someone could disagree with, there goes your storybook career arc. The surest way to get on the Supreme Court is still to keep your opinions to yourself until the time is right.

The rest of us should take notice. It’s not enough to sit on the sidelines anymore, guffawing and grinning like a fur-wearing Joe Namath, mugging for the camera while others tell your story. Silence won’t be tolerated much longer. Think of what we’ve accepted through the years. As always, there’s a lot of blame to go around. Paintings from the Old World are comic strips without commentary. Which, interestingly enough, is a sad commentary on art itself. Would it have killed Rembrandt to have added a few notes to his paintings? Who’s the guy in the middle and what’s that in his hand? Is that an impressive mane or a medieval toupee? These are questions that remain unanswered. When art lacks clarity it leads to confusion and ends up in boredom.

There are worse examples, too. Like photographs, with their pretentious lack of context. It’s why the only photographs I appreciate are those of historical plaques – because they actually say something. They take a stand. In a different era, the mafia based their entire corporate structure around silence. It worked until it didn’t. Would Charlie Chaplin make it today? Lord, I hope not. Silent movies are cowardly artifacts from a spineless time. The Tramp believed he could dance and eat shoes to amuse us. Not anymore. Even the Three Stooges required sound effects of skulls cracking and hands slapping to entertain the audience.

Those are obviously the obvious sources of present derision. Things that don’t quite hold up. But when I think about those getting a pass at the moment, I’m not thinking about people, paintings or pictures. I’m focused solely on words. And, more specifically, letters. The silent ones who haven’t been held to account for their role in society’s current upheaval.  

After getting a pass for centuries, it’s time to put them under the microscope. Because silent letters are the real freeloaders among us. Like verbal vampires, they survive off the lifeforce of others. Without attaching themselves to an otherwise healthy host word, they are rendered useless. As I see it, there are only two options going forward. Either we get rid of them or start pronouncing them. That’s it. Words like ballet and gnat are the main culprits of this culture of silence. French etymology can't be an excuse in 2020.

The other, clear necessary change is to amend the constitution and do away with the 5^th Amendment. You should not only have the right to incriminate yourself but should be encouraged to do so. Saying the wrong thing sure beats saying nothing.

  

The Earth is Fat

There are many theories concerning the Earth. Unfortunately, the age of the planet remains just out of reach. We’re left to wonder how old it really is in absence of gray hair or other obvious signs of aging like irritability and the insistence that The Honeymooners is the greatest show in TV history. But most of the theories are, for reasons that defy basic comprehension, focused on its shape. Like children playing with blocks, we can’t get enough of these tired and ancient arguments. However, shape alone doesn’t tell you much. You have your round earthers in one corner, who take their cues from dead thinkers, rarely doing any legwork themselves. Flat earthers believe the planet’s an unleavened piece of geologic matzah, spinning through space like a lost flyer for guitar lessons.

There are others, too. The bagel earthers, with their strong commitment to both breadiness and holiness. What they lack in photographic evidence, they more than make up for in passion. There are other groups who borrow the language of the bakery to present their case for the Earth’s unique shape. There are the croissant earthers, with their commitment to distinct layers, believing that the Earth’s core is a natural oven. The type of thing Paul Hollywood daydreams about in between seasons, wishing one day he too could visit for an exhilarating and infernal test bake. And then, there are the garlic knot earthers, who see every rock formation as twisted dough and every tree as a sprig of parsley.

The Earth isn’t flat, it’s fat. Because shape isn’t what’s important. No one ever says, “you gotta meet Dave, the man’s a scalene triangle.” “Seriously? He was a rhombus last time we hung out.” “Things change. People change. What do you want me to say?”

Nothing. Of course, a few ornery individuals will excuse the planet’s girth because of its comfortable, cushy residence within the solar system. Claiming that weight doesn’t matter when following the strict guidance of the sun. Mass is their primary concern. Who needs to worry about exercise when gravitational forces can do it all? I wish that were true. The Earth lacks the freedom we cherish. Just once, don't you think it would like to take a new route, a different way home. Even I change up my commute every so often.

We’re not helping with our tall buildings and mountain worship either. The Earth needs to trim some of its excess material. What’s continental drift if not an overwhelming sign of planetary malaise? I didn’t watch several hundred poorly articulated and poorly lit YouTube videos to come to this conclusion. I noticed some cracks in the sidewalk. I noticed some sinkholes, natural disasters and other clear cries for help. 

The Earth lashes out at us and yet, we keep feeding it, encouraging its worst impulses. It's in pretty bad shape. But what shape isn't what matters.

Spoiler alert

I’m sorry to be the one who has to say this, but life is about obligations. Telling people unpopular truths – whether it’s the radicchio stuck to your sole like Mother Nature’s answer to toilet paper or something more like this, it’s a duty I’m not about to give up. You don’t need the spoiler haphazardly affixed to the trunk of your car. Is it a Nissan? An Acura? A beat-up and ancienne Peugeot? My apologies. I’ve never been good with names - only nicknames, you spoiler schlemiel.

You really should remove it. It’s not helping your case. You’re not going to make it to heaven any faster with it on. What are you worried about? That you’ll corner with so much velocity you’ll take off and give everyone what they’ve been waiting for since The Jetsons. Elroy is thrice-divorced and passing the time with cocktails and bocce ball. Ah yes, the Flying Car. How could I forget? We were practically guaranteed them by the media, politicians and those weird people aggressively handing out flyers on the street. The year 2000 was the target. What happened?.

But am I missing something here? Did I lean against a tree and wake up in an alternate universe, now desperately dreaming of ways to get home? Am I imagining those vehicles high up in the sky? Is there any medication you can recommend? What are small planes if not flying cars? Seems pretty close to me. Did you actually expect someone to put wings on a Fiat or hang a pair of turbines onto a dented Saab? C’mon, you can’t be serious. If you want to fly, take a lesson or two and fly. You should be concerned with altitude and not the speed limit. 

People always ask me why I post so much about birds, as if there’s actually a correct number for the right amount of ornithological discussions. What an absurd premise that would be. I talk about birds because they remain relevant. We humans cackle and sneer, putting our brains on pedestals (would that be something if literal?). If you want to fly, talk to the people who do it for a living. And I’m not talking about Sully.  

On Baseball

Last night saw the return of baseball, once America’s unquestioned national game. The contest was unfortunately shortened due to rain, a painful reminder the Zeus cares little for the sport. The cranky cloud wizard is still stuck in the Grecian past, stubbornly clinging to athletic togas and spinning discus as the pinnacle of human achievement. But he’s not really the problem today, now is he? He’s too busy eating grapes by the gross and trying to figure out why Feta isn’t more popular.

But last night, baseball was different.

You weren’t in the stands enjoying a perfect evening at the ballpark with friends, family and local bon vivants. You weren’t wearing a new fitted hat with a brim so crisp that it requires tender and gentle bending. You weren’t daydreaming about how your life would’ve turned out had you quit law school and become a professional mascot, devoting your time on earth to wholesome entertainment and borderline asphyxiation. You weren’t standing in packed bathroom lines while nervously waiting for the one available and questionably clean stall, wondering who invented the urinal trough and if they made enough money to retire in relative luxury. You weren’t brooding silently as “The Wave” took hold of your section, enrapturing willing participants who would’ve felt more than comfortable preparing their closeup for Ms. Riefenstahl. You weren’t spilling a 14-dollar beer, cracking the commemorative souvenir plastic cup it came in, and unwittingly ruining a fine cashmere sweater draped over the seat in front of you, leaving the owner with a most moist discovery in her immediate future.

You weren’t running nude from the waist down onto the diamond during one of those frequent lulls in the game when the eyes of children glaze over and impatient fans howl for some action, and you only receive a tepid smattering of applause just as a throng of security guards tackles you to the ground. You weren’t hauling handwritten cardboard signs with dumb insults and terrible puns like “You certainly suck, sir” and “You’re definitely not safe in our home!” You weren’t out buying a crisp pack of D Batteries on the day of the game with the creative intention of throwing them at players after boneheaded fielding miscues, baserunning blunders and careless bouts of feverish ball-touching. You weren’t researching the backstories of opposing players in order to come up with weirdly personal and wildly cruel chants.

You weren’t scalping an extra ticket for Ted Williams’ frozen head, something along with the certificate of authenticity, you keep around the corner inside your neighborhood pork store’s industrial sized walk-in freezer. You weren’t there to mercilessly boo multi-millionaires in an obvious transference of your own profound and honestly at this point, quite noticeable issues. There was none of that last night. None at all. No spitting, scratching or smooching. None of the staples of a game that lives off of human contact. Baseball had been altered.

There are baseball fans who believe it’s acceptable to sit on the sidelines (not literally, of course) and say nothing. They think staying positive is enough. Promoting the good things about baseball in a time when everyone could use the boost. They’re wrong. There was a time when this sort of discourse worked. In the early years, you could merely talk about the positives – that it’s the only game that understands the power of wood and elaborate facial hair. That it first captured our popular imagination during a period when cow tipping and ominously “going west” were the only means of entertainment. You couldn’t listen to recorded music then. You had to squint at reams of sheet music, hoping a sound would miraculously come out. It never did.

The world is rife with potential distractions and relentless competitors. There are entire TV shows based around the lifecycle of a common choux pastry – following it along from dough to mouth. It’s hard to pry eyes from a world of that much butter and powdered sugar. I can barely pre-heat my oven and now you want to me to calculate VORP?

It’s not enough to love baseball these days. You have to be anti-soccer, too. There are things about the alleged beautiful game that have mostly gone unchecked and uncriticized. The lack of pipe organ. The constant disrobing. The flopping like a halibut gasping on a Mainer’s private pier. Camera angles taken from outer space. Long, idiotic horns that coeds use to funnel booze. Then there are those weird shapes on the ball. What are those, hexagons, octagons? Rhombuses? Rhombusii? And what is extra time anyway? No one gets extra time in this life – and especially not soccer players.    

While I'm glad baseball is back, love alone won't solve our problems. You must call out the carding and the low scoring. Part of loving baseball is hating soccer. It's saying that Eddie Gaedel had a more consequential life than David Beckham. That Zidane's on-field antics are nothing when compared to the exploits of Rube Waddell. What does soccer have, three different statistics? Goals, save and penalties. Where's the OPS+ and the adjusted ERA? There is no Roger Angell of soccer. 

I wish it weren’t like this. But it is. Pick up a bat, grab a glove and commit yourself passionately despising the sport. This is 2020, when simple binaries rule the day. Because that’s our real national pastime.

Goody No-Shoes

If there’s one thing you never see in the history books lining your impressive home library, it’s images of early humans lacing up an expensive pair of sneakers for an early morning jog through the neighboring chaparral. They don’t wear shoes. And neither, mind you, do the predators salivating all around them at the sight of sun-scorched flesh. Cheetahs have always understood that the moment they don a pair of Asics, the jig is up. Their status as unassailable speedster of the animal kingdom becomes as dubious as a streak of steroid-induced acne stretching across Mark McGwire’s back like a comet sparkling across the night sky.  

It’s in this spirit that I’ve taken to removing my shoes in nearly every situation. I shop for groceries without a pointless pair of Nikes ruining the experience. I never appreciated the feeling of cold linoleum in public spaces until now. I press the clutch in bare feet. I race along the sidewalk, chasing squirrels up London planes. They’re on notice – for I’m no longer weighed down by unnecessary Reeboks and idiotic New Balances. I’m suddenly and unapologetically free.

Before we get any further along, I want to make one thing absolutely clear: I’m not wearing socks either. Socks are a most ineffectual article of clothing. They neither protect your feet nor promote your fashion sense. They are a waste.

Yet it’s not all smooth ambling for someone of such prodigious walking habits. I take risks. And with risks, come repercussions. The other day I was refinishing my 3000 square foot tiered backyard deck when a mishap arose. There’s a former nature preserve in Northern California that became a parking lot after supplying my lumber. But I don’t want to get sidetracked on my deep-seated hatred of trees. Let’s leave that for another time.

I was out sanding the redwood on the deck’s western wing or as I like to call it “sunset alley” when I felt something sting. It wasn’t a scorpion or anything rodential. A splinter the size of a small dog poking through the heel of my foot. I knew this day would come. When my dream of a shoeless society would come face-to-foot with a skin-tingling splinter. I couldn’t stop now. The exterior still required six more hours of meticulous pressure treating. What would I let rot first? My foot or my gazebo? Thankfully, that's a choice I didn't have to make.

Thanks to Long John Sliver’s splinter remover, with ointment that’s out of sight and tools that would make Batman blush, I’m back in the game, dancing a barefoot two-step with a deck that looks like new. Thanks, Long John Sliver. Who ever said pirates aren’t compassionate, obviously never met you.

It's not for me to say

As an unapologetic sandwich devotee, I have no right to ever discuss wraps or salads. I lack the tools and wisdom to know what the absence of bread does to a person. Croutons, however crunchy, do not count as a viable alternative to a radiant loaf of marble rye.  

As a city driver, it’s simply not my place to bring up bicycles or scooters into casual conversation. To rail against the idiocy of reducing car lanes and threatening the sovereignty of pedestrians. I don’t pedal much these days, nor do I don a goofy looking helmet for safety’s sake. I hit the gas and go.

As a resident of Queens County, far be it from me to discuss the many problems endemic to Nassau County, to the east in Long Island. It’s not for me to say how a place that’s caught between the Hamptons and the City has a perpetual identity crisis. How it’s a region still living off a reputation built by Jay Gatsby and honed by Billy Joel. A cultural and intellectual vacuum, whose finest export is the cookie cutter community and strip mall. 

As a passionate defender of all things Paul Cezanne, where do I get off critiquing the clumsy brushstrokes of Pierre-Auguste Renoir? Remarking to anyone who’ll listen that his lazy talent isn’t worth the canvas it was painted on. Saying things like, “Monsieur Renoir, with his dismissal of fruit and anatomical deficits, wouldn’t know the difference between an apple and an Adam’s Apple.” But Cezanne, with his affinity for juicy fruit and Provençal peaks, understands humanity on the deepest level. I have no right to claim any of that.   

As a feeder of birds, sprinkling birdseed on the ground like so many nickels and dimes, I don’t know what it’s like to hang a swinging piece of sirloin in front of a famished wolverine. The fear of being caged in with a ravenously hungry animal is beyond the capabilities of my admittedly limited imagination.

As a baseball fan, how can I in good conscience excoriate those who adore golf? People who willingly toss grass clippings in the air in some peculiar Al Rokeresque display of meteorological insight. Snidely saying that the game reminds me of doing laundry, since there’s no shortage of irons and I’m always bored. What makes me think I have the freedom to put golf into the same category as Parcheesi and Boggle?

As a Groucho Marx enthusiast, where do I get off commenting on that big German Commie, Karl, as if he were merely another brother in the comedic crew. Oh look, it’s Karlo Marx, miming with Harpo, yukking it up with Chico and wondering what it is Zeppo does exactly. Gummo’s there, waiting backstage, and wondering: is this is the guy who wanted us to pay everyone equally, including Groucho? I can’t do any of that.

As a proponent of radio, man’s gentlest medium, can I actually argue that Netflix and Hulu have too many shows for a single person to digest? That the over-saturation of programming has resulted in the proliferation and acceptance of mediocrity? No, I cannot do that.

I can’t say any of this. It’s not my story to tell. Not my truth. The lesson here is a simple one. Talk about what you know and nothing else - never straying into subjects where you don’t belong. You'll get the hang of it. But it's not for me to say.

Gaslighting gaslighting

It’s an incredible thing, when you stop and think about it. The year is 2020 – what was initially billed as a year of unparalleled hindsight and moral clarity. At least that was what the calendar classes sold us in the final weeks of last December. We’re surrounded by LEDs, black lights, solar thingys and yet, all anyone ever wants to talk about is gaslighting. You’re gaslighting me, I’m gaslighting you, we’re all being gaslit. The lack of oxygen is enough to go to someone’s head.

The discourse is both confusing and repressive. Gaslights are rarely a thing nowadays. There are a few homes in Park Slope with the telltale flickering of a gassy flame. And Glen Ridge, New Jersey’s best-known quality is its preponderance of gas lamps. These bedroom communities are not what we’re talking about when we talking about gaslighting.  So grab your filaments and listen.  

But what is gaslighting? Some people say it’s a form of psychological manipulation, the careful construction of false narratives in order to confuse the listener or reader. The eventual goal is for them to swap out their baggy clothes for something that fits a little bitter. Straight jacket, anyone? Some argue that the term itself dates from a movie in the 1940s. This is absurd. There were no movies back then. The earliest known movie was shot by a Soviet dog (Leon Dogsky) hurtling through space in the 1950s. He was out looking for tennis balls amid the stars and the stardust. Movies, simply put, didn’t exist before that.

Photographs had only been invented a few years prior by the enterprising young French mischief maker and sometimes sous chef, Gustave Photograph. Still, the pictures didn’t move. The closest thing to a film in those days was what circus figures called “The Human Flipbook.” People with hands so dexterous, so fast, they could shuffle a pile of thousands of photos in seconds, thereby telling a cogent story in the process. The most famous of these strange, yet brilliant individuals was The Coney Island Comet, Gerald Benzene. What set Quick Ger apart from others was his ability to narrate with the velocity of a superb auctioneer. His “movies” were anything but silent. But like all inexplicable fads, this too passed away in time, making way for the next mass delusion. In this case, it involved collecting bottle caps and flicking them at street signs for money.

Gaslighting is a sign of respect. Someone is taking time out of their unimaginably busy day to school you on the world. Don’t take it personally. It’s not psychological warfare or Jedi Mind Trix (the cereal that floats ever so slightly above the milk before forcing its way onto your spoon). It’s about healing and educating. Gaslighting is, plain and simple, a godsend. It’s when someone tells you an uncomfortable truth that you’re not quite ready for. But one that you need to know.

For instance, the “o” in MoMA isn’t capitalized, despite what some people claim. If you’re ever swimming in money, while gold coins may somehow seem more authentic, newly crisp dollar bills are far superior in every conceivable way. When people say birdsong, what they really mean is birdtalk. Avian language is like Italian, in that it’s melodious and therefore gives the impression of music, but these feathered fellas are more often than not ranting like AM radio whackjobs. 

So is gaslighting the way to go? It’s hard to say, for sure. Me? I’d rather light a candle.

Martian, Martian, Martian

“Hot enough for ya?”

It’s a question asked by those without any questions left. The last inquiry of a person running out of things to say. There’s a smugness to it. A preening, posturing mode of conversation that leaves the answerer floundering and annoyed. It’s a little mean, too. And yet, you probably want to go to Mars. You’re tired of enduring 90-degree heat on earth, thinking to yourself, “It is hot enough for me here. I’d like to try my chances somewhere a bit cooler. How does negative 81 sound? Who cares? How does it feel?”

Whether from government stooges or private sector fools, there’s so much talk about Mars these days. Somehow a consensus formed that this is the planet we should relocate to. It’s got it all, which is to say, it’s got nothing. Earth has its problems, believe me, but if you’re planning on terraforming huge swaths of Martian land, have you considered a trip to Yosemite? 

Going to Mars misses the mark. It’s a distraction. You want to ditch our planet for something better, then pick a destination that has a little more to offer. Martian exploration is proof of a civilization settling. Think about it. One of the red planet’s selling points is how close it is. To me, that’s not much of a reason. Let’s say there was a terrible fast food restaurant that’s open 24 hours a day, around the corner from my home. Call it the The Hoagie Hole: where appetites comes to die. Does proximity alone demand I patronize this problematic establishment? Certainly not. I must widen my scope and seek satiation elsewhere.

The problem with Mars is that it’s not nearly ambitious enough. Sure, earth is barreling headlong towards disaster, but I’m still not compromising my standards. We can do better. We can do much better. Instead of going around the corner, let’s work on inter-dimensional travel. 

Mars isn’t the answer, people. If I’m going to seriously consider leaving this planet for another one, I need to break even. That shouldn't be too much to ask. That means sizzling oceans, crisp air, clam bars, reliable delis and smooth highways for impromptu pleasure cruises. I bet you won't find a single one of those things on Mars. 

I hear all the time from mindless Martian malcontents, “Mars was just like the Earth a few billion years ago.” Can’t we accept we’re too late? You don’t go to a party the morning after, grabbing half-empty solo cups, unclaimed pieces of pizza crust and – wait a minute, are those dunkaroos?! - and tell yourself “this is great. What a scene. And such good food.” You admit that your timing was off. Only in the case of Mars, instead of it being off by a few hours, it’s off by a few billion years. There's no one to blame. We didn't have it together back then to muster up the journey. Let it go and move on.

There’s no going back to when Mars used to be cool. And to think, they didn’t even need human beings to destroy their planet. What can we possibly offer? We can’t even ruin it. It’s like buying a pre-broken gift. The only reason to go to Mars would be in the off chance there are a few Martians left, passing their time baking bread and raking dirt. Aside from them, what and who are we going for? 

51 years ago today Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin made mankind’s first lunar impression. Their mistake was coming home. Had they stayed, who knows what would be there by now? A bowling alley where the pins float? A strip mall where the shirts don’t need hangers? They could’ve hung out, installing hammocks around the Sea of Tranquility, preparing for their next big adventure.

You’re better off on Earth, where there's still so much left to destroy.

The medium is the mess

It’s never been trendier to complain about mediums. And I’m not even talking about the spooky ones with long fingernails and smudged crystal balls, leading their followers down strange alleys and dark holes in search of dead relatives. I’m referring to Bookface, Chat Chat, Tweeder - you name it, someone’s got a problem with it. 

This isn’t anything new, of course. Whenever a new medium enters the fore there are those in the back of the room railing against it. Like the peanut galleries from the circuses of yesterday, these angry critics bring their own baggage to every conversation. Only instead of tossing peanut shells at hacky elephants and clumsy acrobats, they toss barbs and jibes towards the users and adopters of these pieces of technology.

When TV sets burst into the public and private lives of American citizens, there were many suspicious of welcoming the blank cathode box into their homes. It was clear to them that televisions were alive - listening, watching, waiting. Recording? Paranoia didn't being with Alexa, people. At least radios, a generation earlier, were blind to the visual glare of the nuclear family. Some called this paranoid. Others called it insane. It didn’t matter. Part of being paranoid is being wrong – but it’s also being careful.

I too could select my medium of choice for derision. Whether it’s toxic lead paint or toxic social media, the same is true – we need something safer and more basic. My philosophy differs from critics of Mr. Zuckerberg or Mr. Dorsey in one important way – I think most media are harmful. We haven't had a good form in a few thousand years. 

It seems like just yesterday that big Mo instructed his band of bush burning best guys to take two tablets and call him in the morning. He didn’t tweet it out, start a text thread or even post a long list on a church door like somebody I know. He kept it short and succinct. Do we say "thou" anymore? No. But English wasn't his first language.

Imagine if that were us today. You’re going to think twice before etching your thoughts into a heavy tablet. For one thing, you need to lift with your legs to prevent physical injury. How much healthier would discourse be if everyone had to chisel their ideas into stone before sharing? Who even own a chisel these days? Most would give up after a couple letters, not knowing how deep is necessary to make an impact. Some would visit museums in a desperate hope that ancient skills would rub off on them. But this is 2020 and Champollion ain’t walking through that door.

Seeing through transparency

Modern society comprises of a great many things. There’s all that infrastructure which surrounds cities and towns, in service of an apparent higher purpose. Road, sewers and those little glass doohickeys perched atop telephone poles. They’re called insulators, I believe. There are other aspects to the world like winking at animals and honking in exaltation that make society function better. But there’s even more to it than that.

There are other things, unseen and unheard, which help make everything work. No one knows how often you floss – that’s between you and your MakerDDS. Yet a community that ignores gaudy pieces of spinach caught in your teeth, too afraid to say something, is not one that will leave an enduring legacy. You could keep your mouth closed, unsure if opening it will reveal a pumpkin seed the size and shape of New Brunswick. More than bridges, much more than tunnels, behavior plays a huge part in shaping society.  

You’re taught from a young, tender age that transparency is fundamental to a healthy civilization. And that trust is paramount. What are you hiding? Enter the fray as an open book – thick, clean and with a glowing blurb from Bob Costas.

Transparency boosters in the media and elsewhere harp on how essential it is to culture. I don’t know about that. What I do know about are coffee tables. While some will say that glass is glorious, it’s not. Too little is left to the imagination.  

You can stack it high with coffee table books you’ll never read. Rizzoli published texts with glossy photos of garbage and debris – ironic, considering your abstemious and pathological vacuuming habits. If you thought the housing bubble was bad, try leafing through Housing Rubble: The sexiest shots of demolition and destruction money can buy. You can line it with coasters of Dutch masters and French saints that you’ll never use, out of fear you might smudge a pristine moral genius with the condensation of a warming can of La Croix. No matter how you choose to decorate, there’s always going to be a clear line of sight to the grime and the grease to your vintage shag. There’s a penny from the past. A staple from a Summer Friday. A ball of fur from the 18^th of Brumaire. Wood – any wood – eliminates this tragic possibility. 

No can see through it and no one has to. Why do they need to know about the ant colony presiding over a literal banana republic between the cracks in your floor? Why should they wonder if that mark is liquid, solid or "other?" They should be focused on the garbage on the page, not on the floor. And therein lies the purpose of coffee tables and coffee table books - to distract guests from the obvious decrepitude all around them.

If you still think transparency is a good thing, tell that to a hardworking, middle-aged bird on his way home from work, tired of chirping, sick of singing, who only wants a home-regurgitated meal, peace and quiet. But his mind wanders on the flight back and he slams into a glass door, carelessly left open by a neighbor, airing out their apartment after a stir-fry gone awry. So much for transparency, huh?  

Sonny Listin'

I avoid lists. But if I absolutely must, I make sure not to rank what’s listed. It’s un-American. When a grocery list cannot be committed to memory, I jot down the absolutely essential items whose omission would spell refrigerated doom. However, everything’s equal in my shopping cart. Granola and chicken are not in a separate culinary caste system from avocados and almond milk. They are part of the same shopping society and as such, receive the same privileges. 

The longest list I contribute to with steady regularity is, probably like you, my laundry list. My laundry list is long and lustrous. Without a laundry list, I might forget detergent, the very clothes I’m cleaning or the quarters I’m feeding into each machine. Laundry without lists is like dancing without yelling, swimming without yelling or yelling without pausing for a moment to reflect. In the margins of dryer sheets, I write things like “nice shirt. be careful, fella. You remember what happened in ’93, don’t ya?” These reminders help me get through the process, cleanly and safely. I don't know how else I'd do it. 

The ad world, if you haven’t noticed, is addicted to making lists. And not the kind I make either. Although, the industry could benefit from a good, long scrub. Lists like 40 over 40. 30 over 50. 100 under 100. 1000 over 1000. 2 over 3. 5 under 6. But these lists are usually based on age. Which is something that’s constantly moving. Are we talking about years or minutes? It’s never made clear. Plus, the list is always centered on people. I wonder why. When everyone knows that human beings are a small, generally nominal part of any company. I think it’s valuable to laud the ones who get it, but we can’t ignore the rest of the industry simply because they lack a pulse or a vibrant sleeve tattoo.  

Where are the agency-wide lists that celebrate the finest fish tanks, smartest dogs, smoothest staplers, fastest elevators and cleanest bathrooms? They’re suppressed by greedy chieftains that want all the accolades for themselves. Afraid that if they credit a potted plant or a tasteful light fixture, somehow their own glow diminishes as a result. 

We're creative, aren't we? I sure thought so.

I'm a straw man

Coming to you with my mind slowed,
Bad thinking, I believe it showed,
And when you get it, you got nothing,
Yes, worry, 'cause I'm dumbing,

I'm a straw man
I'm a straw
I'm a straw man (dumb on!)
I'm a straw man...

What did I ever do to you? Surely it wasn’t something I said. I can’t say anything, now can I? Did I scare away a potential life partner impolitely and aggressively perched on my arm? You know the type. Constantly chirping, constantly quoting Poe, constantly defecating (birdseed does wonders on the gastrointestinal system) in lieu of engaging in actual, albeit one-sided conversation. I’m right here and yet, their song is always aimed at others.

What is it? No good? Does this hit too close to home? You don’t think you’re guilty, do you? The guilty ones never do, do they? No, no they don’t. Well, let me tell you, pal: the verdict is in. You’re part of the problem. You won’t stop berating me, making me feel less than, worthless, and insignificant when compared to other fully-animated individuals. When you say my arguments are bad, I say you’re bad. I bet they don’t teach logic like that at the University of Harvard?

People say to me all the time, “you have no brain.” It’s a passing comment, one that’s almost seen as a compliment. With everything going on in the world, being stupid might be a nice change of pace. But it’s not nice. I don’t have the mental equipment to deal with such a barb. I'm not simply dumb. I'm also quite naïve.

It’s hurtful to hear those words for decades on end. I didn’t choose my lot in life – brainless and joyless, arms flapping in the wind. My best friend is a stalk of sweet corn, who's curiously MIA each and every winter. I'm the plaything of insolent farm boys. The target of archery-loving farm girls.

Just because I lack a brain doesn’t mean I’m a total moron, okay? I know the difference between gawking and ogling. One time I’d like to be ogled. Instead it’s always, “sheesh, they still have those?” Don’t worry about me though. I get by all right. I read. Maybe not read, but I watch TV. Maybe not TV, but I follow cloud formations, attuned to their movements and propensity for dramatic irony. Trust me, a vaporous Cumulus Nimbus before a big storm (spoiler alert) is better than Breaking Bad. Yet I don’t get an umbrella or a raincoat when it rains. Just a stupid hat that barely covers my face. Why bother? I’m not real, right?  

“Why don’t you quit?” And do what exactly? Work at the post office sorting mail? Make decorative baskets out of my delicately woven intestinal tract? I can’t do that. Life isn’t an extended version of arts and crafts for somewhat-talented campers.

“Must be rough. With all those crows living in fear of you.” My relationship with birds is another major misconception. Yes, I have a problem with some members of the crow population. But that’s on them. Several of my dearest friends are crows. I didn’t ask the others to be scared of me. Fear is borne out of ignorance - something I know something about. But you’ll never hear me say a bad word about a seagull, pigeon or bald eagle, our glorious national bird.

Others will say, “I love snowmen. Don’t you just love snowmen?” What they don’t understand, what they can’t possibly realize is how a little ol’ statement like this pains me so. I didn’t go to college but I know a micro-aggression when I hear one. I can’t be a snowman. I can’t ever be a snowman. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much frozen precipitation accumulates on my wispy limbs, I will always be a straw man. For your amusement and ridicule. Where’s my carrot nose? 

“Automation is a helluva thing, huh?” I don’t get paid, okay? I get to live off the land and do what I love. But why threaten my livelihood? There’s going to come a time in this country when robots will scare crows - it's inevitable. After a few years people will come to understand all they’ve sacrificed to make a buck. The glare of robot metal is blinding when reflecting a powerful farm sun. That just doesn’t happen with straw.  

My friend Dante is always telling me, “you gotta go to Burning Man, man.” I bet. However, I don’t know how I feel about an event with such a strange payoff. Who’s the man and why are we burning him? Naturally, part of me wants to be burned, ya know, for the attention. And another part of me wants to burn. Isn’t this what we do to our effigies? We burn them. Why can’t we toss water balloons or something far less dangerous. What do I know? I'm a mindless dope.  

Do you realize that I’ve never even been burned in effigy? A torched straw man is always representing someone or something else. It’s amazing how thoughtless and inconsiderate torch-carrying mobs can be. I’d like to actually be the symbol I represent.

So...do I remind you of anyone? Someone who was totally selfless, idealistic and partial to wizardry? Steve Jobs is a good first guess, but no, I’m not the next Saint Turtleneck. I have a lot in common with someone else. Will you look at arms? They’re not down, are they? I’m "messianic." And if Musk and company have their way I might be reincarnated soon. Frankly, I’ve been up here for what feels like an eternity. Take a guess.