Total Diversity

Companies everywhere want a widen their applicant pool. Like a broader-shouldered Mark Spitz, they need room to spread out and give everyone an equal opportunity. What’s wrong with casting a larger recruitment net? Any fisherman knows that hand-to-hand fishing will only yield subpar results. Unless you consider slimy hands and tired arms two fine signs of sustained success. Weirdly, not every group is included in this essential push towards greater representation.

Ugly people. Where are they in all this? You know the kind I’m referring to. Not your average decent-looking person, but someone who’s mere appearance is physically taxing. The type of person you want to look at on an empty stomach, in case you’re not mentally prepared for a casual glance. These are individuals who you never meet at any place that serves food. It’s far too risky. These hideous oddities remain mercifully indescribable. Picasso’s greatest contributions to the field of art would’ve been rendered obsolete after one espresso with one these poor souls. He wouldn’t have seen the point to paint what God’s already perfected. However, that doesn’t mean we can’t work alongside them. While beauty is only skin deep,  ugliness does tend to block exits. That said, the perspective they bring to an office is invaluable. With them in the mix, there’s no need to wistfully recall the bygone era of Coney Island freak shows, when the spawn of prawns and the litter of critters drew spectators from all over. To gawk and to ogle, but mostly, to learn. 

Let’s forget ugly people if you can. Although, the trauma experienced from their unsightly visages tattooed on your cerebellum make that likely a mathematical impossibility. But please do do try. Stupid people are also nowhere to be found. And that’s not just because they are out chasing after garbage trucks and howling at the moons of Jupiter (there’s something so cliché about howling at our moon that even morons understand it now - howling did lead to the birth of NASA). It’s because they can’t get inside boardrooms and conference rooms and living rooms where big decisions are made. At least not without being ridiculed and ignored. But they usually have lots of things to say. You nod along when you see them on subway platforms or read them in the pages of The New York Times. Stupid people possess a certain freedom that intelligence and education beats out of the rest of us. They aren’t bound by the same rules we are. They are free to criticize sacred cows while displaying an everlasting love for the deeply irreligious bovines we tend to dismiss.

When those are the animals we should be listening to and learning from. They are the ones who should be permitted to graze outside of office lactation rooms. These isn’t your average herd of livestock. These are cows formed by the enlightenment, by Montesquieu, Locke, and Rousseau. They question why Cartesian math isn’t called Descartesian math. They’ll laugh at your jokes about burgers and milk, but they’ll bring new perspectives. You may cheer those you love and boo those you hate, but when’s the last time you had a really good reason to moo?

Conventional Wisdom

Apparently, it’s an election year. You wouldn’t know it by looking outside and scrutinizing distant plumage of local species with especially coated optics. It’s not in the water. I should know, since I hydrate straight from the source, with my head awkwardly dangling millimeters above the basin. It’s not in the air, or you’d smell it despite a terrific filtration system protruding through the wall. It’s somewhere. It must be. 

Since I haven’t followed any of the campaign, I’m not exactly sure who’s still in the mix, or even running. I feel a strange sort of kinship with the Gallic farmer, tending to his grapes and olives around 600 A.D., completely unaware that The Roman Empire fell over a century before. Was that knowledge going to help him with brining? Shoving little garlics into littler olives isn’t a process aided by a detailed history of the Visigoths or Ostrogoths or Teenage Goths. You have to learn the hard way – by ruining bowls of olives before achieving salinity sublimity. How would - let's call him Rick - know what happened on the streets of Roma? He wouldn’t. I’m not entirely positive that we even have a president, or, for that matter, when I’m supposed to capitalize the “p” in the word. If there isn’t one, then I don’t have to worry about it anymore. Deal?

Still, all of this sudden talk about politics has me thinking about the perfect person to fill the job – or if it’s even a person. There’s something to be said for electing statues as opposed to tearing them down. They remain sturdy in old age and despite what pigeons think, most are awestruck by strong, silent types. And given the War on Drugs’ astounding failure, being stoned – or made of stone - isn’t such a bad thing any longer. 

Still, statues are heavy and hard to maneuver. The job of a president is to be out there, and the risk of weighing down a helicopter or worse yet, barely fitting into a stretch limo would set a dangerous precedent. Every bird bath and garden gnome in a 100-mile radius of the What-used-to-be-a-perfect-SAT-score Pennsylvania Avenue would want a shot at the square seat in the oval room. We can’t have that. Our backyards and window sills would fall into total chaos if such a thing were permitted.

You know who would be good as Chief Executive, that is, if we’re still looking for candidates. My old imaginary friend, Rupert. Good guy, nice guy, though a little on quiet side. But overall, someone you could definitely count on. He has a real advantage over anyone else – as an imaginary person he could tackle imaginary problems (along with real ones) with a fervor not seen since the imperial presidency of Gabriel Formal Bopkins. You remember him? He was president during The Gherkin Affair, when the price of puny pickles plummeted precipitously, presaging presidential pardons for profligate preservers.  

Imagine that.

A Man For All Reasons

Principles used to be worth having. A set of morals you wouldn’t budge for anyone. An unwavering grouping of ethics set like freshly poured cement – where anyone who comes in contact can’t help but get a little on themselves. And credos aren’t so bad.

“Always cut sandwiches diagonally.”

“Never wear shoes in the ocean.”

However, should situations shift, your belief system may not hold water. What if the sandwich is a triangle – do you still slice it diagonally? What if it’s low tide and you can take a waterless stroll a few hundred yards out in the Aegean? These are things you should’ve thought about beforehand. But you have an unalterable code that makes life far too complicated. Had you outgrown your childish morality, you might be dancing the jig on dry sand while eating an isosceles Italian beef, care and fancy-free.

It’s a better a way to live. Without scruples and virtues, changing your tune faster than a coke-addled Miles Davis, dying to impress his brand-new band of fearless young lions. What you say, what you do, depends on the people you’re with – or at least it should. Let them dictate your behavior. Not a fan of lacrosse? You are ever since Jason mentioned he was on the John Hopkins University practice squad, while training to become the world’s most illustrious rodential cardiologist. There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s called being polite, being a good guest. These are attributes maligned and criticized by those who should know better.

We must look to our reptilian friends for guidance. Chameleons are defamed regularly, spoken about as if they're worse than whatever they’re embodying. But what these little guys show is empathy, compassion, and a wonderful capacity for active listening. They are attentive and thoughtful, literally changing their colors and identities to suit their company. Are we this unmoored that we can’t see kindness when it’s right in front of us?  

Despite the constant barbs, chameleons aren’t even invertebrates. They have spines, too - tiny ones. The finest portrait of a chameleon as a young lizard is Jacques Cousteau’s underrated documentary, Je suis un Caméléon, (ca. 1974, Janus films). Cousteau examines the life of Léon, an Old World lizard trying desperately to fit into the stratified French society of the borden town of Menton. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do, he asks? Fit in. The most notorious sequence is when the filmmaker tries to light the lizard's cigarette while the salty Provençal breeze extinguishes it after each attempt. Eventually, Léon waves him off and pours them both a glass of Burgundy. He confesses that he's not even a smoker, but wanted Cousteau to feel comfortable during the interview. That's selfless, not spineless.

Léon navigates his surroundings beautifully, feeling just as comfortable in a knitting class in Marseille as a motorcycle rally in Saint-Tropez. He joins an artist collective in Toulon, a pétanque club in Avignon, and even becomes a morphine addict to enter a support group in Nimes. Wherever he goes, he fits in. No one sees him as the slimy, slithering, oddly smelling reptile. He’s Léon, no more, no less. What's so wrong with that?

Here are my demands

 

Before I return to work in an actual office (not some weird home style reproduction), riding on the actual subway (instead of my neighborhood’s endless cavalcade of sturdy feral cats), touching my actual face (not a ripe desk melon), alongside actual coworkers (and not dozens of bobblehead dolls eerily resembling them), I have a list of demands. Demands that aren’t up for debate. They’re up for promulgation.

Over the past few months, I’ve grown accustomed to not commuting and taking my sweet, sweet time waking up. Because of this, I’d like to see every office have a 4:1 pillow-to-person ratio. Productivity is ideally measured in goose feathers. I want to feel right at home there. Don’t you?

I don’t care what it takes or who it takes to install, but I want grass in the hallway. That means real sod, with dirt, worms and the random musket ball. No more cheap knockoffs like the stuff that’s tearing tendons at Tropicana Field. We want something to run our fingers through. Too much to ask? 

 

The lighting in offices has always bothered me. As much as it would be dangerous to replace every lamp with thousands of candles, I think we should do it anyway. A big meeting should mirror the biggest musical numbers in Amadeus. Same intensity, same luminosity, different ending.

I don’t want any disagreements. So if you do disagree with someone, agree instead. Here, let me show you how it’s done:

“I can’t believe this weather. Lord, how I hate the rain.”

When you hear this, you're disturbed. The rain is your salvation. You love plant life and swear by the so-called street shower at the hands of Zeus. But you can’t say that now. To say that now would be to disagree and create a potential office conflict. Here’s what you say.

“Me too. The rain is, the rain is a problem. I wouldn’t have minded the shower, but I left my shampoo at home.”

Disagreements cause problems. But you know what never causes them? Marbles. Enormous bowls of marbles. Since it’s commonplace to complain about your lost marbles or the missing ones of others, it’s only logical to stock offices with these little glass balls.

No more dry erase boards - chalk only. There’s a reason it’s a staple of education. The fumes produced by chalk get the creative juices flowing, or maybe they block those juices from flowing. Whatever's the case, let's make the switch.

Candy callously lines reception desks, enticing employees with dreams of chocolate, sugar and promises of paradise. We need a more diverse array. Bread tray, meat plate, garlic platter. I’m sure there are vegetarians comforted by the knowledge that they never wittingly take a life. A nice thought – if it were true. Because anyone who’s had the honor to gaze at an elephant clove of garlic knows one thing for sure – this was once an animal.

My list of demands is ongoing, adding and never subtracting items. I pray someone’s listening.

Deatomize your bookshelf

 

You could, provided you’re provided extra time to dilly-dally, examine your bookshelves in an exhaustive manner. Thumbing through each page, checking for creases, stains and the always shocking dog ears. They are the unlucky antithesis of the rabbit’s foot, a keychain charm whose popularity should’ve ended with the War in Vietnam. But what person alive has ample freedom in the day to wallow in such a luxuriant process of studious analysis?  

I don’t. When I first heard about decolonizing my bookshelf, it sounded like a great idea. I had no idea what it meant, but words that start with “de” have been good to me through the years. Why would this one be any different? Family dinners need decompression time – as well as dessert. Scenic detours encourage the misuse of maps. Fights demand deescalation. Imagine being denied the ability to delete? Or decide? Since Dee Snider wasn’t going to take it, neither would I. In his case, it was the abstract control wielded by overbearing parents. In mine, it was checked luggage, thereby opting to fit everything in my overloaded carry-on.

Choosing not to define decolonizing was a marvelous decision. Once a word is limited to what the dictionary says, it loses most of its power. When I started doing some research into what it meant, I saw the amount of work such an undertaking would invariably take. Me alone, leafing through a stack of paperbacks, checking the names mentioned in every Acknowledgments to see if they correspond with the most updated list of international war criminals. It seemed like a lot of effort. Not only that, it would mean reading everything again, or in most cases, for the very first time. For a complicated set of reasons based mostly on ignorance and laziness, I decided against decolonizing my bookshelf. Instead, I’ve found something far more satisfying.

I call it, deatomizing my bookshelf. For someone like me, cultivating artifice is a pastime, deliberately lathering on another coat of intellectual stucco before the rising sun bakes it into place. It’s not easy. And it is very time consuming, but when I’m finally done, just think of the shelf space I’ll have. Books are wallpaper - a way for people to enter my home and think, “he’s not so dumb, after all.” What if they don’t get that idea and wonder about the contents or worse yet, the words lurking inside each text? It’s a risk I can’t risk.

You need alien technology to get started. Ray gun, vaporizer booth - really anything that breaks down objects into their simplest form. Naturally, a sizable chunk of my library is what you might already consider primordially basic. I won't name names. Even in those special cases, there are always a few extra particles to tease out. I’m happier, clearer and my shelf is roomy enough to sleep on. Some people, not me, like snorting their favorite books. It’s a different way to grapple with the material. Whatever I consume now is in one ear out the other incinerator. 

Mob School 101

In the early part of my career, apprenticeships were quite trendy. You simply had to find one if you wanted to achieve success in the working world. Blacksmiths were always letting people study their anvils before hammering things out on their own. But who ever heard of a natural born alchemist? The very idea of prodigies is a myth. Even Mozart’s father was in the music business. Many industries, understanding the importance of keeping the gates secure, began investing in the development of trade schools.

You probably don’t realize that La Cosa Nostra created Mob Schools in the late 60s to combat pressure from law enforcement. You can’t become a mobster by dint of desire, deciding that one day your collection of adidas track suits and gold chains is befitting a lifetime of lounging on the corner of Mulberry and Spring with a cooler of stuffed peppers and half-melted Italian ices. No one exits the womb with an adult understanding of extortion or racketeering. Bribes are great in theory, but without a grasp of economics you’ll never make it out on the street. There's a craft to what they do. A shakedown may appear simple from afar, but it's only the result of years committed to formal education. 

Mobsters realized that part of what made their criminal enterprises different from their rivals was an affinity for organization and bureaucracy. By creating tiers of knowledge, they made it so no one could claim membership into the group without getting an accreditation first. You had to be made. L. Ron Hubbard would later borrow much of their institutional structure for his own thing. But that’s a story for another epoch.

Without Mob School, members wouldn’t appreciate the subtle, stark differences between wooden and metal baseball bats. How to leave the car running during a job and when it’s acceptable to casually quote movies. You don’t want to be confused when the stakes are this high. Mob School is very expensive, too. So being able to procure the necessary funds is part of the screening process. Did it matter that the mafia had been doing well for decades without the introduction of higher learning? Perhaps. But in the end, it should be harder to join, not easier.

When examining the careers of David Ogilvy, Bill Bernbach, and Lee Clow, there’s one glaring thing that they all have in common. None of them went to Ad School. And it shows in their work. I mean, really - a man in an eye patch? What is that? If you're planning on going down this plank, it's safer to go full pirate. Peg leg, parrot, doubloon, all must be considered. Ad school would've taught Sr. David the error of his ways. And then his parrot would've reiterated the point in a more forcefully. What advertising needs are not individuals but facsimiles, corrugated creatives rendered from manufactured ideation. Before you dive in, spending twenty-grand on what that means is your best bet.

I get it

I’m right. About that thing you’re having a tough time comprehending, as well as that other thing that thankfully comes more easily. There’s that huge story in the news right now that’s taking up all the oxygen. It’s like a petty Buzz Aldrin hoarding canisters while his supposed buddy dances free on the moon parquet. This story is everything. There’s not a column that ignores it for more than few introductory inches – that’s all you’re allowed to not say. It’s big and it’s only getting bigger. Most people are having trouble following it. “What are they saying? Should I have gone to grad school? Honey, what’s this word mean? I can’t find my dictionary anywhere.”

Not me though. Since I already did the work, I don’t have to do any better. I toiled in the best of faith and worked at it until everything made perfect sense. What a relief. Given that I’m in a really good place right now, I might shove off early and go out for an egg cream. I deserve it.

But what about all the complicated formulas and high-level mathematics embedded in each retelling? Or the people who’ve devoted their lives to tackling these seemingly unsolvable problems? Good for them, I guess. But why should I apologize when understanding comes naturally. I didn’t try to get it, I just got it. There was no need to line my walls with thick textbooks and pore over countless articles. It’s pretty easy when I think about it.

There were times, not too long ago, when I had my doubts. Questions. Problems. Issues. They weighed on me like a bulky Jansport, challenging my vertebrae to do better.

But not anymore. Everything sort of clicked all at once. I found a nice hill to live on and go about my business, landscaping, pruning, cultivating the land. The kind of thing a person with a lot of free time does. And I recently confirmed that I have no biases. Good for me, right?

You’re probably thinking that there must be things I don’t fully understand. That I can’t possibly know the intricacies of building a raft from palm trees. I don’t have to know. I only have to know I’m right. At one time, there was an internal debate going on in my mind between myself and the little man in my head. But since I’ve sedated him through methods I don’t feel comfortable revealing, my level of uncertainty has evaporated to zero. He’s not someone I consult anymore. When I see the morning sky, I know it’s blue. Everything else is essentially the same. No analysis needed. No supplemental reading required.

My instincts just so happen to always be right. But I should really get going. I met a hitchhiker on the side of the road this morning and he volunteered to sharpen my kitchen knives. How lucky am I?

Bad Education

As a non-parent, I firmly believe that I have something new to offer the current debate around education. I have no dog in the fight. I don’t have a dog in the yard either. Although, it’s not a bad time to buy one. Nevertheless, let me first say, I’m not an expert. I know very little about academics, school lunches, or unions. When the third subject does come up, I’ll often relay an amusing story about the Civil War exploits of Gentle George Meade or Stone Cold Steve Burbridge. But after spending a few minutes thinking about schools, I’ve come to the painful conclusion that it should be cancelled indefinitely. No remote classes and no in-person ones either. Not for health or safety reasons, but for the good of everyone. Not for a couple overloaded municipalities, but on a national scale. It’d be refreshing to one day walk by a school in the middle of the afternoon and not be bombarded by the incessant cicadian buzz of juvenile shrieks coming from the playground. What exactly makes yelling so cathartic? Surely that’s a question worth pondering further.   

You see, Kids today are far too smart for their own good. They’re great with computers and other handheld devices. They learn languages no one teaches them and have second sight when it comes to navigating mobile apps. Me? My thumb gets sore after a single multi-text exchange. Recovery mode is something I know far too much about. This generation is going to be perfectly fine. But what about people who came of age with dial-up or worse? Who speaks for them when these little wizards come pouring into workplaces like mad geniuses ready to take on the world and their jobs?

 

Frankly, they could use a year off. Think about it. If we’re all running a race and that race is about mastering technology, these miniature maestros are way ahead. While I’ve accepted that they’re going to win no matter what, all I’m asking is a bit more time. This will keep most of us in the game.

 

What will a year off do? Not everything, I know that. But it will make things more competitive in the years to come. It’ll put these kids in a position of confusion. They will wake up unsure of themselves and their future. This is exactly what we want. After decades of promoting the unexamined worship of self-esteem, a little correction is in order.  It’s never too early to learn coping mechanisms for pressure and anxiety.

 

Of course, I’d be breathtakingly naïve to ignore the distinct possibility that one of these knee-high nerds could use the year off to do something truly spectacular. Without the repressiveness of hovering schoolmarms, it’s not inconceivable that some diminutive dweeb working in his grandfather’s garage builds a teleportation booth. But I can’t worry about that now. It’s a risk we’re all just going to have to take. This is all about leveling the playing field for us old folks to stay relevant. The idea that a pint-sized Poindexter somewhere might use this time off to his or her benefit mustn't distract us. This should buy us a little time before industries start putting everyone over the age of 35 out to pasture.    

 

Many of these kids have never seen a green thing that wasn’t drenched in olive oil, so the break will be good for them in terms of communing with nature. While they’re not reading, I’ll be poring over source code. It’s my only hope. Parents must resist the urge to homeschool, as well. Who are you to play Teacher? God?

 

I can understand the pushback to this type of proposal. It seems petty and ultimately futile. It’s both. Do you have a better idea? Plus, kids are quite resilient. They’ll be ready when their time comes. But does it have to be right now? If they’re going to win anyway, how about we focus on preventing a blowout. 

Since most sports have given up playing defense, it's about time someone else did.

Rewritten Rules

When San Diego Padre Fernando Tatis, Jr. sent a 3-0 pitch flying over the outfield wall the other night, he violated an unwritten rule of baseball. It wasn’t an unspoken rule. Had that been the case, we’d have never heard of it. Thankfully, someone somewhere said something to put a stop to such an unholy display of sacrilegious swinging. Apparently, the phenom had the “take” sign from the third base coach. This could’ve been a product of clear miscommunication. Because Tatis, Jr. did end up taking the pitch – he just happened to take it over the fence. 

Many don’t see the point in enforcing unwritten rules. We have enough written rules, they say. They’re not wrong. But doesn’t someone have to protect the pastime’s petty norms? And who better to do so than an unelected group of social media pharisees, griping about the sport’s sanctity? Their objection was rooted in the score – the game was a blowout at the time. How dare Tatis, Jr. give maximum effort. I know after lunch on a typical weekday, I loosen my tie, glaze my eyes and accept that there’s zero chance I’ll produce anything remotely resembling quality work. Fernando could learn a thing or two from this lack of ethic.

 

He should’ve been a couple spritzers deep by his final at-bat, plainly uninterested in the contest and ready for slumber. Seeing millionaires dejected by a single act of athletic brilliance is a sight no one should have to witness. These are adults, humiliated by their own poor play. Home runs, as a rule, are deeply unfair. They rarely give outfielders the chance for someone to make a catch. If Tatis, Jr. were a man of conviction he would’ve slapped a Baltimore chopped inside the park homer after fouling off a series of meat balls.

 

But baseball isn’t the only sport with an unwritten code of conduct. In golf, those little ball chasers unlucky enough to step on a squirrel during play must eat the fairway rodent before concluding their round or else face widespread condemnation.

 

Cyclists must never ring their bell. To do so, even along the Pyrenees amid heavy traffic and torrential rain, would be a greater violation than running an organized steroid ring.

 

Football players may only jump into the stands in the back of the end zone under three conditions: It’s snowing; they’re members of the Green Bay Packers; at least one cameraman has a really good shot of the whole thing.

Soccer players who fall down more than fifty times in a single game must sleep on the field, in the dirt and the muck after the game and “think about what they’ve done.” They aren’t allowed to leave until they realize the error of their ways and figure out other methods of trickery. (For what it’s worth, the number used to be twenty five, but the league found that practice far too widespread to enforce).

 

Basketball players who don’t slap five after missing a free throw are destined for a career of wedgies, spills and other unexplained bouts of awkwardness.  

 

In hockey, all dental work must be done by a quite eccentric French-Canadian Zamboni operator named Jacques without anesthesia.

 

Maintaining the toothy theme, darts are not for flossing and pro dart players should know that to use one to remove an errant poppyseed may derail their career in ways missing the bullseye never could.

 

Old guys playing pétanque must always open their second bottle of wine before finishing their first. Not to do so would run the risk of “vivre au sec” - living dry. 

Sports aren’t about having fun, as much as they are about following rules. Otherwise, why even have foul territory or umpires? You could make things up as you went along. Without rules, sports are anarchy. The next thing would be hatless ballplayers throwing cantaloupes to bored hitters in lawn chairs swinging beach umbrellas. Nobody wants to see that. Not even Gallagher. 

Abolish Trees

I’ve had it with trees. Looming over me like a vicious kindergarten teacher who uses their terrifying stature and tyrannical will to get students in line. Is it any wonder that paddles and yard sticks, so long used by lunatic nuns with a hardwood fetish, are carved from fallen trees? They take up space like a capacious high school teacher carrying two full lunch trays of meats and cheeses as a means of getting kids to spread out. And eventually, they keel over without any advanced notice like a drunken college professor, sauced and spent after another afternoon of back bending physical labor to mimic the curious gait of Richard III.  Yes, my life in academia has seen more than its share of towering (and falling) personalities. Imagine how much lower tuition would be if universities concentrated on higher learning instead of how many young saplings belong in the quadrangle.

 

There are politicians who believe that planting trees solves every little problem. Like what to do with that weird sliver of grass between the sidewalk and the curb. They relocate an ounce of dirt with a golden shovel in front of an adoring crowd and seriously think they're making a difference. They promote the unexamined merits of Arbor Day. But no one stops to ask: when is it enough? Trees get a pass. We let pandas in captivity decide if they want their relationship to transition to a more amorous one. But yet, we do the bidding of elms and oaks – the slobbering hand maidens of the arbocracy.    

 

They’ve had a great run. No one can take that away. But what’s the point? The Empire State Building wasn’t constructed to be a tall spike in the middle of Manhattan. There were offices, plenty of space inside send the city into the clouds, maximizing the city’s vertical real estate. Even the Eiffel Tower allows tourists to enjoy it. Trees have no such ability. The occasional elf or squirrel may get in there with birds resting on branches in between flights. But termites are the only ones resembling our national workforce and they lead to ultimate destruction. Shouldn’t that tell us something? That maybe we could use this land for something better. Like a parking lot or bocce court.

 

Trees don’t do anything. They just stand there and, when the time comes, they fall. We are the ones who turn them into credenzas and bureaus, shelves and cutting boards. If they did they on their own, at least I could see keeping them around.

 

Trees kill. Okay? They break, they get struck by lightning. Look, we’re not going to get rid of all of them. Not yet. We still need wood and will for a while. But we can at least get them out of cities and suburbs, giving us all more breathing room. Oxygen may become a problem, but we must have plenty of extra ventilators and tanks just sitting around collecting asbestos. It's time to get them out of storage.

 

Trees have tricked us into celebrating autumn, as we watch them carelessly throwing their leaves on the ground like a spoiled garden brat. Do they pick them up? No. They get us to bag their trash, raking them into piles like a servile barber cleaning up the cut locks of hairy customers. It's all beneath us.

 

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time, not too long ago, when wrapping my arms around a redwood sounded like the American Dream. But I’ve seen too many good people cower under these arrogant psychos lining our thoroughfares and parks. We wait on them hand and foot. Let them rot. 

 

You want more shade? Then wear a hat.

Out of touch

In times of crisis, I seek out celebrities for answers, for guidance. Cloistered in sprawling compounds with professional chefs and live-in magicians, they are profoundly out of touch. They pay for things they don’t understand. They sign checks they don’t read. A missing zero is nothing. What’s more advantageous to our current global predicament than being literally out of touch? Six feet? Try 6 miles of ocean frontage and a driveway so long it fades into the horizon. These are people who have time on their hands to settle our greatest problems. Helipads are other people. And in this case, that's them.

However you choose to slice it, touching is bad. We should be looking to stay as far apart from each other as possible. With greasy paws and sharp hangnails, you’re bound to injure someone with the gentlest of taps. Astronomically rich people who’ve made a career of pretending know about life. They are here to apologize, to laugh, to lecture.

 

I could look elsewhere, of course. To salt-of-the-earth publicans delivering a constant stream of bar top wisdom or to convenience store cat wranglers mesmerizing customers with a steady flow of bodega bromides. But those familiar sages aren’t nearly rich enough to be taken seriously. To think of solutions, you first need room to think. And the aisles here are far too narrow for that. It’s actually a hazard to stack canned goods on top of glass bottles in the hope a quake won’t come. But it will.  

 

Celebrities have one clear leg up on the rest of us regular people. Having achieved wealth and fame, they are now free to focus on the most important existential questions facing humanity. Inside their mansions or private sea planes, they are afforded plenty of space to ponder unfettered. Once you’ve gotten everything out of life, you can devote your time to serious frivolities. The ones I can’t think about. Diet, fashion, technology. I can’t remember when it eat, so why not tell me what to eat? It's a good start.

 

I trust them. Once you've seen someone convincingly wear a prosthetic nose in a made-for-tv movie about Jimmy Durante, why not model your life after the actor? If he or she can convince you they're someone else, they can make you believe anything. Martin Sheen really is a former president. At least he seems to think so. And that's good enough for me.

All politics is yokel

 

What’s crazy is that there are a few dozen remaining agitators still wandering the planet who believe they can avoid politics altogether. It’s not for them, they say. As if politics are a voluntary indulgence, like croquet or another geriatric game of leisure. The elderly deserve an aerobic form of gambling that involves more than pulling a lever on a slot machine. It's why we give them mallets with their first social security check.

 

Politics are tied up in everything you do and everything you say. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t realize that. Hopefully, reading this changes your rather blasé attitude for the better. You may want to live in an apolitical world – or is it a political world? Nevertheless, it’s important to have the correct set of politics. Otherwise, what’s the point? As you go through your daily routine, you’ll start to see how politics bleed into everything you do in profound and unmistakable ways. The thing is, you don’t need more than a single strong example to hammer the point home.

 

What you want, what’s most important to you, is that you have a well-proportioned sandwich for lunch. That there be no more attempts to push salads or wraps. You do what comes naturally: Go to the deli and follow the supply chain. However, when’s the last time you interrogated your local hoagie man about his positions on nation building, healthcare, or immigration? It’s probably been too long. Yes he understands heroes in their breaded glory, but does he understand heroism in all its facets? 

Let’s say you find common ground with Sando Boy, commiserating about the estate tax while he selects the juiciest ball of mozzarella bobbing in a nearby bowl. That’s good news. What a relief, huh? Not so fast. What about the baker delivering that semolina you can’t live without? He's been heard saying "the war on poverty" was an actual war on poverty with tanks. He once said "great society" sarcastically with visible air quotes. Then there's the cheese monger with delicate digits. You’re lucky he didn’t choose a lucrative career in physical therapy, preferring to massage dairy products instead. These people are not without politics of their own. They have opinions on regime change and welfare reform – opinions you must know if you hope to actually enjoy your meal.

 

There’s more. Since you’ve grown tired of olive oil and vinegar, you opt for mayo. When’s the last time you considered the Mayonnaise cartels and condiment warlords spreading power so your lunch isn’t too dry? If there’s meat, how do you know that the turkey you’re enjoying wasn’t a reactionary bird with fascistic tendencies ruling the roost by fear. ? You don’t. Now, some would say, it’s better to eat an evil turkey than a good one – of this, there is still an open debate. But the point stands – you need to know what goes into that sandwich you thoughtlessly inhale. Making it on your own doesn’t eliminate any of these moral dilemmas. It makes it harder to get answers. 

 

And this is just lunch. A lot can happen between now and dinner.

Not to LARP on it

 

With more problems plaguing the world each day, it feels silly to pick one issue out from the crowd. Why separate a fine, upstanding global problem from its friends in an overwrought public display of nonsense? Because it’s what the situation calls for. One by one, you must go on down the line, until there are no more things to complain about.

 

Live action role playing or LARPing is a frequent source of derision by members of the mainstream. They sneer at these adults in perpetual adolescence descending on countless American cities. What they are missing, but what you probably already know, is that most of us yearn to play dress up. During childhood, it’s enough to turn a bad day into a good one.

 

Kids look up to pro athletes, not because of any on-the-field achievements, but for their clothes. You see, these people get to dress like they are playing a part in a big Broadway production. These costumed heroes represent what we all want in our lives – to work in a profession that has a clearly defined uniform. Putting names and numbers on the backs of creatives in ad agencies would certainly make things easier. What’s remarkable to me is how entertainment is the only profession that understands the necessity of a costume designer. We’re all playing different roles and each one requires a particular outfit. That's a job ripe for growth. 

 

Why should ballplayers have all the fun? There’s an insatiable urge to wear a costume dating back centuries. Cavemen knew this. They chose fur and an understated wooden club, when they just as easily could’ve picked up some new threads and a cane from the prehistoric tailors on Savanna Row. To be themselves, they had to look like it. They couldn’t have worn three-pieced suits without feeling a bit off. Imagine how much easier that would've made it for predators, looking to identity prime meat. "Oh look, Dan, the dope with the pocket square looks like a filling lunch." They all looked the same, thus strengthening their position. 

 

So where’s my costume? I have a part to play and my role is not that of costume designer. It’s enough getting up in the morning and remembering to eat breakfast and brush my teeth. I now also have to decide what to wear as well. It would be far more empowering and efficient for copywriters to adopt a uniform. You didn't see Derek Jeter trying to distinguish himself from the likes of Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth? 

Why is it that Tony the Tiger has more sartorial sense than every executive in the Frosted Flakes boardroom? Probably because he doesn't have to waste time choosing clothes, instead focusing on things that matter - like how many Rs belong in the word, "great." The key word in LARPing is "live." And it's about time we all followed suit. 

Will real New Yorkers please sit down?

 

Back when I commuted every day, strangers would constantly invade my personal space. But it was mostly to ask questions. Ya know, the usual stuff. Directions, restaurant recommendations, pithy movie reviews. But on occasion, someone would stop me and say, “hey, what defines a real New Yorker?” I never had enough time to provide a sufficient answer. After the train arrived I’d be stuck yelling through the closing doors, please.

However, real New Yorkers are indeed a real thing. They are known by common traits and signs that anyone, no matter how unfamiliar with their kind, can immediately identify. It’s a good thing this concept has crystalized over the last few months. Not a bad time to take stock in what we have.

 

Real New Yorkers have two, maybe three homes - one in Connecticut and another in Florida or the Amalfi Coast. They spend very little time in the city itself, preferring to tell people who don’t know any better where they’re from. Yes, they pay rent, but they rarely let the sun set on them in any of the five boroughs. Saying you’re from NYC is like a diploma from a college you graduated from decades ago. It means a lot to those on the outside. 

 

Real New Yorkers exclusively refer to the city as “The Big Apple”, or when surrounded by throngs of French speaking relatives “The Pomme Grand.” They talk excessively of “appling” or “getting their apple on” – cute pet terms for entering the city limits. 

 

Real New Yorkers follow closely the exploits of NYFC, ignoring the four major sports as painfully passé and lacking genuine competitive flare.

 

Real New Yorkers adore Times Square – the lights, the sounds, the bus exhaust. It’s where they come alive, buying a soft pretzel after a hard day.

Real New Yorkers appreciate what tourists bring to the city, adding their own sense of style and joy. 

Real New Yorkers never have anywhere to go, listlessly strolling in the center of the sidewalk and only jaywalking in an emergency. They sure have the time. 

 

Real New Yorkers don’t have a favorite building or bridge. They love every single structure equally. Whether it’s the Brooklyn Bridge or the Randall’s Island foot bridge, the Chrysler Building or a random fire hydrant on East 92^nd Street, all are the recipients of their big, pumping heart.

 

Real New Yorkers never complain about anything. They treasure graffiti on their cars, homes, storefronts and faces. It gives them each character. So long as the spray paint doesn't get in their eyes. 

 

Oh and one more thing. There’s only one real New York. It’s a narrow strip of cement down by the Battery. Let’s say about two feet long and a foot wide. It’s a low cut curb and just big enough for someone to sit on and ponder the city’s exceedingly narrow sense of self. It's not comfortable, it's not safe, but it is real.    

 

Sensitivity Reeds

  

“That was a poor choice of words.”

 

“Should you really be saying ‘poor’ in this context?”

 

“That was a terrible play on words.”

 

“I wouldn’t say ‘play’ if I were you. It evokes whimsy.”

 

“That was a bad choice of words.”

 

“But it was your choice. And now, you must live with it.”

 

The aforementioned quotes are among the endless list of phrases running through my mind at all times. They continuously scroll like a movie with too many Key Grips and Best Boys, seemingly bestowing credit on half the population – anyone who passed craft service during filming and extended so much as an eye roll to the line producer. “And thanks to Bubby for his untoasted bagels. That was just what we needed to rewrite Act 2.”

 

It pays off to be safe, to be anxious. The world would be a much better place if people were a bit more sensitive. Let your dear rhino friends keep their thick skin while you do the hard work of thinning out. Having a thin skin implies you’re connected to reality in a clear and intimate way.

 

Over the years, there have been plenty of global techniques for stoking sensitivity and most involved the feet. Racing across hot coals. River dancing on a bed of nails. Galloping over broken beer bottles. Sashaying through a scorpion colony. But the finest method for dealing with insensitive citizens, those members of society who wouldn’t tear up at the sight of a schmaltzy hieroglyph, came from Ancient Egypt. And it also involved the feet. Sensitivity trainers would wade into the shallowest parts of the Nile retrieving the best-looking reeds. Reeds that give you goosebumps by sight alone. Then they’d take them back to town and proceed to tickle the bare feet of these difficult characters for hours on end. More often than not, it worked. The recipients began to watch not only what they said, but where they walked, too. 

 

Now I’m sure you can already see the problems with recreating this today. With our fixation on socks and shoes (foot masks, as it were), most people won’t willing to let their feet (leg hands, as it were) be subjected to such alleged humiliation. The best reeds in America are found in the Garden State's Meadowlands, amid unparalleled suburban decay and painful memories of the New York Jets. Interestingly, the Jets have arguably the most sensitive fanbase in the league, beaten down by years of poor performance and terrible management. But it’s hard enough getting people to remember to take their shoes off at the airport. Socks seem like a lot to ask.

 

Yet we could use sensitivity reeds in 2020. Is it any wonder that reeds helped create a whole branch of musical instruments? If you won't let government bureaucrats tickle your feet with long strips of Jersey vegetation, I guess that's all right. Would you just listen to Kenny G instead?

Qualified Impunity

Oh, I’m such a big of fan of his. You know who I mean, right? He’s an authentic renaissance man. Not the double-fisting turkey legs at your local fair renaissance man. But the sort of the figure who could’ve handled a bout of bubonic plague with dignity and class. The kind of person who can paint with true perspective after suffering through years of flat Medieval schlock. Had these people ever seen a real nose? This guy on the other hand - the painting hand - has depth.

He’s one of my heroes. He’s spent whole summers retrieving cats specifically from trees the Fire Department ignores. He writes thank you cards, leaves notes on windshields when he notices a flat tire, and never misses an opportunity to surprise a sad friend with an encouraging text. Did you read his first book, Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Friar? It details his transition from miserable short order cook at a highway diner on Route 46 to Carthusian monk. He went on to say very little while making the world’s finest Chartreuse. Naturally, he left the monastery soon after finishing his first bottle, but the experience was enough to delight readers (and monks) the world over. He’s the perfect role model in every way. Almost every way.

 

There is that one thing though. Before I go any further caroling the praises of this illustrious person, I should say that I don’t agree with everything he says. You have to say that sort of thing nowadays or someone might just confuse you two. He does have a few beliefs in his sturdy bag of ideas that are indeed questionable. 

I’ll come right out and say it: one day in 1997 while crossing 5th Avenue on his way to throw a rubber ball against Cleopatra's Needle for a self-catch, he referred to the fixed gear bicycles riding by as “neutered.” Thankfully, an ex-friend tweeted about it 23 years later, otherwise it would have been lost to history. Because without that firm evidence, he'd still be Monsieur Parfait AKA Yogurt Boy.

It’s harmful, it’s confusing, it’s unscientific. And it negates everything else he’s done. The paintings, the turkey marinade, all of it. There’s so much at stake here. I’m more comfortable disowning him entirely than risking the remote possibility someone may confuse us. Bikes aren't people and he knows better. Are there times on long rides when you find yourself talking to your tires and spanking those handlebars with gusto? Yes. But to imply that bicycles have any idea what it's like to undergo a complicated and serious medical procedure has no place in a civilized society. Does his tireless support of bike lanes and bike shares offset these hateful remarks? No and you can't let that happen.

 

Adults needn’t have heroes, nor nuanced perspectives. They’re much harder to paint.