What's in a rename?

Like the clanging of an antique dinner bell, boy does “Washington Football Team” have a nice ring to it. I remember exactly where I was when I first heard it. But seeing as it’s a private place, call it a sanctuary of sorts, I’m under no obligation to reveal the location. What I can share is that up until the capital city franchise’s big announcement, naming has been an utter waste of time. It’s a process mired in excess. As a rule, and as a species, we overthink things. Maybe our pigskin pals can help change that, ushering in a new way of thinking. Their decision to go with a name like this instead of Chinless Clowns or Troglodytic Technocrats, was a brave one. It's not enough to love, or to hate. Which is the point. Indifference ought to be the goal. The blander the better.

For starters, I was thinking of what else could use a fresh naming refresh. There’s not a single facet of society that wouldn’t benefit from what I’ll refer to henceforth as the “Washington mindset.” Film producers waste other peoples’ money on focus groups and naming exercises in a silly attempt to find the perfect title. Why? Did Snakes on a Plane teach us nothing? Working titles have a blue-collar appeal that can’t be manufactured or contrived. Goodfellas didn’t lose out on Academy Awards to Dances with Wolves because of the Costner quotient. The film lost because it wasn’t entitled Mob Rat Movie.

Considering all the time we spend coming up with names, not doing so would free everyone up a little to concentrate on more important things. Like a more sustainable alternative to time travel or the addition of a metal spork to place settings at fancy restaurants. Our children aren’t immune either. We look to celebrities for guidance, since they are the ones who open their cupboard in search of an unusual appliance or rare snack food to avoid thrusting another Jaden onto the world. When wouldn’t a name like “Person” or “Human” suffice?

Parents pore over family histories and touchstones of popular culture, making endless lists of possible choices. All this is before the birth, when what they really should be doing is having fun one last time. If you’re asking “is Mortimer too old-fashioned?,” then perhaps parenthood isn’t for you. If you have multiple kids, go with “Human #2.” As any math professor worth his NaCl will tell you, you’re not going to run out of numbers anytime soon. What did the bureaucrat say to the two people arguing over their social security numbers? “There’s enough to go around.” Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Why not just use our SSNs as names? We're halfway there as it is. You see, these problems have an odd way of working themselves out.

Washington Football Team should put everyone on notice. Instead of overthinking, why think at all? 

Content Is King

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

 

- William Shakespeare; Henry VI, Part 3, Act III, Scene 1

Modern critics dismiss Shakespeare as a product of his times, cackling at his insistence on using quill and paper when earlier bards committed their works to memory. Long before snapping and toking took hold of humanity like an anaconda looking for warmth, Willie Boy realized the secret to immortality. It was, as countless strategists hunched over their keyboards examining oodles of data know, all about content creation. Output trumps input. Shakespeare wrote more because that was his only way of controlling the narrative. His crown was his content, okay? 

His predecessors, peers and influences tried to match the man’s oeuvre, but nearly all, with the one possible exception of L. Ron Hubbard, fell considerably short. Will didn’t worry whether or not his writing was good, and like Woody Allen today, he was only concerned with the next project. ADD was not a thing in the 16^th century, because if it were, Bill would’ve been diagnosed with a terrible case of a wandering mind. What else explains the need to write three plays about Henry the VI? Who?

 

Guys like Marlowe spent years toiling over every syllable of Doctor Faustus when Billy Baby was releasing play after play, bludgeoning his competition into submission. Like a pregnant dog, there was hardly a limit to his creative production. He was Sandler before Sandler, mastering comedy and tragedy. Only he did it all without the use of false teeth. A person could study Shakespeare’s works for an entire lifetime. There are the big boppers we all know and love – Hamlet, Lear, R&J – but there are others, too, often overlooked as the painful result of a disturbed graphomaniac. But those are the ones which speak to this playwright’s timeless obsession with content. 

 

There are too many obscure Shakespeare plays to choose from. However, if I had to pick just one –it can be done with minimal effort. Order What You Like (in later years remade under the title Gratuity’s Not Included) is a wonderful comedy of table manners where the cast argues over the bill at the end of a prodigious feast. With memorable lines like “Thou desired the pheasant, didn’t thou?” “Dinner is a meal ordered by a fool, full of wine and lard, signifying something.” It's hard to beat the iconic St. Service speech delivered by the head waiter towards the end of the play, imploring his diners to do their duty. It's a monologue that still leaves me rolling in laughter. “We few, we soapy few, we band of washers. For he to-night that tips his gold to me shall be my patron.” And this was at a time when 20% was far from the societal norm. 

Shakespeare’s plays weren’t exactly plays, at least not in the Mamet sense. They were closer to ads. He crafted a lasting image of himself as the preeminent playwright of his day, forging an unmatched personal brand with enduring content. 

You can't spell "brand" without "bard."

Excrementary, my dear Watson

Creativity is a fickle friend, coming and going as she pleases. Arriving late, leaving early, forgetting to close the fridge and eating the last ice cream sandwich. The excuse? It was there. But creativity fuels advertising. Without it, there’d be no bucket challenges, challenge buckets, or lengthy buttons at the end of a mobile page reading, “for a chance to enter to win, please click here.” 

The old guard of the ad world knows where the finest ideas come from. They come up with them out of thin air - sort of. They aren’t swayed by shiny objects, despite their impressive sheen. They take the glistening orbs and toss them into their bottom desk drawer – that’s if they haven’t taken apart their desk piece-by-piece in anticipation of firewood season. What good is having a mantle without something to burn? What else can they do? Most of the lumberjacks have lost their sense of identity in the face of hirsute hipster migration. Many have put down the axe in favor of the stylus, learning graphic design as a direct challenge to their fuzzy foes. 

No, the finest creative minds of my generation engage in one shared practice, mining ideas like 48ers, before the anger and selfishness that would come a year later, after the onslaught of rushing gold. Simply put, they throw stuff against the wall. This isn’t a metaphor or a figure of speech. What stuff exactly? You can find it in every zoo in this city and in farms all over America. Industry leaders direct creative by first hurling actual excrement against the wall. This practice has really been put to the test with remote work now ascendant. Few people can afford the full time janitorial staff required to clean up the remains of ideas, smeared across a well-lit conference room.  

Ideas have to start somewhere. And in most Madison Avenue offices, this is where. Don’t get sidetracked by the smell or the immense power of an agency’s digressive tract. I’d like to see AI simulate this practice, digging through “ideation” piles at the circus, searching for that one creative breakthrough that'll get them on the cover of Adweek. Who knew that a Cannes Lion wasn’t that far from an actual lion’s cage?  

Have a nice trip

I knew Icarus when he was still around to be known. When he was gliding to and fro. Floating into job interviews with the arrogance befitting a deity. He didn’t listen to me - he never did. I told him to study aeronautics, to follow the ways of birds, to book a flight on PanAM – anything than what he ended up doing. But no – Candle Boy, as he was known in those days – preferred something a bit grittier, a bit waxier. He was obsessed with feeling the air between his shoulder blades. He’d say, “if you can’t taste clouds, actual water vapor, then you’re really flying, pal. Sorry, but it doesn’t count.” This was the closest thing to an apology he ever gave.

I remember that fateful day, watching as he snuggly tied on his wings, laughing and hollering. I said, “Icky, baby, c’mon. This is a great Halloween costume. Really stupendous. I’m with you on the look and style, but you’re not gonna make it to Crete on those puppies. It ain’t happening.”

He scoffed, he sighed, he shrugged. Who was I to question his judgment? Did I know who his father was? He built The Labyrinth. Not the one in Allentown, Pennsylvania, but the original location that housed the minotaur. Personally, I never understood what the big deal was with designing a huge maze. It’s like being proud of creating a road solely for its horrendous traffic. How about a nice, clean street without potholes or confusing alleyways? Is that too much to ask? His father reveled in the fact that he made something impossible to navigate. Me? I prefer getting lost without consulting a map. 

But Daeddy knew his son was doomed. He’d say, "kiddo, candles burn very easily. Apollo has a wonderful sense of humor.” For centuries people have criticized Icarus for flying too close to the sun on wax wings. That’s not exactly correct. He could’ve gone to any airport in the region and chartered a flight. I offered to pay, not that he needed the money. He couldn't be reasoned with. Icarus was the sort of person who corrected people at parties when they talked about flying to Europe on spring break, “Umm, excuse me. You didn’t fly anywhere.” And look where that attitude got him. It got him to the bottom of the ocean floor.

Occasionally, I’ll see people who remind me of Icarus. It’s rare, but it happens. The wing-suited wing-nuts, the ballooned buffoons, the high-wire halfwits  - the Blaines, the Baumgartner, the Petits. That’s his legacy. Unlike those imitators, at least Icarus knew that to fly, you first have to fall. Maybe he just didn't think it'd be so far. 

 

The Father, the son, and the holy post

There’s an oddly human tendency to prefer the things that came before. It might be why dessert never lives up to the great fanfare of complicated appetizers, hyped up by an overly talkative chef let out of the kitchen for good behavior. But that was then and this is now - when your stomach’s full and your bank account’s empty. So it’s with immense pleasure that many in the advertising world look back on the 1980s, a time of large block letters and lengthy copy blocks, as the halcyon days of marketing. When selling sold.

This was a time when the only tweeting was done between yard birds, fed up with their share of paltry seed, craving something more artisanal for a change. These interspecies dialogues explained the proliferation of birdhouses at this time, an olive branch to the flying homeless, stuck on branches and brambles, totally missing the simple joys of a roof over their heads. The only face book described when the nearsighted among us got a hold of a smutty periodical, incapable of making out the eye-popping visuals unless the pages were extremely close. It was considered a mitzvah of sorts when the very same magazines contained cologne samples, since a close reading such as this made actually applying eau unnecessary. This was a time when tick tock was the sound your creaky grandfather clock made every second of the brutal workday. It was when social media meant shaking imaginary hands with your television set or tongue kissing your radio after a big news story.

Anyone can write a script that’s mildly interesting. These titans of teletype, fauntelroys of font, counts of copy, all believe that the highest tier of advertising artistry remains the holy trinity of print, television and radio. These are obviously people who’ve never fallen over awestruck upon gazing at a punny hashtag from the right angle. Back in the good old days you had to pay 140 characters - finding desks for them and plenty of assignments to keep them satisfied. Not anymore.

Ads are much better today. Why bother filling a bus shelter with loads of text when you're never going to look up from your phone? Plus, who takes the bus anyway?

Many in the industry scoff at social media, deriding its relevance. They slur it as click bait. Yet something tells me, call it a fisherman’s hunch, that these very same critics load up their lures with worms before casting a line into their own personal river of dreams. 

Free Preach

When in need of spiritual guidance, I look to The Bible, recalling passages I long ago committed to memory, albeit under duress. I’m sure there are common themes that run through these verses. How could they not? Many still resonate years after those studious Sunday School sessions, tossing stone Frisbees between empty pews or playing pin the tail on the martyr. But now is not the time to overanalyze. Here are my favorites.

Rascal 4:13:

I can pay for everything through my tab, which gives me strength.

Deli 3:16

For God loved sandwiches and gave his one and only Reuben to the world, so that whoever needed a bite didn’t have to wait until dinner to eat. 

Axe 18:9

One night the Lord spoke to Paul in a vision: “Do not be afraid; keep on speaking, because you're breaking up. I don't get great service here.”

The Book of Traffic 3:6

In all your ways acknowledge the other driver with a subtle, yet friendly two-finger wave, and he will make your paths straight and let you merge.

Fashionesis 12:2

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world – unless it’s paisley – and remember that what looks good on a set of curtains doesn’t always work on a pair of slacks. 

Things 4:6

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer or text message.

Produce 5:22

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peaches, plums, and yes tomoatoes. I know, even I was little surprised. 

Murray 28:19

Therefore go and make pancakes for all nations, frying them in butter and stacking them high on a large enough platter for the father, son and entire family. 

The Ides of Merch

I’m starting to get the sneaking suspicion that capitalism is spent. It’s tired, dying, and soon to be buried by the scurrying proles, shoveling peat in the countryside, currently and rather shamelessly operating tractors and bulldozers without licenses. It must be nice to ignore basic rules and regulations for construction and demolition. Because I can’t do it. Proper paperwork is essential. So let’s face facts, people: the invisible hand has a debilitating tremor. The good news, if you can call it that, is that it’s curable. We don’t have to resign ourselves to rotting under capitalism any longer.

The replacement of the system isn’t of much importance to me. It’s the abolition that matters. Capitalism has had a good run, lining our pockets with bouillon (it’s why God invented cargo shorts, after all. It’s not like you can comfortably fit gold bricks inside ordinary summer wear. Ducats chafe, ducats always chafe). 

I need to get the word out. The revolution is coming. Or maybe it’s already here? But how can I make my point that the economic system is crumbling and capitalism has wrought unfathomable strife on the populace? I’m not really sure. I’ll do it the only way I know how – through the sale of merchandise. You want to join the movement? Buy a t-shirt first. For a moderate sum, you can own any number of late capitalism clothes, creatively-sourced and poorly made. But why stop at t-shirts when fashion allows for a great deal more latitude and freedom? More freedom than whatever's going to replace the system. There are key chains, fanny packs, sunglasses, hats, visors, sweatbands, sweat suits, beach towels and beach umbrellas. And yes, there are cargo shorts, now capacious without pesky Fort Knox souvenirs sagging well below your ankle bracelet.  

The phrases on the shirts don’t make a lot of sense. “X Marx the spot.” “Well-red,” “Zap Cap” and my personal favorite, “Karl Baby” above a photograph of Karl Marx as a baby. But then again, they don’t have to. This movement will be won elsewhere, far from letterpresses and clotheslines. 

Cash, credit, Venmo, PayPal, Apple Pay, actual apples, and a firm handshake with lots of eye contact are all graciously accepted. 

Today's special: Book flambé

Not a bad day for a book burning, eh? Don’t answer that. The only days that are legitimately problematic for mile high funereal tome pyres are rainy ones. However, in those soggy examples there are still ways to get the flame you’re looking for. I just thought that in our current season of fire and brimstone, the evergreen subject of burning books ought to be discussed openly and honestly. Siskel & Ebert’s thumbs down is a tepid critique when compared to dousing each page of a hated volume with kerosene and watching it go down in a blaze of unglory. 

Books serve many masters and many more functions. When you read something you don’t like or appreciate, there’s always the ability to write a searing response of your own. But why waste your time sacrificing good sense to the Grammar gods for clearer syntax, when your garage has a surplus of lighter fluid? 

Fires are how we deal with problems. That’s whether they are marinated meats or tortured prose. Steak tartar can only go so far without indigestion becoming a real concern. We cook the food we love, so one could make the very logical argument that we do the same to books we loathe. We’re cooking the sin away, freeing it of intellectual contagions. There’s not much that remains, but whatever, whatever, something, something about rising out of the ashes. 

Oddly, book burnings are viewed as arcane. Letting go of your most prized shelved possessions is, without equivocation, a triumph of certain wills. There’s no point in engaging with an argument when matches are handy. Sadly, the sight of a smoldering pile of e-readers doesn’t produce a similar level of satisfaction or smell. But it might just be the best case against the technology to date. 

Too bad book burnings are hard work. They require planning, a helping hand inside the local fire department and a sizable, sycophantic crowd. And in our rapidly-changing climate, you can’t hope to warm yourself through the display anymore. Since you’re probably quite warm as it is. But there was a time when you could at least count on that.

 

Don’t get down. Huge, spectacular eye-burning literary conflagrations are not the only way to deal with bad books. There are still plenty of ways to show your outrage and disgust without resorting to a complicated fire hazard.  

You’re punishing writers, yes, but also readers. Cut it up with a paring knife. That’ll show ‘em. Toss it into a body of water. That’ll teach ‘em. Books are doorstops, footrests, seat cushions, projectiles, hats, pillows and spittoons. Slap the dust jacket. Kick the deckled edge. Step on each page. The joy of such actions continue long after the final stomp, when burnings are usually over before they begin. These smaller methods of vitriol stay with you, like a stress ball that never unravels.

Do whatever you want to bad books except read them.

A little off color

“I don’t care if you’re black, white or, as long as we’re on the subject of hue, purple.” 

In many circles, and even some squares, most people feel comfortable getting behind a statement like this. Either that or they feel comfortable getting out in front of it. It usually depends on what position the situation calls for. But now’s not the time for an exhaustive assessment of posture. Because if it were, I’d like to go on record as being no slouch. They want us to treat purple people with the same respect afforded everyone else. That’s fine, but I can’t just stand by while the person next to me has the complexion of a squalid plum. Mind you, plums are the best fruit out there, but this sight should concern even the most produce averse. 

I for one care about purple people, who they are and how they got into this bind. Like Socrates, I’d start with a few probing questions, but hold the hemlock. Are you all right? Have you seen a doctor this century? Did you rub yourself silly with boiled beetroot or grilled eggplant? Did you bathe in a tub of melted blackberry ice cream? I realize that purple connotes kings and queens, but you’re starting to look more like a rotten, deflated bell pepper than King Henry.

You can’t ignore what's going on here. Cabbage-head is trying to get your attention and you’re reading the funny papers. How you can bother worrying about the upcoming election when geranium-face is withering away right beside you? Is this the most opportune moment to discuss the changes to baseball’s playoff format when lilac-limbs is galloping towards the great hereafter? Why not forget the weather for a second and ask peony express if he’s all right? Now is not the time to pontificate about the greatest streaming options on various media platforms when rhododendron wrists over there is writhing in pain. Forget colorblindness, this is serious stuff. 

Penning an elegiac sonnet is a bit premature, seeing as purple prose is in poor taste, too. So just call 9-1-1 to be safe. 

Interview with a genuine Lizard Brain

After the premature cancellation of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles television show, I swore I would never again fall under the cold-blooded spell of charismatic reptiles. It was the only thing I could do to survive. But that was a promise I simply couldn’t keep. These slimy creatures have a certain appeal that’s enough to break a person’s heart and change a person’s mind. I kept my vow until I saw those first Geico commercials with the slithering gecko at the helm, hawking the wares of a little-known insurance company. Why hadn’t I thought of something this clever? My loyalty to the comedic stylings of Joy Behar and Jimmy Kimmel went out the window – interestingly, it’s the same window that barely needs to be cracked to let in any local lizards. For years, my dreams have been dominated by Coca-Cola Koalas, Honda Pandas and Huawei Blue Jays. I knew it was time to pick up the phone. Martin the Gecko is a rather unusual fellow. He doesn’t exactly have to work anymore, but when you love what you do, you keep going despite how irritating your steady income stream makes it for all the other underemployed reptiles in your life. When I caught up with Marty, he was in Texas on business. 

MTP: What’s in Texas?

MTG: Gigs. I do improv comedy with a traveling troupe called, “Yes gland.” Historically, reptiles have trouble breaking into the entertainment industry, so my notoriety helps a bit. Though I’m still waiting for Hollywood to call, here’s hoping with the right vehicle comes along soon. 

MTP: What happened to the cockney accent? 

MTG: O’, dis ol’ fing? [stops doing the accent] Look, Michael Caine’s a friend. I asked him if I could “borrow your essence” for those first few spots and he was as gracious as you’d expect. The persona took on a life of its own and here we are. 

MTP: Where’d you grow up then? 

MTG: Lisbon.

MTP: Portugal?

MTG: Ohio.

MTP: I see. The land of Lebron and Neil Armstrong. What are you reading now?

MTG: A few scripts come across my desk each week. Which is easy since my desk is incredibly small. They’re mostly awful, embarrassing dreck Gecko private eye, gecko cop, gecko fireman, gecko astronaut, gecko cardiologist. I’d like to be considered for something a bit more challenging. Understand?

MTP: I suppose. Are there any projects you’re developing?

MTG: Honestly? Yeah, there are a few. Really one in particular. It’s sort of a passion project. My agent loves it. 

MTP: Care to tell the audience?

MTG: Sure, why not? I’ve been working on an adaptation of Sterling Hayden’s masterful memoir, Wanderer. Hayden was this matinee idol, iconoclastic, bearded. He named names, hated the phoniness of film, and went through a terrible divorce. Then he took his kids and sailed to Tahiti. We had backers and a big name signed on to direct it, but in the end, the pandemic destroyed our budget. I haven’t given up entirely, but it’s a dream deferred – for now.

MTP: And you were going to play Hayden?

MTG: Of course. I co-wrote the screenplay, too. In real life, he was a little taller than me, but the camera adds a few feet. 

MTP: You know something about terrible divorces, don’t you?

MTG: Unfortunately, yes. I’m the Larry King of lizards, who himself is the Martin the Gecko of humans.  

MTP: I read somewhere that in God’s rough draft, geckos were one of the plagues and not frogs. How do you think that revision might’ve changed your life? 

MTG: I think I would’ve gotten my big break much sooner than I did. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for everything Geico has done for me. But I wasn’t cut out to be a pioneer. I'm not the first of anything. Jim Henson turned down 50 lizards before picking Kermit. It took a while for us to become acceptable to most Americans.

MTP: You work for an insurance company. What are your feelings about looting? 

MTG: Everything and everyone’s replaceable. Look at Gallagher. My brother would do the same thing to me given the chance.  

MTP: Physically, you're unable to blink. What would you do in a hostage situation?

 

MTG: Have you ever tried to restrain a lizard? Good luck.

MTP: I look forward to seeing you on the silver screen. 

MTG: Remember to bring your binoculars.

Slight Buzzkill

A bee lands on the corner post of a freshly lacquered deck. The structure is gorgeous from afar, but toxic up close. The smell has wafted through the neighborhood for days now, killing flowers and stopping children and pets in their eerily similar tracks. On the other side of the deck is another bee, minding his own beeswax - if such a thing is possible.

“Can you believe this weather?,” says the first bee to the second.

“Do I know you?” says the other bee, confused and slightly annoyed. He was enjoying the solitude. 

“You do now, pal. I don’t think you’re supposed to stain a deck in this climate. Cut corners and this is what happens. No permit, no level, no finesse. You see how the one end is bowing a bit?”

“You don’t say.”

“I just got back from my folks place over on Eastern Parkway. The trains were down so I had to buzz the whole way myself. Some Mayor we elected, huh?

If the other bee’s eyes could roll, they’d be spinning.

“That’s the thing about this city. Everything’s different now. You used to pop into a bodega and it was hard to find things. I mean, really difficult. Now everything is clearly marked to assuage those with serious allergies and anyone with even mild spatial issues. Part of the fun though was flying around and discovering an open bag of confectioner’s sugar – not realizing if the apostrophe was in the right place or not. And not caring. You were there for the regular sugar, the classic glucose, or whatever was fed to you growing up. But this was something new and exciting. You were finally on your own. You’re a bee. But maybe now you’re a baker. You could get your life in order by getting on The Great British Bake Off, winning a few rounds and stinging one of the judge’s open palms. A whole world of sweets and possibilities was now open to you. All because someone left a ripped bag on the top shelf. That doesn’t happen today. That bag gets tossed with the rest of the place’s mistakes. God forbid someone in corporate pay a visit and see anything in disarray. But that mistake might’ve changed your life. What are we becoming, man? A nation of people adrift, head in our phones, forgetting what makes us-"

The other bee cuts in, seizing a brief and sudden pause in the monologue.

“I think you got the wrong guy. ‘Cause I’m a honey bee just passing the time.”

“Oh yeah? I’m here for the deck, since I’m a carpenter bee. Or “boring bee” if you’d prefer.”

“I would.”

Abandoning the Rat Race

It didn’t happen overnight. But it did happen at night. That’s when your best work gets accomplished. When you aren’t distracted by the scorching noon sun and high pitch screech of poorly oiled brakes. After nocturnal deliberation sessions lasting months, where you wrestled with important ideas and close friends, you were finally ready to make a decision. At first, you were worried what others might think. They’ll curse you, say you’re a coward and worse. But here you are: leaving New York City.

You didn’t plan on getting here so soon. Luckily, you’ve never been the luggage type. The baggage type, sure, but that’s different. You thought about leaving after Hurricane Sandy, but ultimately decided against it. You need to go where you’re wanted, where you’re appreciated. 

You’re a rat, after all. Most of your friends and coworkers are rats. You never imagined a time would arrive where you’d prefer the verdant lawns of suburbia to the darkened subway tunnels of the city’s massive underground labyrinth. Yet, there’s no turning back now. You’re gone, on your way out of the city for good. The Federal Government can’t help you anymore, despite all the work you’ve done to put away arch criminals stepping on the throat of the little guy. The Witness Protection program is compromised. Rats stand out in the crowd and are still at risk without providing information for the prosecution.

Rodentrification occurs when urban environments are no longer hospitable to this large underclass of critters. There will always be holdovers, those furry scurrying folks who have planted their flag well below 2^nd Avenue and will never leave. But this is not about them. If human beings follow the money, rats follow the garbage. And as things are presently constituted, there’s not nearly enough garbage to go around. These wide open spaces are destined not to be wasted, but rather, to be filled with waste. 

While there are city sentimentalists who oppose the movement of rats, this major transition gives other creatures an opportunity to relocate. The pigeons, the crocodiles, the feral cats. Heck, even some humans are looking at the spacious abodes beneath the street grid, believing that what they lack in natural light they more than make up for in lack of rent. With rats choosing life across the river and out of sight, there are others who’ve been waiting out their hold on so much of the city’s forgotten spaces. The great rat migration will change the complexion of the city and the ‘burbs, remaking America is profound ways.

You’re not abandoning life, you’re abandoning the rat race. It’s time to embrace a slower pace, where garbage is collected once a week and sewer floors are clean enough to eat off of. Not that dirt ever stopped you before. Good luck out there. 

Can't Culture

Dude, you can’t say that. You can’t spell that. You can’t sound like that. You can’t whistle that. You can’t hum that. You can’t sing that. You can’t nod along to that. You can’t listen to that. You can’t laugh at that. And no, you can’t appreciate that.

Guy, you can’t eat that. You can’t cook that. You can’t prepare that. You can’t feed birds that. You can’t drink that. You can’t blend that. You can’t fry that. You can’t broast that. You can’t garnish that. Sorry, you can’t enjoy that.

Friend, you can’t wear that. You can’t try on that. You can’t understand that. You can’t believe that. You can’t think that. You can’t decide that. You can’t buy that. You can’t sell that. You can’t borrow that. Excuse me, but you can’t see that.

Buddy, you can’t watch that. You can’t make that. You can’t paint that. You can’t sculpt that. You can’t brush that. You can’t mold that. You can’t fold that. You can’t hold that. You can’t crease that. Look, you can’t be that.

Pal, you can’t sew that. You can’t cut that. You can’t clean that. You can’t dust that. You can’t rust that. You can’t trust that. You can’t wash that. You can’t like that. You can’t have that. Oh, and you can’t know that.

Bro, you can’t build that. You can’t boycott that. You can’t assemble that. You can’t play that. You can’t want that. You can’t love that. You can’t mean that. You can’t hear that. You can’t read that. Um, you can’t remember that.

Fella, you can’t joke about that. You can’t make light of that. You can’t ignore that. You can’t call attention to that. You can’t talk about that. You can’t avoid that. You can’t ask that. You can’t criticize that. Yeah, you can’t question that.   

Well, you can't pray to that. You can't draw that. You can't wish that. You can't get that. You can't give that. You can't belatedly gift that. You can't reupholster that. You can't vacuum that. Of course, you can’t protest that.

Why, you can’t frame that. You can’t name that. You can’t tape that. You can’t drape that. You can’t weigh that. You can’t feature that. You can’t teach that. You can’t leech that. You can’t name that. Huh? You can’t hope for that.

Hey, you can’t etch that. You can’t sketch that. You can’t caricature that. You can’t boil that. You can’t spoil that. You can’t burn that. You can’t spurn that. You can’t turn that. You can’t learn that. Pardon? You can’t be inspired by that.

Boss, you can’t smell that. You can’t smell that? You can’t smell like that. You can’t smell because of that. You can’t inhale that. You can’t exhale that. You can’t ingest that. You can’t change that. You can’t change your clothes because of that. And you can’t smell that (on your clothes).

I can't finish that. But did I just write all that?

Oops. 

Conspiracy leery

I’m a regent of reason. A luminary of logic. A devotee of detachment. As all that and so much more, I’m no fan of conspiracy theories. Employing a belief system based in pure objectivity won’t allow it. Everything I think has a perfectly good explanation. But the world is weird, and there are times I’m slandered by jealous, preening guttersnipes sniping gutturally from the comfy confines of their proverbial legume gallery. Since very few people actually understand the world, truly grappling with reality, I owe it to humanity to be honest. Call it a duty, or a dutiful calling.  

Like I said, conspiracy theories are not for me. But, if you believe the sky is blue, you’re living in a dream world. You’re not really looking at the sky, are you? We should be past seeing color. It’s simply not done anymore. Blue represents the latent oppression inside your optic nerve. You probably think that weather is controlled by various pressure systems and other complicated things. Wrong again. The weather is controlled by the very weathermen who so glibly and poorly predict it. This cloudy cabal of meddlesome meteorologists enjoys seeing people without rain cover. They get off the umbrellaless masses, running through the drizzle, soaked and sullen. That always brightens their day.

 

Gravity is a theory. Evolution, too. Same with the famous five second rule that states sandwiches taste better when they graze the grime of kitchen floor linoleum. The dinosaurs didn’t go extinct, they quickly changed costumes to annoy us as birds, loudly demanding seed and shelter. The aliens didn’t just arrive, they never left. Smile, you’re on camera - somewhere, anywhere, everywhere.

I can understand if you missed all of this. It’s not easy to see if you’re blind, but impossible to miss if you’re awake to it. No one’s perfect. Except the guy who lives down in the center of the earth, controlling existence and toying with reality from a fiery lair. Rodolfo is his name, I think. He’s a failed puppeteer, angry at all the marionettes who sheepishly shrugged their shoulders when he’d speak of his global aspirations. But guess who’s pulling the strings now?

Via Sappia

Have you ever thought about roads? Have you really given it a good, long think?  Why do they smell like that? What is that smell, anyway? Knowing you, you probably haven’t. Yet, you’ve certainly sat in heavy congestion, ensconced by cars on all sides, cursing the capriciousness of Trafficaestus, the shameless God of traffic. Like all deities, Mr. T has a divine plan based on whimsy and weirdness. It involves jackknifed tractor trailers, obscene hand gestures and cartons of spilled produce lining the highway. Never once a tipped over Brink’s truck – but that’s another matter entirely. Apparently, the Bitcoin boys have gotten to him, too. It's far from fair. When the Olympian folks drive, they're still riding around in retro chariots, expecting us to clear the way for their ancient motorlesscade. What effrontery. Would it kill them to buy a Tesla?

You honk and howl. Blast the windshield wiper fluid into the abyss. Flick your lights with more gusto than the world’s foremost fan of house music. Because, really, what else can you do? You’re not going anywhere until things change. And much like society itself, traffic change is slow and painful. You, along with the surrounding shrieking saps, wait it out. 

Every few years, some hotshot infrastructure consultant named Dieter or Gunter or Sammy lands in New York City promising big things and bigger results. They claim to have all the answers to our city’s dire traffic woes. What we need are more bridges, more zip lines, more tunnels. What they don’t understand – what they never understand – is that the answers to our traffic woes are all around us. There’s plenty of room to drive, as long as you have a healthy imagination. Sidewalks, yards, parks, cemeteries, ballfields and basketball courts.

You don't have to learn to scale tall buildings or run across car roofs - though it never hurts to keep one's options open. There are other vehicles, but this is a matter of principle. You should be able to get anywhere on earth in a car, without downsizing to a scooter, or worse yet, a pair of rollerblades. 

We’re defining roads all wrong. A road is anywhere you can drive. Which is basically anywhere outside of major bodies of water, and even a few of those would work (The LA river anyone?). Let’s not forget that roads are constructs. Therefore, we get to decide what constitutes one. It’s 2020. Is it still necessary to pay tribute to the design popularized by Ancient Roman meddlers? Ideally, roads should transport us places. Instead, we’re letting them limit our travel based on where some fellas in hard hats decided to lay down blacktop.

The next time you’re stuck in traffic, don’t fret. There are untapped possibilities right in front of you. Just make sure you signal first.  

The Magical Apology Tour

I’m sorry. Sorry that I said it. Sorry that I thought it. Sorry that you thought I said it. Sorry that I didn’t say it, but you said that I said it. What a thought. Again, sorry. You must know by now that I didn’t really mean it. It was a little joke. It was less than joke. A fleeting, second-long, barely comprehensible witticism. The same amount of thinking went into it as goes into swatting a moth. I now realize I should think twice before striking a moth. What about their families, their lives, their family lives? I blame my upbringing, as long as we’re blaming individuals and abstract concepts. I grew up in a home where chewing cashmere was a capital crime. The sins of sweater destruction were not something we could ever overlook. But I will now. I’ll install more bug lights around my property and switch to leather, an eminently smarter material.

I can’t believe it. You must understand. I’ll do whatever it takes. If groveling is appropriate, I can grovel. If you think it’s a little too Fallonesque in its obsequiousness, then I can just as easily not grovel. Doesn’t grovel sound like a specific shovel designed for gravel? I don’t know what I’m saying. This whole thing has gotten me so confused and bewildered. Mistakes tend to do that.

I’ll do some charity work. I’ll write a check. Or not. Since writing a check could be seen as manipulative. I’m okay with cash, too. I’ll speak to a group of people about my ordeal, never making excuses or putting things in context. I’ll attend dinner parties and happy hours, only schmoozing when absolutely necessary. I won't eat. You won't even know I'm there, except for the hour long struggle session I plan on giving once the cocktail weenies are plated.

I know intent doesn’t matter. It can’t. I didn’t mean for any offense. Then again, I didn’t mean to overcook the cipollinis and look at them now, carbonized beyond recognition. Without dental records, you’re just going to have to take my word for it that they were once esteemed members of the onion family.    

Please know that I’m sorry. I know that it didn’t affect you personally (how could it?) but if you could find it in your heart to forgive me, that’d really get me out of a bind right now. I owe you big time, though I’m still unsure exactly why. I'm so sorry.

Apologies like this don’t come from the heart. They come from the crack team down at J.S. Desole, who work around the clock crafting the best apologies money can buy. The only thing you’ll be sorry about is that you didn’t hire them sooner.

Trivial Pursuit of Happiness

When we were much more careless with our words, we’d say lots of foolish things. And hardly ever would we stop to analyze them. We’d say, “no dessert for me tonight,” despite staring down a well-proportioned, insanely moist olive oil cake. We’d say, “nice to meet you,” after speaking with someone on the phone for the first time. And we’d say, “life is too short.” But now, we know better. We know to say that life, like a squirrel or a fire hydrant, and through no fault of their own, is temporally-limited. Because of this adage, we were taught to focus on the big issues, serious questions, and major dilemmas.

This was an error. An understandable choice, but nonetheless a grave mistake. Instead of spending the summer face down in an above ground pool, surrounded by recently fallen leaves and spiritually fallen creatures, we were taught to weigh the weightiest questions of our time. “Why are we here?” I can tell you firsthand, that this is a complete waste. It doesn’t matter why we’re here, when we’re already here. Would you ask the pilot on a transatlantic flight the same question? Would you ask the pilot on a transcontinental flight the same question? The important thing in either case is that you’re seated, seat-belted, and with your knees positioned to avoid beverage cart contact. How about asking the steady pilot light in an old furnace, hoping to hear, in between flickers and hisses from a distant basement dwelling cousin of the Oracle of Delphi? I don’t think so.

We should spend our days thinking about paper straws and plastics cups. Trivial matters aren’t so trivial when they occupy all our mental energy. Spend your time on social media platforms, looking for happiness, instead of the humdrum monotony of sunsets and shooting stars. You’re not going to solve the energy crisis anyway. But you may just figure out a way to open up that skylight in the attic. How can the prospect of nuclear war be a concern, when nuking potatoes in the microwave should be? You weren’t put on earth to solve the biggest issues. Those who think they were, end up mucking things up anyway. Why not acknowledge the brevity of life with a few mindless remarks and discount pool toys?

Focus on goals you can actually accomplish. Had Galileo been a harmless hobbyist, he would’ve been a lot happier. And not living out his days under house arrest trying to solve the mysteries of the universe. Ever heard of croquet or cross-stitch? It’s not like those pondering the meaning of life get anywhere. They should try organizing the garage instead. At least with that, there’s a clear, and cleaner, end in sight.

The Devil's Avocado

“Don’t hold the knife like that,” said the Devil, sensing his young assistant’s obvious lack of culinary skill. His last assistant was a cheese monger from Tuscany, and the one before that was an Argentinian swordsmith who could handle himself around all forms of kitchen cutlery.

“Would you relax?,” said Ronnie, the assistant, slicing into a ripe avocado.

“If you cut your hand, I’m not driving you to the ER again,” said the Devil.

“I wouldn’t be driving myself either. Have you ever driven stick with a slice across your palm?”

Whether this was a rhetorical question or a stupid one demanded the same thing: no answer.

“Are you done yet?,” said the Devil, getting impatient. Avocado toast was just now becoming popular in the region, since all you had to do was put the bread outside for a few seconds to get it perfectly golden brown. Burning was a reasonable risk, given the climate.

“Almost, almost. Don’t forget your meetings this afternoon. Pol Pot is coming by later and Mr. Dahmer called to ask if he could reschedule.”

“I need a vacation.”

“And you wanted me to have someone come by to repair the thermostat. So that’ll happen sometime between 2 and 8.”

The Devil was getting antsy.

“Oh, and I’d like the weekend of the 16^th off. My uncle, the Godless car thief I mentioned the other day. He recently moved in and I want to bring him a housewarming gift.”

“Sure. But no visitors, please. You try signing autographs for a living. It's strenuous work.”

“Who said anything about visitors? I got you those card show gigs to supplement your income - which, I might add, was paltry when we met. You should be thanking me. Your problem was that you couldn't sign the same thing. First it was "The Devil," then "El Diablo," "Lucifer," "Damien," and finally "Giuseppe Demoni." How are you supposed to garner any interest when you're undercutting the value of your own John Hancock with each signature? ”

“You should know by now that I’m not the entertaining type. I prefer to let my resume speak for itself.”

 

Ronnie nodded along and tossed the avocado pit into the garbage can.

“Woah, woah. What are you doing there?,” said the Devil.

“Throwing out your garbage. You're welcome.”

“That’s not garbage. That’s a collector’s item. Big difference.”

“You save these?,” said Ronnie, pulling the pit out of the trash and staring at it, hoping the mere sight of one would help explain why his boss held onto them.

“Eternity is all about hobbies. There’s no other way to pass the time. In different eras, I’ve gotten into sewing, model trains, auto-tuning. When traditional pastimes falter, you have to start making up your own. It'll be art one day. Either that or I’ll burn them all in the big fire pit out back.”

“Toast’s ready,” said Ronnie, grabbing the still-smoking pieces of bread from the ledge.

“I really should get an avocado tree. I hate going to the store, forced to squeeze fruit in public. It's undignified for someone of my stature.”

“Good luck. But you’ll need consistent rainfall.”  

“Maybe in the next life.”