Let Me Be Clear

 

Before we dive into the shallow end of this pool, ignoring the exaggerated gesticulations of a witless, whistleless lifeguard, wiping out the relative chlorine serenity of casual swimmers calmly wading in the water buoyed by juvenile inflatables, I want to make something perfectly clear. Much clearer than the pool water in the description above. I’m not saying it’s okay to do any of what’s to come. I’m merely defending the right of some people to defend the right of other people to defend the right of some other people to defend the right of even some more people to say what they want. That’s as far as I’ll go. 

There’s this old man who sits on a park bench shouting at everyone who passes, calling them by name – or at least the name he assigns to them in that melon head of his. After every name, he’s shouts, “boy.” No matter what. Donnie boy. Donna boy. Dougie boy. Doggie boy. It’s weird and uncalled for. He also makes the same stupid joke to anyone who listens about how a close friend of his has a bad case of shingles. Turns out that the friend in question is his house. His house – a Tudor estate – has shingles. Slate ones. I’m not defending him. Nor am I even defending those who defend him. I wouldn’t take that risk. I’m just putting the case out there for the public to decide. 

There’s a store on my block that plays muzak versions of everything you know and love. All the greats. People like Stevie Ray Vaughn and Schubert. It’s hard to know who’s to blame: The store for playing it or for the record companies for making it. Either way, it’s not for me to cast blame. 

There’s a dog I know, a street dog, who ignores fire hydrants, preferring to relieve himself on firehouses instead. The logic – straight from the canine’s lips – is this: at the house they have hugely powerful firehoses and more cleaning supplies. Plus, it’s more private and dog-friendly, given the all-important Dalmatian quotient. I don’t know who’s right. So as far as I’m concerned, I just want to make sure no one’s getting the short end of the hook. 

There’s a woman nearby who doesn’t just do X. She does x, y and z. And a. When no one’s looking she does b, c and sometimes d. There are days, and some nights, I catch her doing e, f and g. That’s to say nothing about h, i, and j. Usually in spring, when the weather’s nicer, she’s out doing k, l, and m. But if it’s really nice, even nicer than your average day, I’ve witnessed her actually doing n, o and p. She’s been known to do q, r and s on weekends - generally Sundays. But what’s crazy, actually nuts, is when she just wakes up in the morning and does t, u and v. Before even breakfast. Oh yeah, and w. That’s a doozy. I’ll let you fill in the blanks using your imagination. It’s fairer that way. Then I don’t have to defend any individual act.

There’s this guy who lets out a huge “ah” after he drinks coffee. A real exuberant throat clear. And he drinks a lot of coffee. Never misses a day. It’s me, actually. I’m the guy. And I’m not here to defend myself. I wouldn’t dare. I’ll let others do that. It’s problematic for me to make this more about me than it already is. 

Do you agree? Ask around. 

The Hypocritic Oath

 

The text below was discovered on frayed parchment jutting out from the breast pocket of a failed conman. He had died faking his own death – a final error in a life riddled with them. Something about a cliff and a banana peel. The details are hazy. The charlatan in question, Diego “Dougie” Desvergonzado, dabbled in just about everything in his short, unproductive life. He kept parakeets who could supposedly recite all of Cervantes. But really, they could barely chirp “Miguel.” He built a small door frame that was an alleged portal to paradise, “Dante’s Doorway.” But again, this proved to be nothing more than a shoddily-constructed piece of termite-infested driftwood, amateurly slapped together at the behest of a recently defrocked priest searching anywhere for meaning. Desvergonzado claimed to be the mayor of a small town in Northern Michigan, on account of his royal lineage. 

Somewhere along the line he discovered Bonaparte blood. While each of his many business ventures failed spectacularly, his code remains the foundational document for many a huckster. If we regular people latch onto the Declaration of Independence, holding that document near and dear, this is for the other people. For rascals, wretches, bounders and cads. For scallywags, scoundrels, swindlers and frauds. Anyone and everyone who’s ever felt the pull of deceit. And you can't spell alive without lie.   

I swear by all the cheats and liars who’ve come before me and by every God, Goddess, pigeon, rat and barnyard animal that ever gave me the time of day, making them my witnesses so that I will honor this oath. But since it’s an oath about hypocrisy, I don’t even have to honor the end of this sentence with a period. 

If there’s one thing to uphold in a life of deception, let it be this: your rank unreliability. To hold this up has taught me that lying is equal parts art and science. Though how we measure it is usually up to meddling jurists. The truth about having a conscience is that the mere possession of one is what makes life complicated. You see, without a conscience, you never have to worry about going against it. Having no ideals or principles means never having to break them. There’s nothing contradictory about living a life that shifts with the rising and ebbing tides. 

So if you’re doing it right, if you’re doing it successfully, you’re making it up as you go along. You are whomever you say you are. It’s not for others to decide – it’s for them to believe. In this way, you’re like an actor, but not one stuck in a poorly written role. You can rewrite it every day, finding a new character to bring fleeting joy to strangers and financial rewards to you. Practice whatever you preach and preach whatever you want.

Be different things to different people, whoever they may be. I don’t have to tell the truth, and neither do you. What’s the truth anyway? What good is making a list of pros and cons to a pro con? 

I will not ever go against a profit even if that means going against a prophet. Whatever towns or villages I may visit, I will come for the benefit of my bank account and nothing else, remaining inscrutable and circumspect. I will work for circuses and carnivals if they’ll still employ me (enough time should've passed to forgive the trapeze incident).  I’ll avoid law enforcement and use fake names when dealing in really nefarious stuff. 

I’ll do it my way, which could be your way. While Frank Sinatra sang it, Paul Anka wrote it. Let that be a lesson to us all. What I see or hear in the course of my travels I will use against others as blackmail, extortion and general malfeasance. I won’t keep anything to myself ever – where’s the fun in that? Holding onto shameful things is bad for one’s health, so you must free your mind, as well as your lips.

If I don’t fulfil this oath and violate its precepts, I’ve actually fulfilled it in another way. There’s no way I can lose at this point. I’ll be honored with fame, fortune and infamy. But I’m not here to make friends, just money. Up is down, but up also up. If I transgress, which I will – repeatedly – may all my dreams come true. 

Your dis’ob’nt ser’vnt,

D. Desvergonzado, July 5, 1810

 

 

Interview: The World’s Oldest Professional

I know what you’re thinking. That here’s yet another interview with a withered old coot railing against modernity, suddenly awarded a hefty and uncritical forum to complain. Nope, not today, my friend. You won’t find any graybeards here. You won’t find beards of any kind for that matter. And you’ll have to squint if you want to see wrinkles. As a society, we’ve showered the Shirley Temples, the Tatum O’Neals, and the Mozarts of the world with gifts and adulation, saddling the talented tikes with impossible expectations. But Mozart wasn’t poisoned. He was just one more child star incapable of adjusting to adulthood. Had TMZ been around in 18^th century Vienna, he would’ve been their favorite subject target. My guest today knows all about the ups and downs of show business. Archibald “Bye Baby” Lavato saw fame before air, going viral while still in the womb. As a faint image on a sonogram shared by an enterprising young nurse, the sight of Lavato’s tiny hands making unmistakably obscene gestures sent the Internet into a collective tizzy. After birth, Lavato reached the height of his powers. His grandparents, filming some home movies, waved at the newborn, saying “Bye Baby.” Lavato turned and flipped them off, smirking while giving his relatives the bird. People couldn’t get enough, replacing the child’s given name with “Bye Baby.” But it was all downhill from there. Most people never go viral once, let alone twice. This interview’s been edited and condensed for clarity and entertainment. I caught up with Lavato in his nursey. Now 9 months old, and washed-up career-wise for a variety of reasons, the child is wondering – what comes next?  

MTP: Good morning. Do you prefer Archie or “Bye Baby?” 

AL: Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

MTP: Archie it is. As I was preparing for this interview, mostly by googling your name over and over, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to know first. I’ll put it bluntly. What’s it like to be finished this soon?

AL: Goo. Goo…goo. Googoogaga. Ga?

MTP: In a way, you already reinvented yourself once, after becoming an in-utero sensation you hit the social media jackpot again. But there’s some speculation on various reddit threads that your parents, the mischievous jackals, put you up to flipping your grandparents off. What they say, your critics that is, is that no child is born knowing the weight and power of the middle finger. Do you have a response to them?   

AL: Wooooooooooo. Ha ha hey hey ho ho he he. 

MTP:  I want to believe you. Honestly, I do. But it’s just hard to imagine an infant having the wherewithal, not to mention the camera presence and comic timing without a little parental direction. 

AL: [spitting into the phone]

MTP: No need to get personal. Look, it doesn’t bother me. What’s that story about Vermeer using mirrors to capture the right light? The point is, great artists do what they have to do to create. I understand that more than most. 

AL: [indiscriminate squealing]

 

MTP: I want to discuss the “scandal.” The real reason you lost your 15 seconds of fame.

AL: Eyeyeeyeyeyeyey.

MTP: Of course. Your baby monitor was hacked and leaked online. On it you said a lot of wild things, things I can’t repeat here. Not because they are particularly offensive, but because they are extremely hard to say. 

AL: Goo…goo…ga…gee...golly, it such a betrayal. My nanny was swaddling me, recording me and posting the videos on her public social media accounts, hoping to leech a little off my good name. My parents, as was becoming a theme back then, were largely absent, trapped by their own idiocy. I couldn’t handle it. You don’t know what it’s like to be the center of a maelstrom of controversy with no end in sight? You certainly don't. I self-medicated. I went to rehab. I went again. I tried to change my name. Nothing has worked to dull the pain. Not yet anyway. I’m still relatively young, so at least I have that going for me. 

MTP: Unfortunately, that’s all the time we have. I thank you. 

Erasure Thing

  

It’s a little clunky. And lugging it around all day, every day, is a serious chore that pushes each vertebrae to its natural limit. People tend to stare, rubbing their eyes with coarse hand towels and clenched fists for a closer, clearer look. It’s quite a challenge to stay sharp, too. Thank goodness the tip isn’t a major concern. That’s right, you guessed it: I carry a six-foot fully-functional pencil with me at all times. 

 

Why a pencil? Why not a pen? Pens are much too permanent. Ink is more appropriate on the forearm of a muscle-bound ex-con in need of freedom and expression. Or it belongs in the plate of a steaming pile of pasta, as waiters yell insults at each other punctuated by the barely Italian phrase, “hey, galamad.” The prospect of an internal ink implosion is too high a price for simply trying to keep the peace. 

 

These days, one of my absolute favorite pastimes is erasure. You can’t hope to accomplish the same level of clarity with a pen. And don’t give me erasable pens – a foolish mid 90s fad that should’ve been buried with the rest of the decade’s miserable dead-ends. Erasable pens imply we don’t have to make choices in life. That you can wear a necktie that cleverly folds up into a tidy bow tie. That your soup bowl is one rusty crank away from a salad plate. And your pet lizard – the slithering, scaly, high-maintenance reptile, Gaston – deserves a high-priced scholarship to the Westminster Kennel Club in the hopes he’ll suddenly turn into an obedient pooch.

 

If erasure is your goal, you need a pencil. And not just any pencil. But a Dixon Ticonderoga #2 (named for one of the three great forts - after Fort Knox and Fort Apache, the Bronx). With an eraser at the ready, no situation is too small to be snuffed out and forgotten. Wiped away like nothing happened. The past is no match for that pink stub. 

 

You probably can tell, but I don’t read the room. I write the room instead – which is far more empowering, especially for someone carrying a giant pencil into every room. Scribbling notes to myself on blank white walls always gets my point across. It’s much easier than having to do some quick interpretation of an impossibly delicate situation.

Ivory Sour

Over the years, I’ve had the great privilege of dabbling in a number of serious and unserious professions. By never holding a job for more than a couple days, I’ve allowed fresh ideas to take a hold of me whenever they materialize. When things really get going, succumbing to every sudden career impulse is remarkably liberating. I cobbled shoes, I wrote hit pop songs, I laid grout. It’s an interesting life, especially come tax season. But where has it all led me? Back where I started, I suppose. Each new job gets harder and harder to obtain, as my references dry up, tired of being called upon week after week.

What I’ve come to accept is that following each stint as an extreme caddy or a luxury plumber, I find it impossible to relate to the average person. Someone who’s only held a few jobs in their day can’t understand the nature of a man who’s interviewing for something new on his first day. During orientation, I've already moved on. I’m ready, I think, to settled down career-wise, sensing my professional restlessness abating. Exciting, don’t you think?

Independence is paramount, obviously. So whatever I do, I must do alone. Except for the dozens of contractors on the payroll and unannounced visitors stopping by assessing my progress. I just have the overwhelming urge to build something. But what? I tried academia, believing there existed a place where I could become comfortably walled off from criticism, totally separated from inconvenient facts, protected by tenure and microfiche. Secluded from my peers, cloistered from my enemies, and buttressed by my own false notions. Yet even there, it proved next to impossible. The students never let me have my way. They picketed, they complained, they wasted juicy Jersey tomatoes - hurling them at the board during a controversial lecture.

That’s why I’m building an actual Ivory Tower in my backyard. Sure, I'll have to cut down some trees and displace a few bird families. But it's about time they understood the concept of eminent domain.

I’ve always been attracted to big ideas - literally. But clunky, tortured metaphors are one thing. They exist only on the page, giving people the freedom to turn away and ignore. You can’t do that in this case – not when I’m finished. Choosing to live inside a metaphor takes a special amount of gumption, resilience, and insanity. Think of all the fools – some very rich indeed – building a mancave as a terribly misguided subterranean response to married life. Why go down when you can rise above it?

 

I no longer wish to explain how my interests are unique and different. I want people to look at the glistening structure in my garden and get it immediately. The trouble with ivory is that it’s hard to come by. There’s only so much vintage scrimshaw to be found along the dusty windowsills of rural antique malls. Trace amounts of the substance are found in obscenely-shaped cloves of elephantine garlic. But I can’t rely solely on those for my tower. It’ll permanently alter my breath, rendering even the most powerful mouthwash painfully inadequate. No, I’ll have to get whaling again, picking up the harpoons of my strange New England forbears. Unlike them though, I’m not in it for the spermaceti.  

When it’s all done, you’ll see. It shall be my proudest accomplishment. That’s until I discover I’ve violated a number of local and state building ordinances. They’ll force me to raze the whole thing, piece-by-piece, selling the ivory for scrap in conjunction with a Lion’s Club bake sale. The tower will then exist in myth, memory, and drone footage taken by a precocious teenager on my block with aspirations to help grow the current surveillance state. If you miss it, there’s always the Freedom of Information Act. Kids today don't want to be the next Snowden, they want to rat out the next Snowden. And that makes all the difference. 

Platform News

 

I’m not one to dole out advice. And I’m usually not one to use “dole” in a sentence. It’s not because I don’t possess worthwhile knowledge – because I do. Nor is it because I'm a Chiquita man. Frankly, I have an overflowing surplus of the stuff you call "wisdom" or juicy brain nuggets. But giving it away for free strikes me as absurd in this age of hyper-monetization. So I wait – wait for someone to ask and offer up a fair price. Today’s different though. Maybe it’s the snow or that I’ve already moved my car to the legal side of the street. Whatever it is, I’m feeling remarkably and unusually generous. Like a total eclipse, this mood of mine won’t last for long. You simply have to read it to believe it. Try not to stare.

You need a platform. Everyone needs a platform. Did you already know that? Not the way I see it. You are only thinking in terms of social media and the few famous platforms constantly bandied about on talk shows I don’t watch and in columns I don’t read. What they don’t tell you is that the type of platform is beside the point. Pick any platform you like and watch as your career is instantly made better. 

Me? I want a vertical advantage. Even the craziest, drooling mad dog knows that a milk crate provides the perfect amount of moral high ground necessary to command a serious following of attentive automatons. To be above the fray, you need to actually be above it. Good thing platforms come in many sizes, shapes and materials. 

Why waste your time learning the ins and outs of brand new apps when all you have to do is hang around the back of a liquor store. When they aren’t looking, toss several pallets in your open trunk. Put ‘’em together and there you have it – your very own platform. From there you are free to survey and comment on the fuller world that's now in view. Should the boozed up working stiffs see you absconding with their hard-won wood, throw them a couple bucks and make peace. They’ll part with it as long as you offer a reasonable rate. Not unlike me when confronted by demented advice-seekers. 

One thing to keep in mind though. The higher you get, the harder you fall.

The Honeymarsers

I don’t understand NASA. Is it an acronym or simply another unpronounceable English word? They have all this money, all this public support, and the entire galaxy at their disposal. Yet, when the countdown clicks to zero, they routinely opt for something decidedly uninspiring. Like sending an unmanned robot car to the Red Planet. Haven’t we done this before? Why are we doing this again? It’s not like there are great roads out there. The space agency has never understood the utility of scenic routes.

They’re looking for evidence of microbial lifeforms. But why? Wouldn’t it be easier to spot regular-sized lifeforms? Like purveyors of dry (very dry considering the surface temp) goods or hardworking business owners. Let’s say they find some tiny speck of bacterial dust – okay, what now? When’s the last time you had a scintillating back and forth with something bubbling inside a petri dish? It’s hard to relate when one party needs a heavy-duty microscope just to say hello. Others are hoping to find fossils. Again, I ask why? Fossils are merely reminders that you’re way too late. “Great, there was life here once. Thanks for the memories.” It’s nature’s equivalent of a “you just missed me” note. In a snowstorm, after a car pulls away revealing virgin pavement, while I might appreciate the empty space, I don’t care about the vehicle. And that was only a few minutes, not a few millions years before. 

No, what we need is to send a search party. You don’t send a robot to do a human’s job. When are people going to understand this? We ask too much of machines and then wonder why they demand more respect? In order to find life on Mars, NASA should’ve recruited two people who are enthusiastic about the universe as well as – and this is essential – each other’s company. You can’t send one person though. There’s no fun in complaining alone.

If it were up to me, I would’ve sent two newlyweds to Mars. Bushy-faced and fresh-eyed, still teeming with joy from the recitation of overwritten vows, these two people would have just what it takes to make the most on another world. Maybe it wasn’t the most obvious destination (how are the schools?), but Mars is a place that deserves sober reflection from an actual human being. 

There’s even a contingency plan when things invariably go awry. Should they find no evidence of life on Mars, surely they can start from scratch and make a few lifeforms of their own. A happy couple knows how to scheme and survive, making the most of their opportunity. When it comes to peace and quiet, there's not much competition for the vacuum of space. It won't be all sunshine and supernovas. Even the strongest relationships can collide with a temporary asteroid belt. However, a little perspective is helpful. While marriages have ups and downs, the universe only has the latter. Entropy, anyone?

 

Is there life on Mars? Ask again in 9 months. 

So Czar, So Good

  

From what I can tell, we’re living in a representative democracy – a republic, as it were. Not that you can tell from listening to the kvetching critters, singing high above along utility poles and roomy gutters. Pundits, the name bestowed on uncritical thinkers wishing to improve on our rusty model, argue otherwise. They believe that government can get better. If said improvement doesn’t involve potholes or parking ticket amnesty, I lose interest almost immediately. So thank our good and merciful lord (Bill Gates) for these serial pontificators. 

While they decry how things never seem to run smoothly, the vast majority of their policy proposals involve a single word – and it’s not even an English one. Because what the world needs now are Czars sweet Czars. I rub my eyes every time I come across the word. After years of linguistic abuse at the hands of Will Shortz and his symmetrical band of word warriors, I still write, “Tsar.” The British Royal Family is one thing, but what power do they really have? Czars had it all - at least until they didn't. 

Drug Czar, a Food Czar, a Reality Czar, a Parking Czar, a Kitchen Czar, a Ninja Czar – there is not an element of daily life that wouldn’t serve well from the addition of an absolute monarch. Why should congress worry about its approval rating when all along the answer to our problems lay in a basement in Yekaterinburg. Unlike 19^th century Russia, our American Czars have a narrow scope of control. The Dish Czar would not be able to interfere with the Cutlery Czar. The same goes for the Paint Czar and the Wallpaper Czar, seemingly at odds, but only out to do what’s best for the country with national mandates regarding interior decorating. All knowing, all seeing and all over.

There’s nothing so imaginative in modern political life as believing a single individual can remake things for the better. The Greek Gods are a fine example of an ideal bureaucracy. Did Zeus have the most power? Yeah, sure he did. But he allowed other, lesser Gods to run things day-to-day. Why would he bother himself with the pitfalls of footwear when the God of Sandals understood much better what was happening on the ground. Or the minutia of grape cultivation when other, earthier deities aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. 

A chicken in every pot and a Czar in every garage. Now that’s an American Dream everyone should wholeheartedly embrace. 

Vow of Compliance

Whenever you’re seeking wholesome family entertainment, the image of a rectangular black bar flashing across the screen is a sight for sore eyes. Only a magician has the innate genius to clearly picture what’s behind the annoying black mass. The rest of us are left dumbstruck, confused yet thankful at the merciful network heads looking out for us little people. We can’t handle the truth – whatever that may be. No one knows what they’re covering up - not exactly. All we know is that they’re protecting us from ourselves. Too bad curtailing language requires substantially more imagination. 

That’s because English’s forbidden words are limited to a paltry 26. How could that not be? You can’t have two T-words, unless anarchy is the goal – which maybe it is. So you have to pick your G-word carefully. The same goes for the Z-word, the A-word, and the yes, the M-word. Sadly, tragically, 26 words is anything but comprehensive. A never-ending list of bad words will stream into society unrestrained – an unstoppable force of highly questionable speech. This is a major problem for would-be censors. They have to be choosy. But the whole fun of censoring is that it never has to stop. You keep going until there’s nothing left to say. Nobody becomes a censor because of discretion.

There’s no way around it. The 26, that is. Unless we come together and go the monastic route, collectively taking a vow of silence. Think of what it could do. No more political or sports arguments. No more small talk with strangers waiting for the bus. No more heavy talk with intimates either. Cable news’ viewership would increase with empty tickers in the lower third of the screen. National Public Radio might be able to increase its budget with a whole new slate of No-Talk Shows. Late Night hosts wouldn’t have to practice their monologues anymore – they’d just be asked to stand silently for seven to eight minutes, staring at the audience and smiling awkwardly (a skill they've all honed through years experience). You’d never have to change the channel for fear of annoyance or aggravation. The world would instantly become a more peaceful, agreeable place. 

Are there offensive gestures? Yes, and way more than 26, in fact. But why put a limit on those?

Expanding Presidential Traditions

On days like today, the rituals should be familiar, having remained unchanged for decades, providing comfort and stability to a country desperate for both. Basically, you should know the drill by now. Staying up all night carving Grover Cleveland’s rustic features in a fresh melon. Arguing vociferously that the “L” in “Polk” be silent. Or writing a sonnet about the facial hair of Rutherford B. Hayes:

He served his country in war and in peace,

But we’re not here to consider all that,

Only thick stubble that would never cease,

Which the public likened to a dead rat. 

Few remember his time in the White House,

And in four years, he never shaved, not once.

What covered his face was half man, half mouse.

In one term he became “The Bearded Dunce.”

They said he couldn’t act presidential,

Not with bushy lips and wooly chin straps.

If anything, he looked quite rodential,

His office filled with gourmet cheese and traps.

He was years ahead of the hipster craze,

Inside each there’s some Rutherford B. Hayes.

Yes, yes, there are other methods of celebration on this fine day off. Like kissing old pennies or having a one-sided conservation with crisp dollar bills still hot from the dryer. But why must we only celebrate U.S. Presidents? There aren’t enough to go around. What about the President of a local bank, used car dealership, Elks Club, or a confederation of activist bakers? In all businesses, there are presidents and usually a good many vice presidents. Maybe they aren’t as hirsute as some of our nation’s 19^th century luminaries, but they still lead by example. 

This is their time. They honor us with sales events - discount tires, half-off croissants, BOMGOM offers (buy one melon, get one melon, free). That sort of thing. Presidents Day is about a great deal more than whoever put their feet up in the Oval Office  So the next time you are questioning cheap socks for a POTUS day clearance, pause for some reflection and realize that the person in charge of the socks is almost certainly a president. So show a little respect. Who are you to say they aren’t as accomplished as Rutherford B. Hayes? And these days, they probably have a beard to match.

Basement, Stellar

It’s more than old hat, it’s practically ancient chapeau to say that your enemies must live in their parents’ basement. There, they are walled in by wood paneling and stuffed (sometimes soaked) cardboard boxes overflowing with photo albums, childhood art and report cards from a time when a red pen carried the weight of a knight’s scimitar. Speaking of rouge, I had an English teacher who would carry her pen everywhere in case she witnessed any hint of a capital grammar crime. She’d mark up signs at the supermarket, inserting hyphens wherever necessary. She'd add commas into church programs, going as far as to deface the Good Book, given its inconsistent capitalization and indentation. Worst of all, she'd edit poorly written bumper stickers, ignoring word play and ruining a good many highway chuckles in the hopes of educating other drivers.

But what makes basements a source of derision? And why, oh why, is it such an insult? Aside from being in direct conflict with the encroaching water table, what’s the big deal? Basements offer many things – privacy for one. While that benefit usually comes at a cost – with a musty smell that’s impossible to remove and the sound of a temperamental boiler. A person can still adapt. 

I wouldn’t recommend carpeting the floors or adopting unloved plants for a short life of subterranean infirmity. There’s barely enough light down there for human beings. But basements are safe, secure places. Let’s remember that fallout shelters aren’t found in attics or inside multi-car garages. They are down a few flights, amid the beans and the bottled water, the batteries and the bowling shoes. 

Saying someone lives in a basement is a compliment, especially when it’s a rent-free agreement alongside minimal parental supervision. Your enemies don’t live in basements. And if they do, you should be jealous. Where else can you practice drum solos without bothering the neighbors and survive an atomic bomb? When those two mandatories are considered, the list is alarmingly short.  

Here's to all the basement dwellers out there, preserving their thoughts and select vegetables for future distribution. Because even the best of ideas could benefit from a little pickling on occasion.

Applications Unwelcome

I’m a recruiter now working for the most prestigious, world-famous, and quite enormous ad agencies. It’s my duty – no, my calling – to sift through the scraps of humanity for the very best candidates. How does all this help you? In a word: it doesn’t. What would help you get a leg up (or at least an ankle) on the competition comes from knowing what qualities I prioritize. 

There are recruiters who just want the best – copywriters, art directors, the people who know how to operate any coffee machine simply by sight. These are the gifted few who walk among us with pencils in their ears, erasers in their armpits, and staplers hanging off their belt loops. 

So why should I go after people like this? They are spoken for – again and again, at agency after agency. I’m looking for unconventional candidates - the moss-covered people living under rocks, the worm-loving people curling up under leaves and the silt sitters wading in clear brooks that couldn’t be more than an inch or two deep (I don’t know what that is in the metric system for any non-Americans hoping to break into the industry). While my parameters are strict, they are ever-shifting.

My ideal candidate owns a dog. But the dog’s name isn’t a dog name like Spot or Fido, but a real name, a person’s name – like George J. Fredericks or Agatha T. Mackenzie. That to me, says a great deal more about someone than how deftly they can breeze through Photoshop or InDesign. I want people who own lawn chairs – webbed, not wicker. I want someone who says “God Bless You” after they sneeze. A person who hums along to other people whistling. Someone that’s frightened by the squeaky wheel of a defective shopping cart. But someone who bags their groceries not in paper or plastic but in a bindle, as a respectful nod to every hobo that’s come before them. This is a person who wonders aloud and often why air travel didn’t breathe new life into the hobo sub-culture, creating jet-setting nomads, singing Woody Guthrie tunes under the plane in direct violation of the FAA’s ban on stowaways. And is a bindle a regular carry-on or considered more of a purse-like accessory, not counting towards the overall number of bags? These are all good questions. Ones that if you’re not asking, you’re not getting hired by me anytime soon. 

What I’m looking for is someone specific. I’m actually just looking for my friend Barry. He’s been missing and I became a recruiter as a way to find him. Here’s hoping he shows up on a transcontinental flight tucked into the overhead compartment. But he’s allergic to pretzels. 

Stock Tips

I don’t need a Nobel Prize in Economics to understand the wild world of modern finance (which I pronounce “f’nance”). Though if I wanted to buy one off a down-on-his-luck Chicago boy who can barely rub two Bitcoins together, I could and I would. When it comes to money, a great number of people are all about trying to outsmart another party or individual. I’m not quite sure what that would entail (isn’t it odd that entail is one “r” away from entrail?). I stay away from the market, unless the weather’s good and the raspberries are in season.

However, I do possess a cavernous understanding of stocks and how they fit comfortably into the many facets of the working world. You have to realize that when most people see a stock, any stock, they think, “isn’t it just broth?” You would be forgiven for such a common misapprehension. But no, it’s not. Broth is thinner, blander and otherwise less than. And yes, before you ask, the term “broker” is derived from broth. I hope I don’t have to explain why “brother” wasn’t the winning term. 

Stock adds flavor to life. But that's the same thing as the spice of life. That’s something different. Something dryer, something found on dusty shelves in containers caked together after years of callous neglect. Beef, chicken, squirrel, sturgeon – each contribute in their own small way to one’s financial mastery. Or some I’m told. You can try to live your life in the dark, ignoring stocks at your peril, but why? Who cooks with the lights off anyway?

But it’s not all feasts and meals either. Stocks teach us a great deal about mortality too. Think about it. When you draw a hot bath of Churchillian proportions, you are, in essence, in the initial stages of making stock. A rather humbling realization for the shower-averse. 

While I don’t invest, I am extremely invested in everything I believe. Right, wrong, or otherwise insufficiently seasoned.

 

Manifesto Destiny

  

This commercial was meant to air during Super Bowl LV, but was ultimately scrapped at the last minute in favor of something a bit less relevant. Like people jumping onto a couch from behind or opening their front doors for a new dog, new car, or new can of bean dip. This one hit home too much though. It struck too many chords. Somehow, the script landed in my lap. Here it is, as it was meant to be. 

FADE IN:

Open on a man standing at an empty intersection just before sunrise. He gazes into the distance with a lone tear (or is it some of that good ol’ fashioned mountain dew?) falling down his cheek. Either way, he’s feeling rather mournful on this early morning. He turns straight to the camera, breaking the fourth wall by wiping some of the moisture off the lens with a frayed handkerchief.

 

Man:   That’s better. Much better. 

 

Smiling, he wipes his face with the very same rag.

 

Man:   Have you ever thought about what makes us human? 

 

He bends down to tie his shoe.

 

Man:   Is it our humanity? No. It’s our stupidity. 

 

Having come undone again, he bends down to retie his shoe. Still bending, he continues talking.

 

Man:   Accidentally leaving a burner on and torching your entire mid-century kitchen. I mean, who hasn’t done that?

 

He stands back up.

 

Man:   Passing a stranger and saying “how are you?,” but walking way too fast to hear their response. All this when a simple “hello” would do fine.

 

He starts walking down the street, towards the horizon. 

 

Man:   Ever eat a banana peel out of sheer curiosity?

 

He looks back into the camera.

 

Man:   Good, me too. Sure, there are a handful of smart people floating around. But they too have their moments of idiocy. Even Albert Einstein rode a bicycle without a helmet. 

 

He almost gets hit by a car racing through the intersection, barely making it back onto the sidewalk.

 

Man:   That was a close one. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Also - was that a Jeep?

 

He walks back into the street. 

 

Man:   We must keep going, looking to a brighter future up ahead.

 

He points to the rising sun.

Man:   That’s called a metaphor. So there it is, folks – a new bright future appearing each and every day. Except when it’s cloudy. But we would’ve reshot this commercial had today been anything short of perfect.

 

He stares at the sun. 

 

Man:   93 million miles away, yet it’s almost like you can reach out and touch it – not that you’d want to. 

 

He laughs to himself.

 

Man:   Hot enough to burn your kitchen and then some, huh?

 

He turns to face the sun, now a huge ball in the sky, going as far as to dust off a pair of vintage binoculars for a closer look. When that’s not good enough a PA moves a high-powered telescope into frame via dolly. 

 

Man:   Thanks, Dave. I’m looking into my future now. What do you see? 

 

He looks into the telescope. 

 

Man:   Ow, ow, ouch, that really hurts. 

 

He rubs his eyes, temporarily blinded by the sun.

 

Man:   I still can’t see anything. Jesus. I hope you guys got good insurance. 

 

A guy in a tuxedo walks next to him.

 

Guy:    Here.

 

The guy hands him a visor. 

 

Man:   Where were you when I needed you? 

 

Guy:    Waiting for my cue. Stick to the script, okay? 

 

Man:    And how does this help?

He's holding the visor, confused.

 

Guy:    Look, stupid. You should look stupid.

 

The man, weirdly now wearing a huge cowboy hat (probably a continuity error missed by a careless script supervisor) takes it off and replaces it with the ugly visor. 

 

Man:   To whom do I owe my thanks? 

 

Guy:    Me and everyone else down at John Visor, LLC. 

 

Man:   I look pretty stupid.

 

Guy:    You are pretty stupid. 

 

Man:   Aren’t we all. 

There's a sudden sign from above. A pigeon lands on the man's shoulder (or is it a white dove?). The two men grin and know it's time to go.

                                                                                             FADE OUT.

Watch the Gap

When it comes to viewing habits of the Super Bowl, most of us fall into two distinct categories. First, there are the people locked into the game, sports fans buried under the weight of a gigantic ceramic bowl of bubbling nachos pressing up against their inner thighs for upwards of four quarters. Then there are others who are “only in it to watch the commercials.” This second group is the equivalent of people who say they only read The Economist for the pictures, not wanting to show up their dangerously unlettered friends. But this attempt to cultivate an image of down-to-earth relatability using one of the planet’s most pretentious publications is an exceedingly foolish undertaking. As you might imagine, I fall into a third category, much rarer than the previous two.  

For me, the Super Bowl is about one thing and one thing only: the split second of black between the game and a commercial. In that void, I imagine using my imagination for something truly grand. Like a spot without a talking animal or a celebrity (a dried-up actor with a stronger foundation than the Great Pyramids). One that’s not sixty seconds, but a manageable fifteen. Or a part of the game where there’s no posing, just playing. When the referees are sent packing to meddle in someone else’s affairs. They’ve done enough damage for one evening. In this scenario they still must wear their idiotic striped uniforms so we can clearly identify them in the wild. Officials are worst kind of whistleblowers, throwing yellow flags when they see something they don’t like. What if you or I did that? They don’t know how to make a point without a tantrum or dirty laundry. 

I enjoy the anticipation of thinking, “Maybe this next commercial, instead of plagiarizing an extremely dated quote from Anchorman and passing it off as comedy, will do something mildly original.” The space between is a wonderful moment in all sorts of situations. The second before your waiter reads the disappointing chef’s specials is a time of great promise. Prior to arriving in a new city by car, you’re full of parking hope and minimal frustration, believing the dream spot is literally right around the corner. And before you tear through the packing tape of a cardboard box, the possibilities are overwhelming – what could it be? Then you realize it’s a discount spatula you ordered to replace the last one, scorched on the stove stop by stupidity.

So once the Super Bowl begins, it’s basically over. It’s no longer a perfect, undisturbed dream of our collective wants and desires. It’s flawed, human, and incredibly boring. Thankfully, we have a year to recover.