Trust Me, Trustee

Dear Trustees,

The time has come for my brief foray into the wild world of academia to end. I sure enjoyed living the high life as a professor. It finally gave me a good reason to own more than one corduroy blazer. But let’s be frank, this hasn’t worked out. Though you should all know that I didn’t arrive at this decision lightly. I thought about it for a solid fifteen, maybe twenty whole minutes before firing off this letter. More than enough time to peel my parking sticker off my rear window and hightail it out of town.

That said, there’s plenty of blame to spread around. And like a knife covered in chunky peanut butter, spread I shall. Think of this portion of my resignation letter as a beautiful homage to Jefferson’s underrated section of the Declaration of Independence. You know the one where he tallies up all the King’s sins and lists them in brutal detail. This is that, but pettier.

I’d like to first blame the school’s landscapers. What’s the issue with crabgrass? You’d think it was some ancient omen or a deadly poisonous plant the way every gardener on campus tugged at its roots with such maniacal glee. We’re not living on a golf course, so fairways have no place here. As far as I can tell, we don’t even have a golf team. Just a lot of stupid clubs.

The dining hall needs to be overhauled entirely. If I wanted a tray with my dinner, I’d deface one of the many monuments around town and end up in the clink. Why? Because the aluminum trays provided by the state’s department of corrections are far superior to the plastic trash cycling through this place. 

The mascot is a cherrystone clam. Wonderful, I thought at first. I figured I would like that. I thought I would appreciate it. But why even be a bivalve if you’re only ever closed? It’s like putting a door on a business that never opens and deals only in mail-orders. What’s the point? I always thought clams were a representation of the best of us, opening themselves up to the world in unapologetic glory. But not here at Turbo Tax U, erstwhile Chair-Latin. Aren’t we supposed to teach students to be more open-minded? What does it say about us if our mascot can't even open up for a chowder-loving prof? 

My fellow teachers. What can I say? You hardly welcomed me. While I didn’t have the pedigree, nor the PhD, my time here was spent rolling a massive rubber band ball through the halls. When the bands reached their limit and broke, you were there to clean up the supposed mess. That's not what I wanted. 

The students aren’t without sin either. They slept through most of my seminars, which is fine on occasion. During a standing room only guest lecture from Mike Lindell, slumber was practically mandatory. Although the glisten of his gold crucifix made it impossible to sleep without the aid of a tight sleep mask. 

To Francesco the head janitor, thanks for all that bleach that one time. I don’t know where I’d be without it. Okay, so maybe I do. I’d be eating off an aluminum tray right about now. Everything happens for a reason, right? 

I’ve saved you trustees for last. Whenever I asked for cash, you recoiled in horror, rifling through your pockets for a spare, crumpled twenty. I don’t get it. What’s the point of paying someone a living wage if you can’t also buy a boat? 

While I may be leaving the ivy towers of a small, financially insolvent institution, I’d like to leave a lasting legacy for future classes yet unborn. Given my months of service, I’m asking you to install an honorary chair in my name. An actual chair . I’d like it to be Herman Miller or something comparable. The pricier the better. Anyone can sit on it and roll around campus at their leisure. A good reminder that the best things in life can be accomplished sitting down. 

I’m leaving around noon to beat the traffic. My trunk will be open with room to accommodate my hefty cash severance. 

Thanks in advance.

Tourist Traps

Unlike obedient dogs, tourists come even when you don’t call. They show up unannounced, hauling suitcases and bags of chips, prepared to buy out each store they pass of novelty collectibles. Like disobedient dogs, their mind wanders with their mouths agape, obliviously blocking hydrants and churchyard loading zones (that weekly pew delivery requires clearance for God and deliveryman). But now that cities are starting to welcome in the great unmasked, it’s paramount that each soon-to-be bustling metropolis reintroduce itself in a way that makes a lasting impression. 

Ordinarily, tourist traps are seen as blights by the local population. However, when done right, they keep these out-of-towners ensconced in areas locals abhor. But after a year away, attention spans have grown shorter. In the old days, all you had to do was shine a bright neon light at a band of tourists to get them to drop everything they were doing and dance. 

Coupled with the exodus of city slickers, many are looking for tourists to stay a little longer. There are the normal methods, like offering huge discounts, free desserts, 2-for-1 drinks. But that won’t work with this crowd. Not anymore. In New York, we need to go a step further than previous generations. You want people to stick around? Then start with sticking them around. 

Velcro is not nearly strong enough. You need a good putty (and an even better putty knife) or a fine epoxy material that dries exponentially fast. Ideally, these rubes will be stuck before they realize they’re stuck. That’s when you can get them to sign onto a lease or buy tickets to a show. You entice them with a salad deal or say they’ll be included in a new commercial. Wet cement, or the appearance of it, awakens the inner vandal in us all. Trust me, it makes things a lot easier when they’re all in one place. You don’t want to traipse all over the five boroughs gathering up tourists stuck on sidewalks or tied down across park benches. 

Trap tourists with tape, adhesive or the promise of an undercooked roast. Otherwise, big cities may never come back.

Let That Sink In

Few people recall their eighth-grade graduation since there aren’t storied traditions associated with one's transition into high school. Caps and gowns can be worn out of a profound love of heavy fabric on a sweltering day, but only by thirteen-year-old masochists. Young crazy people with an eye titled towards a lifetime of bullying.

Yet I remember all of mine. While I’ve lived many lifetimes and passed into adulthood several times, there’s one particular passage that stands out above the rest. Surprisingly, it’s not the stomping of grapes on the estate of a 17^th century Corsican winemaker, though that, for a child who detested footwear of any kind was a kind of a heaven on earth. Or at least heaven on the Mediterranean. There were others, too. The riding of camels, the loading of trebuchets, the playful swordplay of sworn classroom enemies. Still, my favorite graduation occurred in New Jersey, at Liberty State Park, towards the end of the 20^th century. 

Some children gathered around the playground. Others filled glass bottles of Mott’s apple juice with a similarly hued liquor and spent the rest of the afternoon writhing on a picnic table in melodramatic, drunken agony. But that wasn’t most. There was a one boy in attendance who did it his way. He was a man-child. A teen who’d been shaving daily since he learned to walk. Recess was a triggering affair, since it called to mind the retreat of his once glorious hairline, so bold and pronounced in elementary school, now reduced to covering the metal slide in forgotten follicles.

The point is not to revel in his pubescent baldness, but to say only this: he had reasons to feel angry. He needed an outlet. A way of getting through the day and feeling better in the morning. Because whatever was in those apple juice bottles wasn’t doing the trick either. The boy hauled a bucket of baseballs, 50 or so in all, lugging them onto the bus and into the park. He brought a bat, too. Alone, and on the edge of the walking path, he stood facing the Upper New York Bay, where the Hudson and East Rivers meet for a dance to the Atlantic Ocean. Nodding to the tidal whims of the saltwater, he launched one ball after another into the water, ignoring all who crossed him. He was here to let off some steam, one baseball at a time. 

Just let shat sink In. He sure did. 

Who's Your Caddy?

 

They tell meet we’re all headed back to the office. And while the timeline is predictably fluid, I better finish up painting my antique carousel drying in the garage. That and any other hobby horses I’ve yet to finish in the time away from the watchful panopticon of corporate control. 

Many within the walled fields of full-time employment are carefully looking through their closets and drawers, unsure of what to wear. They’ve lost the use of their mirrors, incapable of making basic daily decisions without assistance. They will call in sick, not even bothering to feign working from home. However, I have it all figured it out. 

The epiphany occurred doing something I rarely do. No, it wasn’t sanding the aforementioned carousel to remove trace amounts of toxic lead. Nor was it during a gluey craft session concentrated on birdhouse construction. It was during the final round of the PGA championship. At first, I became incensed at the program, cursing the golfers for never once stopping to admire the scenery, opting only to chase their tiny balls along the vast greenery. But then I saw something. Each golfer had long, tortured conversations with their bag butlers. People generally known as “caddies.” I was enraged at the sight, believing golf consists of twin solitary affairs: man versus nature, man versus God. Then I began to see that the golfers were enjoying talking to someone about the wind, the landscaping, and the curvature of the earth. Wouldn’t that be nice?

It would be. And it could be. Plenty of people are still out of work. Why should golf be the only profession that relies on the caddy? Caddies in the workplace could help anticipate an oncoming printer jam or an inevitable toilet clog. They could assess an out-of-order elevator, not from the point of view of an expert, but merely an annoyed observer. Plus, they could assist plenty of CEOs with their short game. Carpet putting isn’t without its obstacles. Like say, looking like a complete fool. 

Why read the room if you can’t read the green?

He’s Still There

Ah, but he was so much younger then

He’s older than that today – so he’s gonna need a bigger cake for this jubilee

Once upon a time he rhymed so fine,

Threw the fans the occasional gang sign, didn’t he? 

Robert Allen Zimmerman

Was a friend to the hippies – until he wasn’t anymore

He trav’led with a pen in ev’ry hand – but he only has two hands

The circus is not in town

From Celebration Row

Oh, the bakeman draws circles 

Up and down the cake

He asks him what the problem is

But he’s about to flake – it’s concerning the original icing estimate

The man in him will do nearly any task

Except blow out eighty candles, that’s an awful lot to ask

If your oven serves you well

This cake’s on fire

Sprinklin’ down the road

Best to notify the building’s fire marshal just in case

This cake shall explode!

Come gather ‘round party people 

Wherever you roam – but please try not to break anything

You better start singin’ or…you’ll feel quite uncomfortable

For the birthdays (and furniture) they are arrangin’  

Move couches and sofas,

Who stabilize with their seat

And keep your behind quite warm

The cushions aren’t meant for your feet

Because while it’s clear that something is happening here

Without a formal invitation you don’t know what it is

Do you, random uninvited guest? 

You raise up your hand while shifting a vintage credenza

And ask, “is this where it goes?”

And somebody points to the birthday boy and says,

“He knows”

And you say, “All the way over by the dining table?”

And somebody else says, “watch the crystal it’s very valuable”

And you say, “Oh my God,”

Am I the only one holding this end? (through the coaster rings of my mind) 

You’ve just reached a space

Where the wrapping paper don’t bend

There’s so much more to shred 

If it’s fragile, specify which is the top or the end

How many years can a ritual exist

Before it becomes extremely tedious?

Yes, ‘n’ how many years can some presents exist

Before they’re allowed to be regifted? 

Yes ‘n’ how many times can a man say thank you

Pretending he really wanted what’s inside?

You may be a professional caterer or a veteran bartender

You may like to wash dishes, you might like to spam the sender

You may be the security detail or the bouncer

You may be a silver-tongued radio announcer 

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody at this party – there’s no hired help

Oh, where have you been, my birthday pinata?

Oh, where have you been, my sweet tasting la plata? 

I’ve stumbled inside with 136 or 142 late-night revelers

I’ve walked and I’ve crawled looking for the bathroom

I’ve stepped in the middle of seven private conversations 

And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, and it’s a hard candy’s a-gonna fall

Early tomorrow mornin’ the sun will most likely be shinin’

He’ll be laying hungover (he really should’ve had decaf coffee before the bed)

Wond’rin if he’d change anything at all about the party

Like hire a magician, rent a pony or ease up on the bubbly for his ninetieth

He’s got everything he needs

He’s an artist, he don’t look a day over seventy-nine

They say ev’rything can be replaced

But does that include something without a gift receipt? 

“No reason to get annoyed,” said the customer service rep, she kindly wrote 

There are many items here to enjoy for those who feel life is but for folk   

But they’ve been through that, and this is not their going rate

So let them take a full refund, since it’s been such a long wait 

Standing on the stage strumming your notes

While the eyes of his fans (or was it their phones) were glowing

Distant claps were heard in his midst 

He was born in Duluth, Minnesota while a flame was growing 

To keep it backed up on your hard drive and not force quit

That it is not he or she or them or this or that or what or it that you belong to 

But even the greatest songwriter of the twentieth century 

After his own birthday party must still have to stand naked. 

Off The Road

I first met Jack Kerouacjob not long after skidding over a guardrail and into a ditch. I had just finished a rest area veggie wrap that I won’t bother to talk about, except to say that it was overly saucy, with a multiplicity of condiments that destroyed any semblance of consistency the food surely once possessed. With the arrival of Jack Kerouacjob ushered in the part of my life you could call my life off the road. Before that, I dreamed of cross-country road trips cataloging every worthwhile sight in the lower 48. Frantically carrying portable gas containers so I wouldn’t ever have to stop. Now I had my drivetrain hanging from a Locust Tree and tires that bore the uncomfortable resemblance to pancakes, totally flattened and covered in grease. 

Jack was literally born off the road, in a hospital with nurses and doctors, a good distance from the clanging of traffic signals and car horns of the street. He showed up there as the hood was still smoking. Me, I’d quit years before. The blessing was that I ran off the road amid lots of traffic. So it wasn’t as if I was going anywhere anytime soon. Might as well walk or sit. The ditch was more of a gulch with a sewage smelling stream bubbling through the tall grass. 

I first discovered Jack in a relentless shower of text messages from Chad Queen. Jack wanted Chad to teach him about all these intellectual things, like how to retweet, how to quote-tweet and what made Jeff Lynne a genius. I always wondered if I’d ever meet Jack Kerouacjob. I’d met plenty of Kerouacjobs before, mostly at sanitariums during office hours, asylums during open houses or labor camps during seasonal shindigs. They were a wild clan, that’s for sure. Prone to rambling run-on sentences and narcotics. When Jack was writing to Chad, he was doing it from a New Mexico Deform School. He was too good when he started and barely good enough when he graduated. Jack was different then. He was lusting after a carburetor named Felipe. I never asked why Felipe. Maybe Felipe Alou, who’d made a name for himself by then as a good ballplayer and a better brother.

Jack Kerouacjob was committed. To what? To a mental institution. After hours talking about traffic patterns and describing each piston in excruciating detail, I had to put a stop to it. At some point, I was forced to either call my insurance or call the authorities. I choose to buy a straight jacket sewn together from old canvas O'Reilly Auto Parts jumpsuits.  There was no escaping it. Throw in a few bungee cords and it worked like a lucky charm, keeping Jack at bay. He was now a medicating to center himself. But once a Kerouacjob, always a Kerouacjob.  

Welcome to my MasterClass

Are you sitting down? Because I am. I’m sitting in an expensive swivel chair (mid-century modern I hope) and I’m wearing a black turtleneck that’s recently been carefully de-linted. You’ll need a lot more than the basic magnification function on your computer to see my greatest imperfections. And if you think for a second that I’d teach this class with dandruff epaulets on either shoulder, well then, you’re not totally off base. I just would’ve worn a white turtleneck as camouflage in that case. 

Hold on, hold on, do you have a pen? I forgot mine. I know this isn't a video call but talking to the screen is weirdly satisfying. Nothing? Good. Never come to class prepared. That's the lesson here. Let's continue, penless. Don't take any notes. Whatever you forget wasn't worth remembering. Remember that.

Today, you’re going to learn about incompetence – the secret weapon of success. It’s served me well enough, for long enough. Not to mention that I’m getting paid enough to do this. You should really take a gander at my contract. But enough of that, let’s get down to business. 

Frankly, I’d like you to teach me. Now I understand this is a video you chose and you’re not prepared. Someone prepared wouldn’t have signed up for this. I get that. But that’s fine. Teach me anything, as long as it’s a subject you know nothing about. Make it up as you go along. Free associate. String nonsense together like the delicate beads of a cheap gift shop necklace. I’ll listen. I’ll take it all in. When it comes to failing, not admitting is half of it. As long as you convince yourself that you did fine, you did fine. But start believing in your own lack of ability, then you’re sunk. Instead, embrace it and use it as your unique power. 

Who has time to become an expert these days anyway? None of you, clearly. The way to set yourself apart is to do less, be less, and think less. You’re not going to catch up with your peers through a sudden burst of bedside Tolstoy. But you can set yourself apart through your ability to affect things negatively. 

I realize that you probably signed up for this class because I put this in the subtitle: “yes, you will absolutely learn the meaning of life.” Now before you get angry, I didn’t lie. Not exactly. The meaning of life is different for everyone. This is the meaning of life. Taking expensive online classes from middling celebrities as if it were the substitute for higher learning. It’s not one-on-one, but it’s more like man’s relationship with God. Only God in this case is doing most of the talking. However, like prayer, the dialogue is titled heavily to one side.

Let this class be the end of your education and the last real learning you ever do. Class dismissed – forever. 

I'm an Anti-Laxxer

 

Please bear with me, this isn’t an easy thing to admit. Growing up where I did, there are plenty of people who’d prefer if I just kept my mouth shut. Pretended I believed otherwise, et cetera. Luckily, writing with my mouth open is only something I do at the apex of allergy season. Which, I might add, is fast approaching. Any day now achoo.  Hold on, let me grab a tissue.

I hate lacrosse and I always have. I don’t know if it was the weird masks, the strange webbing of the sticks, the little ball that’s flung with extreme velocity or the aimless running. But all in all, these things added up to a despised sport. There’s not the grace of hockey players gliding on ice. Even curlers have a better appreciation of the elements than laxxers. There's none of that.

I know, trust the science, right? Lacrosse is supposed to be good for college applications, making for a well-rounded student who appreciates "nature." I don’t see it. We already have four major sports in the United States and soccer mothers, golf groupies, and equine enthusiasts are biding their time for when that fourth position jostles free. There’s no room for laxxers, not when their pro game is severely lacking in cash. 

It also doesn’t help that Jim Brown, one of this nation’s true gridiron heroes, is considered by many to be the greatest lacrosse player ever. To me, that hurts your argument. You can’t have outsiders, novices, coming into the game and dominating. Most people would admit that David Bowie was a fine actor, in the roles of Pontius Pilate, Andy Warhol, Jeanne d’Arc (it helped that he knew each individual intimately). But imagine, instead, if Bowie was considered the greatest actor of all time. Better than Keanu, better than DDL. That would finish acting as a profession, put thespians back to waiting tables full-time. The same can be said if Gary Sinise’s band somehow surpassed The Beatles in critical appraisals. It’s why I don’t like painting much. Michelangelo was, more than anything else, a sculptor. But then go look at the Sistine Chapel. He put all those swirling brush boys to shame with just a few church panels. It shouldn’t be that easy. People spend their whole lives mastering the art of locking an easel in place and airing out a room full of toxic fumes. And don’t get me started on Mikey’s poetry either.   

You’re probably wondering whether or not my overwhelming love of baseball figures into the debate. Does my passion for infield dirt matter? Should it concern you that when I see healthy trees I can only appreciate them after calculating how many bats they’d produce upon felling. 

Clearly. 

Thyme Is On My Side

 

Walk into any restaurant and you’ll see dozens of grease-stained workers racing around doing the little things. They’re offering pepper, salt, and paprika to those who want it. A few others are bringing bowls of cheese and scallions to tables that need it. Some of the more panicked folks are picked up cough drop wrappers and other bits of detritus on the floor. While still others are in the back counting out the precise number of bay leaves needed for their dish. It’s because garnishing something comes in many forms. No one really cares about the potatoes, that’s not why they’re here. They’re focused on the sprigs of rosemary, counting them, chewing them, making sure these were bought from a produce stand and not in the sawdust covered corner of a nearby Home Depot. 

Herbs are what set a dish apart. Seasoning, too. On some level, we all know this. We comment when food is missing something, however slight it may be. Yet we don’t bring this knowledge and appreciation of garnishes into our daily lives. 

Watch as friends and loved ones stare into full length mirrors stumped at what clothes to wear to an important function. The clothes aren’t what matter. No one notices the clothes. They notice, instead, what your glasses look like, how gaudy your earrings are, and if your eyebrows could use a few brushstrokes from a local painter to bring them to heel. Don’t believe me? Then here’s an experiment to try. Next time you're at the annual Sons of Apollo banquet, first pick out the perfect outfit to wear. Then shave your eyebrows. See which one people notice. 

Buy the world’s most expensive, gorgeous, and powerful sports car. Then get an idiotic vanity plate and take note of which people comment on most. Your engine or your punning. It’s not your dog’s face people care about, but the color and quality of his bandana.

Next time you go out to eat, remember, thyme is on your side. And it’s not the fit of your dress that matters, but the pluckability of your nose hair, or something else that garnishes your appearance. 

Gag Reflexes

Not everyone in every situation appreciates my peculiar gag reflex. There are some on the outer rim of my social orbit who simply can’t stand it. They dismiss strategically placed peeled bananas every few flagstones as a crime against compost. To them, shaving cream is something you tame your face with, not meant to unlock your inner Basquiat. And toilet paper is no substitute for confetti.

As anyone knows who’s spent a lifetime committed to mindless pranks, the more you do the more the stakes begin to rise. You escalate, not on purpose, but because there are only so many times you can pour different food dyes into friend’s kidney pool before the joke is squarely on you. 

Any child of nature starts with the natural world. I’ve never understood the aversion to getting wet. At the end of a filthy grime-ridden day, we willingly toss our clothes into a washing machine for a mechanical soak. Yet when I decide to pelt you with a dozen rainbow-colored water balloons, you act like it’s a great affront. Maybe if I included detergent next time, you’d be a tad more receptive.  

When society types shake hands again at the grand opening of a new modern art exhibit, I’ll be there with an electronic buzzer in one palm and an actual dead fish fresh from my monger in the other. They can’t fault me for self-expression at a venue like that. Not when they’re serving salmon ceviche on toast to complement the expensive scribblings.

You hide someone’s keys for amusement and pretty soon you’re parking their car two towns over and selling the spare parts for scrap. I’m here to tell you that it never ends well, this irrational commitment to gags. But it’s a lifestyle and it’s a choice. I’m not saying your bowtie should spray a liquid other than water, I’m just saying it could. I wouldn’t recommend cutting someone’s necktie unless you have a similarly priced replacement in your jacket pocket. You can mess with a cravat, but you should really know what one is first. 

The thing is, I can’t help it. I see the world as it shouldn’t be, not as it is. How did it happen? There are several theories. One is that my love and appreciation of geology was ruined when I discovered that moraine and meringue were two different words. That there was no clear connection between pie crust and earth crust. And that shifting tectonic plates were not akin, even remotely, to the spinning of plates by a seasoned clown riding a unicycle dangerously close to a dancing bear. 

But it might not have been that at all.   

There’s a slight chance watching The Three Stooges an inch or two from the TV screen did it, hypnotizing me from the glowing luster of Larry Fine’s bald spot. I was well into my thirties before I knew that a soda siphon was not mainly for spraying seltzer in the face of an unsuspecting associate. But hey, I guess that’s just a part of growing up.   

Interview: Cic Van Winkle

 

The Northeast corridor is abuzz with stories about cicadas. You can’t read an article these days without some mention of their triumphant return to the fold. After 17 years out of the picture, our screeching friends are coming back to the Northeast, prepping for another summer in the spotlight. But what most of these pieces miss, quite frankly, is any reference to what the cicadas have been doing for the past two decades. There’s next to nothing paid to their stories, their lives. Everything is written in the context of how they're going to disrupt us - picnics and soccer practices, purses and sombreros. It’s a shame really. I decided to get ahead of the story and call in a favor to an old friend. Cic Van Winkle is a stereotypical New Jersey cicada. He owns dozens of jogging suits and likes his espresso with lots of sugar.  I caught up with him in Brookdale Park. He was kind enough to give me a few minutes of his time despite the round-the-clock stress he’s been under for the last few weeks. 

MTP: I want to first thank you for talking to me. I can only imagine how busy you are with everything going on. 

CVW: You have no idea. Have you ever planned a wedding? 

MTP: Actually…

CVW: Well, it’s nothing like that. I should say, it’s kind of like that. Except instead of 200 guests, you have 2 trillion guests, and every single one believes they’re the freakin’ bride. I don’t know why we do it.

MTP: And no wedding planner to help out, huh? 

CVW: Or gifts. But the last few weeks are always the most intense. Lots of panic shopping and crying. Screaming matches in the park. It’s insane. I’ll just be happy when it’s over and I can find a nice cocktail to sit in. You'd think we'd figure it out after all these years. We are preppers by nature. But canned beans aren't doing us any good at the moment.

MTP: I find it strange that you guys went underground. What’s life been like down there? 

CVW: There’s a major misconception here that I’d like to clear up. People think we’ve been asleep, clueless about what’s happened in the past 17 years. I have dear friends coming up to me on the street asking if I’ve heard that Bin Laden’s dead or that the Cubs finally won a World Series. I’m always polite, but it gets grating after a bit. We follow current events. We didn't bury our heads in sand, just dirt.

MTP: But you can see how people might make that mistake. On account of your name.  

CVW: What about it? I have Dutch heritage. I’m hardly alone there. 

MTP: Sure. So if you haven’t been sleeping the whole time, what have you been doing? 

CVW: Bettering myself. The whole self-care movement came underground about 10 years ago and never left. I learned how to cook. I taught myself Spanish. Got very into yoga. And I hired a vocal coach around then. Steve. A burrowing owl. Real sweetheart of a guy.

MTP: Why’s that?

CVW: During the last cycle I was a little self-conscious about my voice. I’m sure you went thorugh you share of voice cracking during middle school. But you were able to avoid singing. We cicadas can’t do that. Everyone’s expected to join the choir. It’s unheard of not to. I had a cousin Dave who wanted to be a dancer. You can imagine what his parents thought. A cicada dancer. Who ever heard of such a thing?  

MTP: Where is he now? 

CVW: The Moscow Ballet.  

MTP: Oh wow. So he lived out his dreams, after all.

CVW: For a time. Now he’s under glass like Lenin on a mantle somewhere. 

MTP: There are worse things. It’s amazing though. After 17 years and you don’t have a gray hair in sight. What’s the secret?

CVW: I like tea. I’m a tea guy and soil is surprisingly good for your complexion. No sun damage underground. But honesty, it’s mostly genetics. 

MTP: Any tunes I’ll recognize on opening night? 

CVW: Copyright infringement is a something we cicadas take very seriously. The last thing anyone wants is a legal injunction to put a damper on our first screeches. In other words, no. Original material only. There are a few Tiktokers I follow, but I can’t risk it. Would be bad for business. 

MTP: Understood. Any parting wisdom? 

CVW: I’ll be in Brookdale Park Tuesdays through Sundays, 10 AM to 6 PM. Monday’s my day off. Kind of want to see the Freedom Tower while I'm in town. Other than that, stop by, say hi, bring ear plugs and an umbrella. 

MTP: Looking forward to hearing from you again.

CVW: Oh, you will. 

Schmear Tactics

 

For those of you with a passing knowledge of the Watergate scandal and a single admiring portrait of Richard Milhous Nixon gracing your mood-lit powder room, you’re extremely familiar with the following statement: the cover-up, they say, is worse than the crime. Unless the crime is a stolen bagel and the cover-up is homemade cream cheese prepared with freshly picked scallions evenly distributed throughout the spread. In that case, the cover-up is much, much better than the crime. Tastier, too.

New Yorkers are feeling besieged by the sheer volume of mayoral advertisements. Bombarded by them wherever they go. The flailing promises of serial prevaricators are everywhere. You can’t hide from them, even if you wanted to. I’ll probably get more digital pop-ups just for writing this. Lucky me. 

The tactics of each campaign are what worry me immensely. This city, like all cities, could use more cover-ups. For starters, each candidate could pick a minor city celebrity to shroud in a thicker material. The tidy whitey Times Square troubadour still irritating tourists with his constant stream of unwanted ditties is on my wish list. Where’s his cover-up? How about a large poncho or one of those gigantic rainbow parachutes from the gym class games of our collective youth? 

If this pandemic has taught you anything, besides the simple joy of a not-too-firm handshake, it’s the pleasure you get from covering things up. Our mouths and noses are just two more spaces fit for modesty. It’s not as if people were sauntering through life unencumbered by social conventions and clothes before that. We haven’t been a fully nude and proud species for coming up on several millennia. And that’s a good thing. Especially when one takes a quick look at the mayor’s race.

But there isn’t enough bagel talk during election season. It’s all pizza and education. Crime and healthcare. Where are the discussions on toasting and “no toasting?” When any problem can be solved by cream cheese. Crack in the sidewalk? Schmear it. Not lox spread though. The fish smell will begin to funkify after a few hours in the sultry city sun. 

Squashing Da Bait

Close your eyes and stick your preferred hand into a knee-high slop bucket of worms. Not so easy to collect those slippery squirmers, now is it? Go try grabbing them by the neck – that’s if you can find a neck. This isn’t for breakfast, since you’re taught to never fish on an empty stomach. The fisherman’s hunger becomes a notable impediment to common sense and good fishing. You start by casting your line based on which creature looks the tastiest. Too bad that’s no way to fish.

There are people out there who wish to squash the bait entirely. Believing it’s not necessary to reel in a big catch. They deign to send your worms back to the garden for the easy, botanical, retired life of pampered leisure. A worm hanging onto the tip of your lure lives an exciting existence. These tiny daredevils aren’t around for long, but the thrills they experience in their short time is significantly better than inching around a few geraniums hoping to find a rusted out arrowhead.

It’s crazy that I even have to ask this, but I will anyway. Since it may help. Have you ever attempted to fish without bait? There’s no rhyme, no reason, no time, no season. It can’t be done. Engine sputtering, you floundering, patiently wading for the right time to pounce. But nothing happens. Even Ahab realized that on a certain primal level he was the bait. In the absence of worms, every fisherman must put themselves out there. You won’t do that. You’ll give up after a few soggy sandwiches and return home empty handed. Except for the garbage you brought in. 

These anti-baiters will have you believe that the art of fishing loses nothing of importance when all you have is a thin line and your wits to go on. Firefighters fight fires, at least in theory. But most of us pay little attention to the words carved into countless firehouses. We see “hook and ladder” and don’t give it a second thought. But what would you say if a firefighter showed up to a blaze with some hooks and no ladders. You’d be incensed, and rightfully so. The same goes for fishermen. The ubiquity of Bait & Tackle shops gives us no cause for closer examination. Think about it: without bait, we’re left with only tackle. 

Suddenly you find yourself squatting on the edge of a dock, crouching like an Olympic track star, waiting for a gunshot. You sprint across the wooden planks and dive into the water hoping to bearhug any creatures in the area. But tackling as a fishing technique rarely works. The only circumstances where it might happen, occur after first developing a relationship with said fish. One based on trust, intimacy and yes, some good-natured roughhousing. 

Tackle fish? I don't think so. 

Urbane Planning

Whenever I’m called upon by municipal magistrates to fix whatever ails their middling metropolis, I come prepared. You may be astonished that my name finds its way onto the short list of pro bono urban planners, but it’s too weird to be true. Since urban planning is a last gasping profession, barreling towards vocational extinction, I’m one of the few people on earth who’s read The Power Broker, putting me in a highly desirable position. While the percentage of journalists who own Robert Caro’s master tome is in the nineties, the number of people who’ve actually sat down and leafed through the thousand-page volume is, mathematically speaking, zero. All you need to do is repeat the same old story to throw folks off your case. And like Ulysses, since no one else has really read the thing, there’s no one to poke holes in your oft repeated yet quite dubious claims.

But when building a city, it helps to know what you’re talking about. Knowing that, it’s important to accept that urban planning as it was once done is outdated, outmoded, and altogether overrated. What’s missing in many of our biggest cities isn’t a better grid or bigger bike lanes, but a certain indescribable charm. What I like to call urbane planning is slowly becoming the norm – adding little things that bring smiles to the faces of pedestrians and drivers. Without sending the latter off the road and into a muddy, snake-filled gulch. 

Every city should have twice as many majestic boulevards and stunning thoroughfares as it has lowly streets and boring roads. Sophistication starts with language. Cities deserve more citizens with bowties – and not merely religious fanatics handing out wordy pamphlets. How about arming crossing guards with more than just the flare from their reflective vests? There’s no reason why suspenders can’t be safely sewn into striking phosphorescence. I want walking, talking tennis balls with the debonair attitude of a 19^th century butler. Throw in a bowtie or a top hat and no one’s ever jaywalking again. Why would they? You might miss getting a complimentary mint or a scalding hand towel. 

I accept the necessity of parking meters as a town’s primary source of revenue. But why so staid and inelegant? Let’s doll them up a bit with glitter and glitz. Exit parking meters, enter poetic meters with driving-related epigrams covering the pole. Which, I would add, should be made from gold ingots. 

What about flowers? Well, what about them? If there’s a hole somewhere in town, throw a few bouquets inside. This goes for drainpipes, gutters, potholes, recycling bins, trash cans, and dumpsters. Anything to spruce up the place. Paint is always so expected and unimaginative, too. How about repainting the department of corrections in polka dot or, better yet, black and white stripes, as a nod to the old-timey jailbird’s classic uniform?

There are other things like hosting weekly parades, building confetti cannons for any impromptu celebration, or piping in gentle Jazz on every street corner. Even paper boys are welcome here. While newspapers are rotting, there’s no reason why these little kids on tricycles can’t deliver any number of other paper-related items. Like notepads, straws or napkins. As long as they toss them from the street to the front door, the village pride is exactly the same. 

It’s about time we brought back these charming aspects of city life, encouraging the suave and refined to lay down some cultured roots. While the word “metropolis” derives from a dead language, in this town, the citizenry would know that. 

It’s all Ancient Greek to me. 

My Livid Experience

You don’t need to take any notes for this. There won’t be an exam afterwards or a sweaty study session with flash cards, protractors or moral compasses. Nor will I employ obscure statistics to further my point. So before you recoil in terror, disgust and a sudden bout math-induced nausea, understand that what you’re about to read is merely a story. That said, a few Alka-Seltzer tablets can’t help but soothe the situation. For this is a tale that indicates something deeper about humanity. Only it doesn’t involve any numbers. 

I had a jar of fresh cornichons, ready to be opened. You might call them gherkins. I wouldn’t though. What’s next? Pronouncing the hard “x” in “faux pas” during an evening of anti-etiquette? The French have very little to hold onto these days, besides the enduring image of a smooth, recently sharpened guillotine. And holding onto something like that is never easy, with its rough edges and karmic weight. Nevertheless, I wasn’t too bothered by the freshness - of the cornichons, not the blade. Does anyone lose sleep over such things when the subject is the previously pickled? These could’ve been brined by a Provençal farmer, living well before the electric light. 

How would I know for sure? One way would be to open the jar. But this I couldn’t do. The pantry was all out of elbow grease, the water from the faucet never rose above a cool drip, and none of my antique can openers were in working order. Had I only cared for them the way French Revolution re-enactors care for their cherished guillotines. The sort of people who know which kind of berets were worn in the 18th century. The old saying, “I can’t cut your head unless I can see my face” speaks to the executioner’s understated pride. Keep ‘em shiny or don’t keep ‘em at all.  

I momentarily considered tossing the jar from the fourth story onto the pavement. Perhaps a high-powered fan could blow the lid wide open. Or a colony of ants working together to slide it right off. The Museum of Glass in Corning is just a few hours away. Maybe someone there would know what to do, like melting the glass back to its primordial form. As long as the tiny pickles remained intact. 

I had to act fast. You can’t let your snacks encroach too much on dinnertime. I did the sensible thing. I grabbed a hammer from the closet and smashed the jar to bits. This solution created a new set of problems. Namely, pulverized bits of glass now indistinguishable from the classic cornichon gleam. Another appetizer ruined. Another snack destroyed.   

I guess it's cucumbers from here on out.