ASAP’s Fables: The Frogs Who Desired a Ping

 

“You know how it works,” said the first frog.

“I do? You’re the one who insisted and I’m quoting, that ‘we simply couldn’t live without it,’” said the second frog.

There, two frogs resting atop a pair of lily pads, waited for any signs of life coming from their recently purchased iPhone. 

“It was very expensive, you know,” said the first frog.

“And? Get to the point, I’m in a rush,” said the second frog.

“And I think that it ought to matter,” said the first frog.

“It’s not like the thing is waterproof. Didn’t they at least offer you a case for it?,” said the second frog.

“I figured we’d be using it so much in the first few weeks there’d be no reason to ever put it down,” said the first frog. A naïve statement if the second frog ever heard one. 

The two frogs weren’t so different. They grew up in the same pond, went to the same schools, made the same friends. But there was a worldliness to the second frog, as if he’d been somewhere, had lived another life once. He knew things that most friends didn’t. He liked classical music, appreciated Kentucky bourbon and in recent years took to watercolors. Now the first frog, he was a frog. No one confused him with a reincarnated Dalai Lama. His opinion was never sought after by visitors. All of a sudden, the phone started to vibrate. 

“Oh my goodness, it’s happening,” said the first frog, a little frazzled.

“Answer it,” said the second frog. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“It was a text message, wasn’t it?” said the second frog.

“I wish that would happen again. How exciting. I’ve never felt so alive,” said the first frog.

Moments like these caused the second frog to hate the first frog. Then he remembered he was just a frog and how shouldn't expect more from him. He went to Best Buy and purchased a phone. That was reason enough for celebration.  

“Who should we call?,” said the first frog.

“Who can we call?,” said the second frog.

“We could call information? Or one of the emergency numbers,” said the first frog.

“No, it has to be organic. You can get in serious trouble if you’re not in the middle of a real emergency,” said the second frog.

While the two frogs were discussing the possibility of making an outgoing call, a stork sidled up to them, surprising both with a sudden greeting. 

“Hello, boys,” said the stork.

“Oh hi, we didn’t see you there,” said the first frog.

“You should’ve called first. We have a phone now. Check it out,” said the second frog.

“I prefer the spontaneity of a pop-in, no call.” 

“You hungry?,” said the first frog.

“I think I got everything I need right here. I’m in a hurry though,” said the stork.

“What was that emergency number again?,” said the second frog. 

Chain Gang

How do you hunker down and get things done? Do you light a candle, say a prayer and turn up the stereo well past a friendly level? I don’t do any of that – not anymore. I’ve become inured to unproductivity, embracing time-tested procrastination techniques like fresh squeezed goose down pillows. You see, I’ve tried it my way. I’ve tried hunkering without assistance, from home, from wherever. And you know what, it’s not working. I’m not working. I sit there and stare, with my shirt threadbare eating a ripe pear (when in season). 

This explains why I’m back at the office. However, I won’t be doing the same old routine of clocking in and clocking out at reasonable hours. I will be part of an elite program of natural go-getters voluntarily allowing their superiors to chain them to their desks. Plenty of folks talk about being chained to their desks, burning the midnight oil, but how many truly shackle up when the situation demands it? 

Instead of complaining about your boss’s inclination towards handcuffing your thoughts, present your wrists like a surrendering perp and get to work. I know this isn’t what they teach you in business school. The only thing touch-feely in the working world should be the cold metal irritating your skin after twelve to fourteen hours. The truth is, I find it even difficult to work when handcuffed. It’s not that the ideas don’t flow like Medieval honey wine, they do. But I’m preoccupied with picking the lock. I find an ancient paper clip, straightening it between my teeth as a makeshift key. That frees my hands, but my feet are still connected to the desk. I’m not going anywhere. 

Working on a creative chain gang is a joyous experience. You get to know the people by your side in a way that most open offices never allow for. There’s no brainless ambling through the halls looking for that one true stapler. You are assembling something - what? That's unimportant. Who needs Ritalin to hyperactivity when a chain does the trick?

There are questions that remain. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of dragging a desk down a stairwell during a move, well, you should know that during an emergency it’s a bit more complicated. Though I sure have ducking covered. 

It's The Oil

When someone says to you, “it’s the oil,” it’s not always immediately obvious what exactly they’re talking about. They could be crouched beneath the cracked chassis of a previously sputtering automobile. One that was leaking dark liquid at every turn. A vehicle that endured its owner’s cavalier attitude towards frequent oil changes, believing the act was ceremonial at best – the mechanic’s equivalent of consuming the host. Check the engine, check the oil, but don’t you ignore that eucharist under the hood.

They could be referencing the delectable marination of a well-cooked piece of salmon, watching as none of its skin sticks to the grill. They know there is such a thing as too much oil, soaking the fish past the point of no return. 

They could be referring to the absence of wrinkles in the octogenarian’s face standing before them. It seems an acne-riddled adolescence does have some material benefits, albeit ones that come to pass long after high school graduation. 

They could be discussing the work of Jan van Eyck, striking in visual clarity and religious solemnity. Though anyone with an open search bar knows people were painting with oil for thousands of years before that. Remarkably though, no one thought to paint with vinegar.  

They could be educating you on the particulars of committing insurance fraud during a natural disaster. “Oil in the pan,” or something. How that would work doesn’t have to make sense to you, since you’re not the one going to jail. You’re only listening. 

Or, and most understandably, they could be analyzing the trajectory of an errant bowling ball that somehow delivered a strike on the Brooklyn side. On the subject of bowling, I have much to say. We live in a time where people are working remotely, but some things, like bowling, you can’t do from home. You have to venture out in the world. I’ve heard reports of people trying to juggle multiple gigs at once, but those doing this aren’t working afternoons at a deli and the graveyard shift at a bank. For whatever reason, these fools remain in the same industry, increasing their chances of being found out. When Yogi Berra was in his prime, he opened up a bowling alley with ex-teammate, Phil Rizzuto. Had Berra been playing for the Yanks while trying to also catch for Cleveland, even in an era pre-social media, it never would’ve worked. 

He went bowling instead. You should try it sometime. 

Force Mayeure

While admiring the numerous decaying piers on Manhattan’s west side, home to many a working-class mollusk family, I came across a flyer. It too was decaying, fraying from the Hudson’s rhythmic  sloshing. It wasn’t easy to retrieve without falling into the drink.  I took comfort in knowing how difficult it must’ve been to hang. I sat on a half-submerged slab of concrete that once served a vaguely nautical purpose reading the flyer. From what I could see, the contents were vaguely political, relating to the upcoming mayoral race. Still wet, I dried the paper off by holding it dangerously close to the Westside Highway, letting the speeding cars do what a laundromat never could. Here’s what I found:   

Polarized Society

 

Every day during my morning jaunt through town, I take notes, observations of the people I come across. Not the people I come in contact with – that’s a no-no when giving strangers the Jane Goodall treatment. I wouldn’t want to risk interfering with my work by literally getting too close. So I keep my subjects at a reasonable distance, using binoculars only when appropriate.

My findings rarely surprise anyone with a background in anthropology. Some people wear hats, some people do not. Some people wait for the light to cross the street, while others like my neighbor William “Dash” Nilly traipse across bustling thoroughfares in what could only be described as a willy-nilly fashion. They help me pass the time in between cups of coffee. But recently I’ve noticed something – according to many, we are living in an extremely polarized society. That may be so. However, too often I see people walking the sunny streets post-dawn without sunglasses. Should they be donning shades, the lenses are rarely if ever polarized. Is it too much to ask in a supposed polarized society for one’s choice of optics to match the tenor of person-to-person interactions? 

I thought so. Yet when’s the last time Ray-Ban or Oakley had a thoughtful word to add to the fraught conversation? They are tongue-tied, afraid to get involved. What they don’t understand – what you’d like to think Polaroid understands – is that they are already involved whether they realize it or not. Want to change society for the better? Increase access to your sunglasses and allow people to finally see the world as it is. 

There’s another problem staring at us through reflective glass. In this polarized society of ours, how many people reside in either of the globe’s two poles? As in, what is the number of folks who pay their taxes from the North or South Poles? There’s Kringle. There’s John Q. Penguin. After that, the rest of us are only pretending to live in a polarized society.

Although, the earth has always been a little bipolar. 

Takin' Up Space

A week or so ago, sleep-deprived and heavily-medicated scientists scrambling for good news amid the alien fever gripping the nation, noticed hundreds of unexplained radio bursts originating from a distant galaxy. This is a transcription of what they heard… 

DJ: Korax from Andromeda, what’s on your mind today?

Korax: Hi, Johnny, first time caller, long time listener. What’s going on with the Circinus Highway? I pay my taxes and my daily commute is full of asteroids, comets and every other rock that’s been around since the Big…BEEEEEEEEEP…Bang. 

 

DJ: Easy there, Korax. Hey, somebody in the booth. You guys awake? C’mon fellas, what am I paying you for? Did anyone hit the dump button before that went out over space? Hello?

 

Producer: Hey Johnny, we caught it in time.

DJ: Phew. I guess that’s why there’s a 7 light-second delay. Korax, I’m gonna have to hang up if you do that again. So please watch what you’re saying. Remember, you're on extraterrestrial radio. This isn’t Alpha Centuri – there are rules here. 

Korax: Sorry, Johnny. I just get so carried away sometimes with all these guv’ment bureaucrats. Is a smooth highway really too much to ask?

DJ: Apparently it is. Korax, thanks for the call. Let’s go to um, how about, Sol in deep space.

Sol: Johnny, can you hear me? 

DJ: You’re on the space, Sol. What’s on your mind?

Sol: I have a young kid and he’s pestering me about taking him into a black hole for his 18^th birthday. I know what Newton's law says Johnny, but I think I should wait until the turns 21. 

DJ: I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sol, but did it occur to you that he’s already been in one? That he’s simply asking you permission to placate your own sense of paternal control. Kids today, huh? There’s nothing you can hide from them. Thanks for the call.

Sol: But John-

DJ: Our 15^th caller this hour will receive a gift certificate for Café Kuiper, a proud sponsor of this radio program. Café Kuiper, serving great dishes for going on two hundred eons. Nuke, you there?

 

Nuke: Yes, Johnny. I’m here. 

 

DJ: Welcome to Takin’ Up Space. Nuke, I have great news for you. You’re going to Café Kuiper. Bring your appetite and loose belt. Congratulations. 

Nuke: That’s wonderful, but is it a nuclear fusion restaurant? 

DJ: Of course it is. Who you gonna take? 

Nuke: My wife, I think.

DJ: Not your girlfriend? Only kidding, Nuke, stay on hold so my producer can take down all your information. And what’s your favorite radio station?

Nuke: W-G-L-X.

DJ: That’s right. You’re listening to WGLX – rockin' the galaxy since before the Big Bang. Someone in my earpiece is telling me to wish a big galactic hello to several uninvited guests eavesdropping from far away. You know who you are.

*high pitch screech

DJ: How about a song? This one goes out to Carol and Quasar on their two trillionth wedding anniversary. It’s Hubble Melvin and The Blue Dwarfs with their number one hit, “If You Don’t Know Meteors By Now.”

*static static static

DJ: That sure takes me back to another time and another place. Mornings watching Solar Train with Don Cornebulous. Those were the days. Speaking of another place, come on down to Van Allen Chevrolet this Saturday. I’ll be there all afternoon signing copies of my best-selling book, Waste of Space: The Life and Times of a Galactic Shock Jock. Van Allen Chevrolet - the best deals on used vehicles in the observable universe.

 

*faint music rug in the background

DJ: My producers are waving at me. You know what that means. I’ve taken up space this evening. And remember: one if by land, two if by galaxy. See ya in orbit, everybody.

Announcer: Dark Matters with Ray Gamma is up next. Support for Takin’ Up Space with Super Johnny Nova is paid for by listeners like you. 

*more static, beeping, major interference…END OF TRANSMISSION

For Art's Sake

 

I was walking along the Manzanares River collecting suitable rocks for my bathroom fresco, when I came upon an elderly man sleeping by the water’s edge. I almost walked into him, destined to crack a rib or two. I found myself still in a daze from the bathroom fiasco. The contractors I hired were crooks, taking their dulce, dulce time renovating my massive castillo in the nearby town Quinta del Gordo. It was 1819 and I worried that electricity would be invented before the tiling fools finished installing all my wall-mounted candle sconces. 

The old man held a canvas and several paintbrushes under his arm. Presumably, it was a sign he was an artist, or at least worked for one. I tried to make out the image, despite the poor angle. When I did, it was shocking. It depicted a man eating a child, with the untamed fervor of many-a-finger-lickin’ diner at CFC (Cordoba Fried Chicken). Taken aback, I asked him if he would consider repainting it – that I’d make it worth his while (gold had been kind to me). Plus, I had plenty of money that I was planning on not paying the bathroom contractors. There was a possibility, under the arm of a trained professional, to salvage the work. 

Couldn’t the man in the painting be eating a chicken wing instead? There was silence. The old man looked through me, creepily staring into the bottom my soul. How important was this image anyway? Did art lovers really want to see cannibalistic infanticide? I suggested a few alternates. Have the man in the painting hailing a carriage. He could even be singing. If that didn’t work, he could paint the river itself without people. The Manzanares was quite lovely back then.

I stood there for hours, pleading with the man to reconsider. I must’ve named every type of cuisine there was at the time, looking for any replacement. Why did he have to make something scary and weird? Some might say, why was it my problem to fix? I could just paint my man eating a chicken wing and be done with it. It’s more important to get others to bend to your will than to follow your own heart. Just as true today as it was in 1819.

Nothing mattered. I couldn’t break through. Years later, I got Paul Cezanne to reconsider painting fruit after the smell of raw meat began to envelop his studio. Most people don’t realize the great man had a supreme fixation on garden gnomes, believing they possessed mystical qualities and deserved a place on every canvas. It took some pushing and lots of wine, but he came around and left the creeps with the shovels and hoes. But this old man wasn’t Cezanne. He wouldn’t budge. I made the best case I could and had nothing to show for it - not even one altered brushstroke. That his art would hurt people, give them dangerous ideas and might even send them to a gallery’s fresco-less lavatory meant nothing. He didn’t say a word. He hardly drew a breath. Next time you’re in Madrid, you can see the painting in the Prado, horrifying museum goers for two centuries. Whatever happened to painting pretty pictures?

I later discovered that the old man by the river was completely deaf.

Invisibility Hires

 

Hiring practices taking hiring practice. You can’t learn overnight what takes some people a lifetime to master. But you can try. I’m in no position to hire right now, but that’s not going to stop me unfurling my body into a power position. And why should it? Why should I let limitations like fire codes dictate my overwhelming desire for growth? What are sprinklers for? I need help – lots of it. 

Hiring, once the bête noire of enfant terribles searching for a rasion d’être under loaves of pain has become the cause célèbre of dauphins secretly dying to be agneaux. I hired ten people last night and I’ll do the same later this afternoon. They are all different in their own wild way. But these new hires are special. They check a box, to be sure. They have a way of not getting in the way. How? Easy. After speaking at length from an arm’s length with a valued member of my staff, I opted for invisibility and inclusion. Invisible coworkers may not get as much done as visible workers, but they also don’t obstruct your egress. When a fire does happen, they don’t block the exits. They’re not hoarding hand soap or pilfering the supply closet of magic markers, legal pads and cheese. You read that right. I keep cheese there. I’d rather rodents gnaw on some Jarlsberg than my cherished number 2 pencils. They don’t moan about lunch breaks or make it a point to raise uncomfortable issues like money and time off. 

Invisible employees are also totally carbon neutral. I dare you to find their footprints in the thickest snow or the wettest mud. It can’t be done. You can’t do it. In an era when everyone seems to crave “being seen,” it’s nice to work with people you can’t see. There’s never an awkward moment around taking my lucky chair or eating my lunch. The one downside is that the feeling of being watched takes some getting used to. However, as a deeply religious man with a direct line to the Big Guy a few flights up, what’s the difference? God is always watching, even if at times you hope he’s like a distracted security guard dunking a doughnut into a Styrofoam cup of coffee and ignoring what’s happening on the closed-circuit TV. Even if that’s true, he can always review the footage at a later date. 

Invisibility hiring is coming. You watch. In a business that craves clarity, who's clearer than the invisible? 

There’s no need to worry about a robot taking your job, or someone with more qualifications. Nobody's taking your job. Nobody wants your job. Nobody wants your life. Nobody wants your dog. Nobody's going to walk up to your boss and demand a raise. Nobody's going to use the last of your mustard, spreading it out over several days and pieces of rye. Don’t look now, but nobody’s home.

And to think, nobody saw it coming. 

BROmides

If I’m not a dummy, then why is there a cord sticking out of my back? 

Rub your eyes in the morning unless you moisturize with chili powder. 

Keep burning your dinner? Add some sunscreen next time. 

Don’t sweat the small stuff, unless it’s a tiny lighter and sweating just can’t be helped. 

Chapter 11 is only the end of the book if you close the page right then and there skipping the acknowledgements. 

Don’t let others define you – unless they work for Merriam-Webster’s.

When you don’t know where you’re going, how can you ever be lost?  

How come homework was so bad but working from home is so good? 

Don’t forget why you got into this business. Unless you can’t remember due to a violent orientation seminar.

You probably think socks are cool, right? Ones with funny patterns or caricatures of Secretary Generals of the United Nations. Nope. Guess again, Mr. Annan. How do you expect to know if you bought a good pair of kicks when you’ve never considered cutting out the sneaky middleman? Socks are just another way Big Footwear keeps you on your heels - when you should be on your toes. 

The secret to being happy is stapling your smile in place. Although, I guess it’s not a secret anymore now that I’m sharing it out loud. 

Back when the world was in black and white, no one worried about gray hairs. 

You can spend more time with your family if you treat everyone and everything you meet like a member of your family. 

You should always be selling. Even when you’re at a deli counter and the whole point of the transaction is buying. 

Wake up with a purpose when you wake up with a porpoise. 

You Can't Touch That

Talking religion or, um, politics, poses a great many problems for the conversationally averse. It’s the quiet ones you don’t have to watch, or for that matter, listen to. They don’t say much, they don’t hear much, and, most importantly, they don’t do much. All they do is nod, smile and sigh. They aren’t spouting off about single-payer or the evergreen crises in the Middle East. They don’t have solutions or answers. They have appetizers – small ones wrapped in bacon, perfect for hand-to-hand consumption. They have a bottomless knowledge of toothpicks. They understand, on an almost molecular level, that an ever-widening set of taboos keeps the population in check. The more there is not to talk about, the less there is to worry about. Since it sure works wonders for a public persona.

When you decide to touch a subject that’s as fraught as the big three (religion, politics, sports) you’re leaving a trail of despair in your wake. It’s like touching someone’s wall to assess the paint. Your fingerprints are there, crime or no crime, for all time, and for all to see. Because whatever you’ve done, you’re guilty. 

Perhaps, when they’re alone with the radio blasting to drown out any parabolic microphones in the area listening in on their midnight diatribes, they say what they really think. When the blinds are drawn and the lights are off, making it impossible for the surveillance van across the street to peer in, they begin the long process of making sense of the world. They feel loose and comfortable.  

Taboos keep everyone in check. The list is long and forever growing. Similarly, you should be able to admire an interior paint job without pressing your thumbs against the wall to determine the finish – eggshell or flat satin. Licking the walls might explain your behavior. You can never be too sure that all the lead is gone. 

 

Big Sister

Hello there. This is your government speaking. If you’re reading this, then may we first congratulate you on being chosen for our “Big Sister” totalitarian pilot program. You’re one of the lucky few, until we can use eminent domain to clear enough brush and affordable housing for several dozen sparkling reeducation camps. You’re furiously scratching your head right now, letting the dandruff rain down on your far-from-clean keyboard. That’s not a guess, it’s a fact. As long as we’re on the subject, you should get the can of the air from underneath your desk and go in for a quick blow. Dead skin wreaks havoc on a computer’s fragile hard drive.

What’s all this about? We’ve been watching you for a long time, interfering whenever possible. We’re the reason you got thrown out of summer camp in the 10^th grade. Don’t get mad at us. You were far too old to be bunking in a cabin with children. Your slight stature notwithstanding, summer camp isn’t for people cramming for the SATs. 

Big Brother was a failed experiment. Brothers are too nosy, too aggressive. Their role in society is quantified by the number of wedgies given per annum and qualified by the constant specter of physical torment. After 75 years, it’s time we moved on and tried something new. We’ve chosen the plush fabric of sisterhood to represent government in action.

It’s kinda gentler, too. Though emotional terror and passive aggression are things few governments have tried, let alone mastered, we’re here to stay, so stay tuned. This isn’t the Big Brother of yesterday, butting in and abusing you. Nor is it the obsessive compulsiveness of the Nanny State. This is something different. Big Sister has your best interest. You can tell her anything. You can trust her. She won’t tell your parents or friends what’s gotten into you.

Put a towel under the door if it makes you feel better. But there’s not much you need to do now. That time will come, probably when you least expect it. Maybe when you’re conditioning your scalp. Anytime, anywhere, to do anything. Keep the tyranny, hold the toxic masculinity. Not a bad recipe for social engineering. Can you tell we’re excited?

Love what you’ve done with the place. See you soon. 

Cliff Hanger's

Clifford Hanger entered this world exactly as he left it. 

On the floor of a crowded kindergarten class, with sockless and shoeless students sprawled out on the juice-stained carpet, the teacher prepared her surroundings for show and tell. The day before she had asked everyone to bring in a household item with a brief explanation of its function and purpose. Cliff loved show and tell. The year before, during pre-k, he walked in with nothing but an expected cri de coeur. When the teacher began scolding him for his impertinence he said, “what I have is right here, inside.” Cliff spoke of existential dread, suburban malaise and ubiquitous despair. The teacher now knew where those missing thesauruses had gone from the 8^th grade homeroom. On this day, Cliff wasn’t empty handed. He brandished something, shiny, nearly blinding the teacher with its glint. 

It was supposed to be dinner and a movie, but the movie would come first. Cliff met his date at the ticket booth. She wanted to see Put That Apple Down, You’ll Ruin Your Appetite, an alternate history where Adam and Eve go out for a dinner and a movie to the chagrin of the garden’s master snake. Cliff preferred Sunrise Boulevard, starring a zombie William Holden seeking revenge on all who wronged him - Norma, Hollywood, pools. Cliff pulled out a fifty dollar bill from his wallet, more than enough to cover both tickets. 

Cliff’s mother was miffed at the taste of her chef’s herb-broasted chicken. Something about it was off. Why broasting? The pan was clean, the oven was new, and the ingredients were above reproach. Still, she couldn’t eat it. Not yet anyway. “Clifford, could you please pass the salt, dear?”

The fire started at the end of the block. It engulfed a Toyota and Cliff held his phone and dialed 9-1. He heard sirens and wondered if it made sense for him to also call. Wouldn’t that just annoy the fire department? 

It was a long day already. Cliff stood in line for “returns” at an appliance store. His dehumidifier was defective and he wanted his money back. When he reached the register the employee winked at him. 

Cliff went hiking with a few friends in the Catskills. They found a nice patch of ground to picnic with vast sight lines in every direction. A friend, not a close friend, but close enough to be included dropped his phone off the edge, down into the valley below. It had a case, but still. Nothing, certainly not an Apple product, could survive a fall like that. “Good thing you have cell phone insurance,” Cliff said. But none of them did. Cliff looked out on the edge and inched closer and closer, moving his toes to the pebbles crumbling with each step. “It’s not like you have any service out here anyway. Anyone else thirsty?” On his way back to the picnic blanket, Cliff slipped and nearly fell off the cliff. 

Waiting at a bus stop, Cliff noticed a stranger reading a thick novel in his hand. He couldn't stand fiction, never seemed able to finish what he started. Admiring the cover he asked the man on the bench, "how does it end?"

The Town Crier, a sob story of sorts

Every town used to have one. A middle-aged, underemployed know-it-all, who preferred leaning against an ornate fountain grabbing coins and gabbing with strangers to working a standard nine-to-five. One where he was understandably hemmed in by the sticky Velcro walls of a stuffy office cubicle. This was a period when people went into town just to learn the news of the day. There wasn’t much reading at the breakfast table or anywhere else for that matter. Why waste your time deciphering a local printer’s dastardly foray into moveable type when you can just listen to someone yell about it in a deep baritone?  

The town crier was a walking, talking town chyron – the colorful ticker that scrolls across your TV screen celebrating factoids and nuggets. These people often dressed in loud garb, foreshadowing the lower thirds that would one day dominate cable. “Sunny day, sonny boy.” That was the level of meteorological insight you could expect from your average crier. 

People are always saying “things don’t happen overnight.” But it’s true from time to time, namely, new days. Because one morning, when no one was paying attention, everyone woke up to find a glistening smartphone under their pillow. I remember being puzzled over mine, seeing as our new alarm system was supposed to detect any movement. I like to think I’m the reason the tooth fairy is behind bars today, serving out her sentence at Cambridge Springs, a minimum security penitentiary in northwestern Pennsylvania. I visited her to deliver some contraband after she informed me through an intermediary that floss was forbidden inside. After that, I didn’t make any more trips. With good behavior, she should be out in five to seven. 

But that was all it took to put the town crier out of work. Suddenly, people didn’t need his help. They already knew the weather of the day and how exactly the King was getting along with his young pretender. 

Yet the town crier remained. He didn’t have any scoops for the townsfolk, so instead he’d start sobbing, believing this behavior would demand attention from the same people who abandoned him for their endless scrolls. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Most people assumed the tears were water since he insisted on standing incredibly close to the same coin-filled fountain. 

Then he started to fake it. He’d make up stories, telling half-truths and total lies that were far more entertaining than anything the media reported on. 

Town criers have blown their noses but they haven’t disappeared completely. You’ll still see these people around, even if you don’t notice them. They don’t shower. And the only thing they shave is the truth. Tips are appreciated. 

The Unbearable Whiteness of Milk

When I say I’ve tried to like milk, please believe me. That’s if you can still make out a clear syllable from my incessant hacking due to the beverage’s absurd chalkiness. In the heyday of my childhood, I poured it over practically everything. Cereal, granola, stray cats. Once something was bowl bound it was only a matter of time before the drenching commenced. I crisscrossed the country carrying briefcases of breakfast cereal and a trench coat lined with sterling silver spoons, attending one milk convention after another. Somewhere in between a lecture on udder pulling and miscellaneous joys of farm life (Udder Nonsense: Have a cow, no, really), something changed. I no longer wanted to create a cow carillon and tour the globe. I’d finally seen milk for what it is, as well as what it isn’t.

Milk is vanilla. Not scientifically, but spiritually. Milk represents the bland and the blah. My objections to it have little to do with the animals who produce it. They’re living on our farms rent-free, so in this respect, a little crème never hurt anyone. The color of milk is what disturbs me now. I was frequently puzzled when the liquid changed its hue depending on what cereal brand was currently ascendant. Milk is an imperial product. It colonizes the cupboard, oppressing every drawer and shelf. You pour milk over cereal, not the other way around. But who was there first? 

When I see milk, I see the worst of us. Milk floods its surroundings, expecting others to bow to them. Cereal gets soggy, changing its nature to appease the domineering liquid. You want to keep drinking milk, living in a cream world? Fine. But I won’t. In fact, I can’t. It makes me sick. Physically and emotionally. And I want nothing to do with it. I would love to see milk on a milk carton. 

Then again, I could just have a problem with dairy. It’s possible I’m being a tad bit intolerant.  

Recovered Melodies

 

When a song is stuck in your head, you probably have a surefire way to get rid of it. We all do. There’s the tried-and-true method of passing it on to an unsuspecting set of ears. The hope there is that like the proverbial steaming potato, once it’s someone else’s problem, it’s no longer yours. You can start to hum it in public place to provoke an angry confrontation with strangers. The logic behind this technique is much like punching your hand when your foot is asleep. Give your body something else to worry about. Should you get pummeled by an ever-increasing crowd of howling lunatics, the last thing on your mind will be whatever jingle was initially driving you crazy. Instead, your focus will be fixed on the expiration date or your tube of Neosporin. 

That’s one thing. It’s one thing when you have someone else to blame – like a billionaire pop singer and their cohort of tech-savvy entrepreneurs manufacturing catchy songs by the dozen daily. Where’s the Upton Sinclair exposé of these tune-packing maestros when we need it? But again, that’s different. At least during these music-induced fits of psychosis you have a song to enjoy. A beat to whistle. A chorus to slap along with your knee. What concerns me most is something much more dire. 

What do you do when you want nothing more than a jingle rattling around your head, but can’t seem to remember a good one? And whatever you do, it won’t appear. This is the sort of problem you might not even know you have. That’s until a person in your general vicinity uses a word like “harmonica.” You start thinking, “what does a harmonica sound like again? Can someone remind me please?”

Luckily, I’ve devised a therapy around recovered melodies. Songs that, for whatever reason, have been repressed for some time. Before I started this, I had no idea just how many Rihanna songs I knew by heart. But they were there all along, waiting for me to find them. This therapy is a great way to discover that you were, contrary to what your yearbook says, rather cool in high school. The therapy itself isn’t all that interesting. It involves board certified psychologists humming various pop songs in your presence and recording the reaction to ones you’ve supposedly never heard. 

The good doctors goad you with sharps, flats and familiar chord progressions, all effort aimed towards getting you to sing something. If that doesn’t work, there’s always the possibility of an electronic boost to your memory. Picture a more musical take on classic shock treatments. When no songs are recalled, they take an amp cord that’s usually plugged into a guitar and find an orifice to lodge it. That’s when the melodies usually start to rush in. Due to either the amazing powers of projection or the threat of a 75 minute Jerry Garcia guitar solo. Whatever works, right?

Be a Good Hostage

 

Aren’t you going to offer our guests some lemonade? They came here all the way from prison just to see us. No, they weren’t released by the state. They saw an opportunity or maybe it was more of an opening. You remember the tunnel by the latrine that emptied on the outside of the walls? What you were in for again? Tax problems, yes, that was it. You need to pay those next time.

They weren’t incarcerated for financial irregularities. Their crimes were more primitive in nature. They went with their gut, instead of the gut of their crooked accountant. Ask if it’s all right to hang up their coats. Don’t say anything about their balaclavas though. Yes, of course I understand it’s extremely humid out. But facial recognition technology being what it is, most people would rather sweat than be identified.

What’s with the air in here? The AC is broken again? I told you to get that fixed last year. Ask permission to bring up grandpa’s old fans from the basement. Sure, make the joke about sticking your hands into the barely obstructed blades. To me, it’s still more social commentary than a joke. Why? Because you’re wondering aloud why more baby boomers didn’t have their fingers lopped off during sweltering summer nights. Just get the fan, please. Thank you.

They’re still standing when there’s plenty of room on both couches. The rocking chair is an antique. I wouldn’t let a kitten sit on it. Keep the blanket over it before they get any ideas. What are you looking at me for? You know where the sock drawer is. Go get a bunch. I’m sure they’re clean, no one in this house has played soccer in decades. Gather an assortment so they have several things to choose from. 

We don’t have rope. We do, however, own several bungee cords. Somewhere in the garage would be a good guess. Why is he pointing at the red phone? Make something up. Say it’s an art thing. Warholesque or whatever. The truth would not be a good idea. Can’t imagine why telling your captors we own a direct line to the police department would end up backfiring. 

What happened to the newspapers I told you to save? For grilling, remember? We burn the stuff to get the charcoal going. That’s too big of a smile for a ransom photo. Tone it down. Be natural. You’re not Patti Hearst. I guess a time-stamped tweet will just have to do.

Are they hungry? There’s some leftover bread pudding. They don’t like bread pudding. It’s disgusting? Well, excuse me. Sorry for trying to be a good host. If they don’t like it, they can rob a gourmet food bazaar next time. No, I’m not going to let it go. They are still guests in our house and guests don’t make the rules. We do. I’m not raising my voice, this is my natural volume. They are free to leave anytime. No one put a gun to their heads.   

Where did I learn to fight like that? Hitting someone with a fire extinguisher isn’t really fighting per se. It seemed like a good use of an emergency apparatus. Plus, you’re supposed to change those out every seven years or so. And it’s been about seven years. Drag them both outside and I’ll thaw the pudding.

Stop Digging

When I overheard people discuss “J school” I always assumed it was some coded phrase connoting collegiate jocularity. Backslapping and sidesplitting remarks about the big game, the big dance, or the big indictment. Little did I know that budding Bernsteins and wishful Woodwards were straightening those tiny press cards jutting out of their fedoras to make it clear to one and all that they were miles away from boring civilian life. They were journalists, poking and prodding people into answering the toughest of questions.

Under normal circumstances, I believe I’d appreciate the alleged merits of “gotcha journalism.” That’s if the technique had it included unmumbled gotchas. But never once during a supposed adversarial interview have I noticed anyone standing on a table, pointing at a guest, laughing in their face, or stomping. It’s just not done. They don’t get anyone. Where’s the spiking of one’s lavalier or the destruction of a light stand in a show of victorious ecstasy?

There’s a moment in every article where the reader reaches his or her capacity for information. Like a good meal, they can’t keep eating and eating until the end of time. At a certain point, one must flag down a waiter and get the check. The time is to digest, not to look at the dessert menu. Journalism isn’t that different. We, as readers, want to know the basics of any story but that’s about it. It’s why headlines carry so much weight these days. What’s more important that a compelling pun or some bold font in 72-point. 

In other words, it’s time to stop digging. Put your shovels away and go home. We’re not interested in the rest of the story. We have more than enough to satisfy our cravings. Because when you’re crouched over a massive hole wondering whether or not it’s deep enough, the very question reveals the answer. Of course, it’s deep enough. What were you expecting? Something more than an arrowhead or a few worms? 

You weren’t getting to China anyway. And you definitely weren’t doing it with those tools. Hope you don’t have any trouble filling in the rest.

The Intern Ship

I hear from young people all the time about, among other things, internships. They are dying to know where to kickstart their career into overdrive. Though most internships offer little to no pay, they somehow remain awfully hard to come by. It’s not easy to get a job – even an unpaid one. Landing a proper internship that you’ll be proud to tell strangers in between appetizers is often related to who you know.

It shouldn’t be like that. You shouldn’t be at the mercy of a distant family friend who once worked as a shoeshine boy at NBC polishing many a wingtip of many a higher up. But how else is a person supposed to get his or her feet in the door? Especially when those very same feet are meant to shine. 

First of all, you’re not supposed to ask for a job like this. They aren’t paying you – remember? There was once this man named Blackboro who yearned to join a tropical expedition. He dreamed of salty mornings and lookouts from the crow's nest. So what did he do? He didn’t sit on his hands, waiting for them to go numb, and send in applications to local ship captains seeking strapping seamen. No, he stowed away on a ship. Soon he was discovered by the individual in charge, Sir Ernest Shackleton, who threatened to eat him if it came to that. While the ship went a little past the tropics for frostier waters, Blackboro was content being part of a team. 

You should be too. Now it’s little trickier stowing away in big office buildings with security desks and ID cards. But every building has a side entrance and a freight elevator. Get in with the janitorial staff and find a cozy space in a duct or electrical closet from which you can spread your wingtips. 

When people finally get back to the office, you’ll have been there for a few weeks or even months. Break the ice by giving people coffee and offering up non-threatening compliments like "nice keyboard." Is there the possibility that someone on the executive floor mentions cannibalism in passing as a way to literally get under your skin? Of course. But that didn’t stop Blackboro from living out his frostbitten fever dreams well south of the equator. So you shouldn’t be dissuaded either. Eventually, you'll be called into a conference room for a big meeting and no one will ask about your sleeping arrangements or how many reams of paper does a good pillow make. They will just want to see if you work hard and stay late. The second part is the easiest. With everyone working remotely, the best way to stand out will be to actually live in the office. 

So stowaway for that big internship this summer. Unless they're paying you, they have no business telling you how to live.