The Pablum Podcast Hour

Musical intro begins...

Announcer: OFF-LY, makers of subpar products for mediocre living, presents, “The Pablum Podcast Hour.” OFF-LY lowers the bar in home appliances. No one’s a fan of our fans. Our knives barely make the cut. And our furniture won’t last a weekend. Things you don’t need, for prices you can’t believe, let alone afford. The first live-in Frost-O freezer demystifies the Ice Age. A robot stove that’s done the moment you install it.  Yes, everything you hate all in one place, from OFF-LY.

Squid: This is the Pablum Podcast Hour, and here I am again, your host for this morning, Squid Geezer for more antitainment. As every piece of geriatric calamari knows, some nets are more comfortable than others. And don’t get me started on hooks. But that’s not what today's show is about. Imagine Loco stars with Snarl Whiner as the married couple you love to love, The Agreersons.

The Agreersons stand in a boring suburban kitchen.

Imagine: Honey, where did you put the Baking Soda?

Snarl: In the cabinet, dear, above the OFF-LY stove.

Imagine: I can’t find it.

Snarl: Let me look. 

Imagine: I’m waiting…

Snarl: Here it is. 

Imagine: Darling?

Snarl: Yes, sweetie?

Imagine: Thank you for your help.

Snarl: No, thank you.

Imagine: You’re the greatest.

Snarl: You’re the best.

Both: Oh, I agree.

Loud applause and laughter. Audience chants in unison, "I agree" over and over. Music outro begins.     

 

Jingle:  Let others fight over who is right so we can be free to always agree...  

Announcer: Ladies and gentleman, the star of The Pablum Podcast Hour, your schmo of schmoes, Squid Geezer. 

Squid: Thank you, thank you. Part of the American Dream is wide open spaces, watching two steers make love under the setting sun. The other part is about clearly defined boundaries like walls and partitions. Coward Morris stars in Oh, Fence, about a man coming to terms with his limitations. 

Coward sits on a rocking chair overlooking a prairie landscape from the comfort of his rickety porch.

Coward: Hey, crow friend, don’t go there. That’s my fence. You’re getting too close, little chickadee. You too, squirrel pal, back off. Oh, my dear armadillo, would you scram please? 

Loud buzzing sound effects. The fence is electric and the animals are gone. Coward looks at the camera with his trademark^™ smirk, grinning at the animal carnage, which happens to end every episode. 

Coward: Oh…fence.

Jingle: You stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine, come too close and you’ll end up fried...

Announcer: OFF-LY is a proud sponsor of the Pablum Podcast Hour, makers of the macrowave. It’s like a microwave, but much bigger and more expensive. Here’s Imagine Loco with the last sketch of the morning.

Imagine: Thanks so much. Plenty of people see the world in black and white, but not Squid Geezer who sees everything in gray and beige. I present to you, Bland, Ho!

Squid stares at a wall with wet paint. Imagine walks onto the stage.  

Squid: Dry already. Would you just dry already?  

Imagine: It’s just the first coat. These things take time.

Squid: Now I remember why I preferred brick.

Imagine: Unless it’s distressed.

Squid: Now I’m distressed. 

Imagine:  That makes two of us.

Laughter, applause, retching. 

Squid: G’night everybody. Remember. If it’s Friday morning and there’s nothing else on, it’s plainly dumb, habitually humdrum, and something to succumb…to. It’s Pablum!

Announcer: See you next week for another insipid display of nonsense and forgettable banalities with the same lackluster cast of characters.

Enter the Fetaverse

When I first came across the word, “fetaverse,” I figured it was a new poetic meter, finally appearing on the scene to revolutionize rhyming. Since cheese is often stuffed into unexpected places by artful individuals, I foresaw a future with fromage filling, among other things, The First Folio. But the closer I got to the word on the paper thin cracker, the more it began to smell – cheese has that effect on people, as well as their nostrils.

So I couldn’t help but sneeze. But that didn't stop me from powering through this sensorial feast.

The fetaverse extends well past the staid boundaries of the English Sonnet into the wide-open cyber frontier. I’m sure you’ve indulged in one or two Greek salads in your day, a late-night treat at an outer borough diner under a flickering neon sign installed years before epilepsy was understood. The sight of the bowl brings to mind the word “meniscus,” a term only used during knee surgery and 8^th grade chemistry. But on this evening, your salad has one, topped off with a healthy offering of liberally crumbled feta cheese. Great in theory, I suppose. 

However, diners in 2021 demand more from their salads. They want a totally immersive dining experience, where they are one with each ingredient. Croutons the size of boulders, leafy greens as blanketing as expensive shawls, and anchovies that attract jungle cats. To really get into the fetaverse you need to really get into the fetaverse.

That means obtaining a snorkel from your waiter and entering a large vat of feta cheese. To get immersive, you have to be submersible. Now, budget concerns have made these vats closer to the size of bidets than bathtubs, but that’s only because the fetaverse is still a work in progress. Gone are the days when tastebuds were the chief concern of seasoned chefs (a seasoned chef shouldn’t be confused with a seasoned chef, one covered in Old Bay, a few rosemary sprigs, salt and lots of pepper, prepared for a group of starving desert islanders after a fortuitous straw drawing). In the fetaverse, toes matter, too.

Not to mention that the lactose intolerant are tolerated in the fetaverse, since feta is a sheep or goat’s cheese. So take your shoes off and step right into a new world of cheese – the fetaverse. It’s basically Wisconsin with a stronger Internet connection. 

The New Creators

 

 

I used to think that being a creator meant toying with different species, controlling the weather, accelerating continental drift (geologic happenings can be so boring that watching paint dry is a viable and alternative form of entertainment), or sending hot lava from the depths of an active volcano into a beach resort at the exact moment a big luau was about to begin. You haven’t really had a true tropical cocktail unless your tiny umbrella has first been scorched by projectile magma. There’s something divine about the flavor generated from the coldness of the beverage and the warmth of the volcanic ash. Apparently, this type of creator behavior is old hat. 

Creators nowadays aren’t rolling together pieces of intergalactic dough in the hopes of baking an adequately textured asteroid. Some of the best chefs on earth don’t have enough patience when it comes to kneading iron-heavy space rubble. 

Creators today aren’t poring over lines of succession for a suitable ambassador here on earth, one wearing a crown a bit sturdier than one found in a bag of fast-food fries. 

Creators have shifted their focus away from bona fide miracles to “that’s kinda cool. Is that CGI?” The original creators never used technology, unless you count the atomic bomb or the printing press to get their message out. 

 

Creators aren’t answering calls from adoring fans yelling into stained glass skylights or burning plants. Although burning plants is a major factor for many of today’s biggest creators.  

These days, creators are found on TikTok, giving away their talents for free. Scripture? There’s not even structure. These new creators have put the old ones out of work. There are too many creators to count. Back in the day, you’d have a few reliable ones in the Middle east, several scattered around California and elsewhere, but that was pretty much it. 

I wish the new creators would borrow more from the ancient ones. Dancing is good, I like dancing. But where are the weird traditions, complicated and contradictory rules forbidding certain behaviors? Diet tips are a nice start, but in the old days, you didn’t give tips, you made proclamations that were followed or else. Think of these as suggestions.

Simple Rules For Success

I wish imparting wisdom and fostering productivity were as easy as passing a deadly airborne pathogen. From my experience, it’s anything but. Unsuccessful people claim they want to follow your lead, emulate your every move, but in practice, they usually fall short of their goal. That’s where the unsuccess comes into play. However, after being stuck in any waiting room left to marvel at the proliferation of inspirational posters (the original meme) I devised a list of simple rules, when adopted, should guarantee a gilded life of leisure and luxury.  

Open Your Fridge

Not a crack, but a full swing. A lot of people don’t know what’s in their fridge (a sure sign of success). That’s how it should be. When your fridge is packed with impulse purchases and exotic delicacies, you’re most likely halfway to a new tax bracket. Grab the first thing you see and down it – finish it. Whether it be relish, almond milk or something a bit heartier. Don’t look at the date, silly. This will help you gain a different perspective on the world. 

Yachting

You don’t like yachts? Too bad. Like golfing, you’re going to have to enjoy them when you make you start raking in millions.

Yawn

Without a good yawn how do you expect to dismiss idiotic business proposals from dear friends and deranged strangers? For the yawn-averse, it comes to words and statements. Words provide wiggle room and the possibility of having your mind changed. Each yawn contains multitudes and more firmness than the average foot going down. 

Tito’s Principle

Credit and promote the dumbest people around you. It’ll make you look much better by contrast. So then when you leave the company, people will say “I guess he was a one-man-wrecking crew, sui generis, or something.” Many claim Steve Jobs was a real visionary, but look at Apple now? The company appears to be just fine without his daily presence and ironed turtlenecks. What you want instead for your legacy is what happened to the former Yugoslavia. Take some time and do your homework.

Sub Standards

Even though guests entering my palatial home are initially struck by the striking feng shuiness each room possesses, no one would mistake me for a highly paid, highly opinionated interior decorator. While I have the spiritual knack of a biblical prophet, there aren’t as many times I can use it as one might think. 

On a submarine, it’s easy to skip the basic aesthetic essentials of interior design, believing there’s no good reason to place cute felt covers on a nuclear warhead control panel. Subs may have portholes, but choosing between blinds and curtains isn’t a decision most captains take on with any enthusiasm. They aren’t thinking about carpeting either. Why would they? The very real prospect of complete flooding puts a decided damper on the usual joys found in rug shopping. A submarine is a functional, floating home. And as such, it ought to have certain trappings of home – down to grandma’s cooking. Must warning lights always be a blinking, flashing mess? When a little added needlepoint raise the crew’s morale just a bit. Otherwise, it’s so much darn metal. Periscopes and sonar give people a vague idea of what’s out there, in immediate ocean. But it’s far from a clear portrait of the sea ahead. 

I never would have thought the principles of submarine life – these sub standards - would have seeped into polite society, affecting the media landscape in its many fractured forms. Radio shows once had deep baritone announcers mesmerizing the audience with the phone number of a local car dealer ship. Podcasts don’t do that. Films and TV shows were once shot with Panavision cameras. Now they’re hooked up to the one inside your computer. Those are, plain and simple, sub standards.  

And unlike a submarine, TV and podcast studios don't sink. 

I'm All Ears

 

Why are you looking at me like that? I told you I was listening. When are you going to learn that I don’t need to look at someone to listen to them? Besides, I traded in my eyes for these beauties. I’m all ears, remember? You have two ears, big ones, with saggy lobes. But me? I have ears in places you’ve never even heard of. 

That’s right. Call it an unfair advantage if you like, but I don’t have to pay attention to pay attention. Something on me is always listening. Kind of like a security system or that phone in your pocket. I’m too attached? These are parts of my anatomy however redundant you may deem them to be. You’re the one who’s too attached.

There are obviously the two ears you can see. There are a couple more on my ankles, another one on my back and a few more I haven't seen yet. Yes, that’s a good observation on your part. It is rather similar to a shark’s fin, though I haven’t seen how it helps me in the pool. I’m a natural swimmer, but my own personal rudder? Watch out, Phelps, because that you should see. I have a few spares on my night table. Huh? What were you saying? I was listening. I told you already. You’re making the point you always make about how blue is the best color because it’s both the sky and the sea. Do I have that right? How green comes from blue so all this “going green” nonsense hardly fulfills the whole spectrum.

I have dabbled in jewelry, but it’s not as compelling a statement when you’re all ears. Do I pierce every one of them? Half? Two? One? These were questions I wasn’t remotely prepared for. It’s why I think chainmail is among the most timeless of metal accoutrements. Just don’t wear it in the rain and always, always remember to oil it. You’ve seen the Wizard of Oz, haven’t you? That's pretty much the point of the film.

I thought so. May I continue? I find listening to be exhausting so I’ve taken to plugging up my primary ears since the others more than do the job. 

You were saying?

A Modern Kyrie

Lord, or whoever is commissioner at the time, have mercy upon us,

and fill our basketballs with thy spirit;

O Lord, let’s say the late David Stern to be safe, have mercy

and inflate thy commandment in our hoops.

O David, hit us (we’re open)!

-Anonymous Basketball Prayer

 

Basketball is a spiritual game. A holy game. But it is not a game of inches. It is a game of feet. Makes sense since there’s all that running back and forth. It is a game of constant motion, except for the timeouts. Players sprint from one end of the court to the other, trying to place the ball into a bottomless basket. It’s a fruitless, Sisyphean task, given how, unlike crumpled garbage tossed into a receptacle, the ball never stays put. It falls through and bounces on, back to the other side for more running and gunning. 

 

Yet the game offers plenty of time to ponder. How come you stick a needle into a basketball, filling it with air only to see the very same pumped-up rubber orb gradually deflate over the course of regular wear and tear. Shouldn’t once be enough? If the world really is round, why is the court flat? And why does a deflated basketball resemble a floppy stack of orange flapjacks? Makes you think. 

 

In olden times when people wanted answers to life’s toughest questions they ventured into gothic cathedrals to get them. That’s where society’s brightest lights resided. Exchanges usually took on a Seinfeldian display, with the questioners asking lowly candle-lighters and high priests, “so father, what’s the deal with existence?” It worked until it didn’t.  

 

Nowadays, the postgame press conferences where athletes are left to their own devices (iPhones mostly) has turned into a forum for weighing in on any subject deemed necessary. The lapping up of sports liturgy is essential in the zoom age where the beads of sweat on their brows are taken for granted if the pixel ratio isn't up to snuff. I don’t particularly understand epidemiology. But if you can dribble well, I’m listening to you over some nerd with a stethoscope and a PhD. 

Confirm Your Pryors

Watching comedy is tricky these days. And you can never be too careful when the subject matter is deeply troubling. It’s why I soundproofed my apartment walls and this Halloween I’ll be handing out earplugs to candy craving children. Sadly, it doesn’t always work. 

To be extra safe from prying ears, I catch every new special on mute with extra small subtitles and a pair of handy binoculars. I’ve constructed makeshift screen blinders, like the ones horses wear, in the event someone – the mailman, the pizza boy, whomever – walks in on me consuming too much edge. With the blinders, I’m protected from judgment. I suppose they could judge me for supergluing darkened sheet metal to my laptop, but alas, that I can handle. That I understand.

The truth is that the best art doesn’t challenge, it caresses instead. Gently, warmly, supplely. We consume to reinforce our most deeply held beliefs, not to shake them up with complex and novel ideas. 

Works of art change over time to fit the current social mores. Most people haven’t noticed that Andy Warhol’s famous Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle soup can now sports a trademark ™ symbol as well as the logos for Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram alongside a short copy line that encourages museum goers to “tell andy what you think about his can using #soupboy2021). The soup is organic, too. Art changes, we don’t.  

Art should be a blanket. A nice, thick blanket. The kind of blanket you buy at L.L. Bean in the clearance section since most of the shoppers are there to buy boots and parkas. That’s the type of blanket art is. Not the ones firefighters hand out after evacuating a burning building. You know the one you hoist over your shoulder as a pushy photographer snaps a few pictures of your sooty mug for tomorrow’s paper. That’s too traumatic. That’s not the type of blanket a normal person brings home to bed. 

The point is this: We don’t watch comedy specials to laugh. Good thing there’s very little danger in that happening anytime soon. 

Chronos Devouring his Sun

When this whole working from home thing started, I was a little nervous. But now? I have so much time on my hands I’m starting to think there are more than 24 hours in a day. I’ve become such a superb time manager, friends have started calling me “Chronnie Mack.” Can you believe it?

Whatever it is, I can’t get enough of it. Maintaining two jobs was easy. I merely needed to acquire positions in alternate time zones, like a technical support representative based in Malaysia and whatever I can scrounge back here in America. But that’s nothing. I’m much more ambitious than that. Yes, my career, both of them, remain important, but with so much unsupervised time I can finally do what I want with my day. 

Take lunch as the finest example of what I mean. I meet multiple people for lunch every day. Old friends, dear friends, and random acquaintances who might be able to help me one day dine at Rao’s. They don’t have to know that I’ve already eaten lunch at 11 AM and again at 1 when we sit down together at 3. It’s not my concern what they think when I’m chewing on bread sticks and the lemon in my water glass, having arrived perfectly sated. 

Given all the free time the pandemic has afforded the most privileged among us, obtaining two jobs is the least imaginative of all. Are you going to coordinate vacations or work nonstop until the lawsuit? I stick to lunch and “best friends.” The more people who believe you are their one true best friend, the better. 

I drink tea in the morning alongside coffee. Why not? I have the time. I shower at sunup and bathe in the evening. How come? It can’t hurt. I drive a car to work and a bicycle for exercise. Huh? It helps me unwind. I consume cornichons and large pickles. The list goes on and on. 

I sure have the time. Don’t you? 

Greetings from the Multiverse

Marketing has gotten boring in the real world, the actual world, and the world where you have to wait in lines for things that only seem slightly cool in the moment. A fleeting moment at that. The sort of moment that never rises beyond the simple pleasure of picking a scab. That’s all about to change as cagey marketers look to stretch their media footprint across space and time. 

What is the multiverse exactly? I couldn’t tell you specifically, but it certainly sounds big. Which is just what we need in a consumer culture that is limited to consumers. You see, when brands start to focus on every possible scenario and alternate dimension, there’s no telling what comes next. Except it’s my job and their job to tell you what comes next. Something mathematicians and the mentally ill call “a paradoxical pickle.”

Imagine before when people complained about privacy? In multiversal marketing you target not only each individual but also each of them within parallel universes. For the first time, the level of annoyance and invasiveness is truly infinite. Before, a person had to ignore your communication a few times a day – banner ads, maybe a billboard, and the occasional YouTube video. In the multiverse, that stuff is the first course. And in this analogy, they haven’t even ordered their drinks yet. I mean, they are homing in on free bread and olives. The possibilities, oh the possibilities.

If you thought it was bad when all companies had was your phone number, email and home address, well, strap in for an invasion of every possible reality. But the consumer retains some control. Now it’s possible to ignore marketers a lot more. Hypothetically speaking, that is.

In the old dinosaur days of marketing and advertising, people had to abide by the laws of land. In the multiverse, the laws of physics don’t even apply. I’m not certain what that entails but we’re not talking about direct mail. 

The multiverse also covers brands a bit more from angry or unsatisfied customers. It’s one thing to return your items due to a defect or flaw. You put the merchandise in a package, printed your label and away you went. Not now. Now, you have to wonder where does an item even go that ignores the laws of gravity? It’s a good question, one that most people give up on answering after their third or fourth whiskey. So it rests on their dining table and that’s that. Too late for a return and the charge goes through without a hitch. Food purveyors like farmers and guys who wear too much flannel are looking forward to marketing in a world where expiration dates are meaningless. They win in this unlikely scenario. Think of all the milk that can be sold when barriers to time are rendered obsolete. 

Brave new worlds.

Bye, Lingual

Adios, clever turns of phrases and cleverer verbal U-turns to those very same turns of phrases. 

Adieu, witty retorts and wittier reports, resulting in guffawing re-snorts.

Arrivederci, serious wordplay from the partakers of playful wordwork, hardly par for the cuore.  

Adéu, dumb puns rooted in the minds of smart ones.

Adiou, the more guttural hallmarks of digressive tracts.  

Goodbye, all that and hello, diatribes based on memes from the ramblings of the previous commenter.

How To Start A Successful Stand-Up Comedy Podcast

 

Maybe you’re a budding comedian showcasing at the Yuk-Yuk Lounge in Biloxi, Mississippi, or just a regular open miker honing your “tight one” for a chance at fleeting viral stardom. Either way, you’re probably dying to get off the stage and into the studio. Since nowadays, that’s where the real comedic magic happens. Who doesn’t love some joke-making between two bona fide professionals? But before you do, remember these simple rules.

WOOD IS GOOD

But fake wood is better. While wood paneling was considered tacky way back in the 70s, it goes a long way to giving your show a sense of sturdiness and stability. Enough of the green-screened cityscapes and freshly wiped glass practically made for flashers to display their wares to a live studio audience.

IDOL WORSHIP

It’s important to show your fans you have good taste, but not obscure taste. Otherwise, they’ll assume you’re another hack looking for wider creative license. Go with Carlin, Pryor and maybe early Apatow.

INCEST IS GOOD

No, no, not that kind. Although, maybe it is. Or maybe it’s a new bit. Work on it, would you? Podcest is when you have a rotating slew of fawning friends on to promote their own shows, skits, and chuckle-hut dates.  

REPEAT AFTER YOU

Make a good point? Then make it again. And again. You’re going to have a lot of time to fill. This one comes naturally to most comics since the gig demands the talent to say the same shit over and over like a deranged mental patient, pretending it’s completely brand new. 

STAY ON YOUR GOOD SIDE

You can do this by having more cameras than a traditional sitcom and far less material. 

PREPARATION 

This isn’t school. You were the class clown, remember? Wearing glasses, taking notes, and asking insightful questions is for NPR and you’re no Terry Gross.

LECTURE SHORTCIRCUIT

Whether it’s a burgeoning drug addiction or old-fashioned tour escapades, once you’ve retired from a life of unadulterated pleasure-seeking, shift to telling others how to live their lives. You’re more than quips about airline food and Trump’s wacky hair – you’re now a thinker, too. 

DISSECTION. DISSECTION. DISSECTION.

You probably weren’t paying attention in biology, right? Sitting in the back, riffing on anatomy with a captive audience of fourth graders. You were in high school, of course. That means you missed the part where your teacher instructed you to carve open a recently deceased frog. No problem. I got you one better – dissecting frogs have nothing on dissecting the low art of stand-up. Who knew explaining a joke over and over was better than an actual joke? Jerry Seinfeld, for one. His coffee car jamboree is pretty much predicated on the concept. When you beat a dead horse, it’s still possible to get the thing to move a couple inches. And it never hurts to have a few friends on hand to help.  

THEY WON’T UNDERSTAND

Unless you tell them. One thing that’s great about brain surgeons and rocket scientists is that they have others always telling people how difficult their jobs are. That’s great for them, but doesn’t do much for you. So if they won’t do it, then you have to. There’s nothing harder than making a crowd that wants to laugh laugh. Sure, they paid good money to see you, got completely drunk, but you’re still a witty assassin slaying them every 30 seconds with finely-tuned punchlines.

PUNCH UP, TALK DOWN

The last thing you want is for regular people to believe that there’s more to stand-up than being funny. How being the funny guy at your backyard barbecue, while great and entertaining, is meaningless unless a sniveling mob associate pays you twenty bucks to tell the same five jokes you’ve spent the last eighteen months crafting. 

WHY DO WE HATE MAGICIANS?

Because we do hate magicians, don’t we? It’s simple, really. They’re always hiding their tricks from us, refusing to tell us where the rabbit went or the women missing her torso. The Houdinis, the Blaines. Don’t be like them, be better. Break down a decent joke like were a hunk of prosciutto, cutting it ever thinner until it’s basically invisible. 

TALK GOOD, JOKE BAD

Being funny on stage is one thing, but in the context of a Podcast, viewers want to see you open up about childhood traumas and tell widely exaggerated stories about your wild life on the road. 

HONESTY POLICY

Talk about your unflinching honesty and yet never criticize friends or peers. They might help you get a job in the future after you’re cancelled. Good-natured ribbing is fine, but nothing too mean. Be loyal to the point of totally compromising all your values. Anyone who doesn’t find you funny is a “hater.”

YOU DESERVE A PROMOTION

Promote your gigs and your latest sketch video where you recreate a memorable scene from a movie. Remember the scene in Goodfellas where the guy walks into a bar and gets yelled at? Do that, just with a lot less money and emotion.

Risk Management

I am not getting the vaccine, okay? We just don’t know enough about what it doesn’t do. It’s like I’m always telling people waiting in line for the ATM while unmasked and standing much too close to them: we know what happens when a parachute doesn’t open during a skydiving sesh. That I can handle, that I can live with. Maybe not live with, but I can at least accept it. However, just to show you that I’m not totally averse to risk, here’s what I am willing to do on a nearly daily basis. 

I don’t proofread anything. The way I see it, if God didn’t want us to make misteaks he’d correct them himself. 

I perform karaoke songs that I don’t know too well. I try to anticipate the lyrics as they appear on screen, which usually ends in abject humiliation. 

I never send thank you notes. If someone can’t understand my gratitude by vibe and vibe alone, it’s not a relationship worth keeping.

I kiss new acquaintances with an open mouth. Handshakes simply aren’t intimate or memorable enough. 

I brush once a day. Sometimes, I don’t even do that, instead relying on a stale pack of Bubbilicious in my jacket pocket to coat my mouth with an unexpectedly fruity aroma.

I rarely tip 20%. Sometimes, this leads to a physical altercation with members of the waitstaff.

I eat things way past the expiration date. I give the item in question one good healthy sniff and hope for the best.

I can’t be bothered to recycle. Does it still count as composting if I just throw everything in a huge leaf pile behind my house? 

I drink hot coffee. Sometimes, I do it while driving whether or not the cup fits snugly and securely into the vehicle’s center console. 

I jaywalk. Sometimes, I do it while wearing headphones and listening to the latest Glenn Beck audiobook. 

I use pharmaceutical sleep aids. Sometimes, if those don’t work, I polish off a bottle of shoe polish.

I inhale. Sometimes, I do it while in between polishing, huffing  the puffs of a toxic brew.

I hitchhike. Sometimes, after the local powers-that-be impound my vehicle, as trusting strangers becomes a commuter’s necessity. 

I motorcycle. Sometimes, I do it without wearing a helmet if my hair is looking particularly good that day. 

I get tattoos. While I have no fear of needles and no problem with questionable hygiene, inking up is still one of the cleanest parts of my day.   

I attend poorly ventilated indoor concerts for tribute bands. If you get a chance to see the Marshall Schmucker Band live, you won’t regret it. 

I went to this big thing in DC on January 6^th. It was oodles of fun and the weather really cooperated.  

I could go on, but something about this list has really winded me. Come to think of it, I’m feeling a little lightheaded all of a sudden. Plus, I have a hacking cough now. So that’s what wheezing feels like, hmm, who knew? Either way, I think I’m gonna lay down for a bit if you don’t mind. Impromptu naps aren’t usually on my daily docket, but hey, what’s the harm? Right?

Rocking Out

When I got into the rock and roll business, I wasn’t really thinking about grandkids. In fact, I wasn’t thinking about much else besides face-melting guitar solos and the sensuality of highway truck stops. So retirement as a concept was the farthest thing from my mind at the time. I would’ve bet my first record contract (despite the rampant criminality on the part of my skimming-from-the-top ex-brother-in-law and manager) that I’d overdose long before there was any need for sober-minded financial planning. Life on the road is a lot of things, but it’s never cheap.  

Then one day, where do I find myself? In some sterile conference room facing a strip mall, sitting across from a bunch of people in suits explaining to me the particulars of a Roth IRA and why I should trade in power ballads for power of attorney. I guess that’s my punishment as a bona fide rock and roll survivor.

As it happens, years of headbanging have left me with major damage to my sciatic nerve, rendering my trademark crowd pleaser a distant and painful memory. Though to be fair, memories are few and far between ever since that forklift mishap in Rochester ‘81. I can’t mosh without a spotter. I can’t hit the high notes. And I definitely can’t do much else due to seriously degraded sinuses. The hardest thing I drink these days is an ice cold Palmer. 

It’s not to say I have regrets about where I’ve ended up, living out my golden years in the twilight of hair metal stardom. Which, to be fair, hasn’t proved nearly as boring as I initially imagined. I bought this horse farm in the Hudson Valley with the money not blown from one and only single, “Welcome to Jungian Theory 101, my name is Professor Conrad and I'll be your teacher this semester.” I like the sounds of squealing pigs, mooing cows. The crack of dawn’s early buckshot and blood-curdling shrieks from the neighbors’ house. 

I have relatives who like to visit and wear out their welcome at a moment’s notice. But the house is a real beauty. Lovely wraparound porch and a pair of antique rocking chairs prominently adorn it. When the whippoorwills get-a-chirpin’ I start-a-rockin’. Naturally, it’s not easy, given my arthritic knees from years of on-stage theatrics, but I do all right for myself. These chairs weren’t meant to sway slowly by the brittle bones of sleeping geriatrics. 

Rocking chairs were meant to rock out. 

I got this whole big pyrotechnic shebang planned for my grandson’s bris. It won’t be safe or age appropriate. And there’s enough lacquer to turn me and the entire party into kebabs. When someone does yell fire to warn the partygoers of a blazing inferno running from the front door to the garage, I won’t hear it. Too many hours spent up and close to a Marshall stack has left my eardrums a novelty anatomical item. But the thing is, I wouldn’t change one bit.

Rock on.  

Appraising Charlie Chaplin If Charlie Chaplin Were a Dog

“Cut! Bad Charlie, Bad Charlie, we don’t want you to actually eat the shoe.”

“He’s chasing his tail again. Let’s break for lunch.”

“I know he’s English, but I’ve never seen anyone eat that many biscuits at teatime.”

“Don’t pet him Kid, he might have rabies.”

“Let’s fix him in post.” 

“I think he has fleas.” 

“Is it really necessary to put a derby hat on him? He’s a dog for Chrissake.”  

“I heard he shot The Fireman simply for easy access to hydrants.”

“What’s next, cat cinematographers?”

“He can’t stop chewing the scenery. Seriously, we’re way over budget by constantly rebuilding the sets.”  

“Most dogs bark, but this one has his own orchestra.”

“Great actors hit their marks while he just marks his territory.”

“He did a wonderful job on Modern Times, for a dog.” 

“I hope he doesn’t think we’re going to let them vote now.” 

“I heard he’s marrying again, but this time to a much younger woman. Do you know what a 36-year age difference is in dog years?”

“He should stick to his own kind. Like a French poodle or something.”

Hillbilly Buffoonery by O.D. Stance

Like most dumb children, my parents told me I was smart. That way, whenever I came across a nosy stranger, I could lay claim to having a high IQ. Though I still don’t know what a “quotient” is, it helped get me a solid reputation in my hometown. Still, I always distinguished between “intelligence” and “smarts.” Intelligence is something I don’t have, never had, and am never going to have. It meant understanding concepts, complex mathematics, and knowing when to move my Queen. Smarts was different though. Smarts meant I could change my principles and personality depending on which way the breeze was gusting.

When I was a kid everyone in town would salute a piece of tinfoil on the ground. I remember asking a homeless person and he told me why. “Because, son, we like shiny objects. We’re morons.” It was then that I started a long, vibrant love affair with porch lights and open flames. I began to look at the sun with a telescope I rescued from a dumpster. We didn’t dumpster dive, since that would’ve required a bit more athleticism than anyone had. It was more dumpster wading, treading in trash and at times, stumbling over something worth salvaging. The damage to my retina gave me clear vision about what’s ailing this country. 

Unlike public pools, dumpsters lack lifeguards. Why is that? I wanted to find out and enact real change for my community. 

You might say I have street smarts. Though, despite being reared within the padded confines of suburbia, my heart belongs to rural America. You could also say I have unpaved street smarts. Real dirt smarts. Mud smarts. I like ditches and wouldn’t mind digging them if they helped get me a few extra votes. 

I don’t have morals, per se. I know what ethics are without having read Aristotle. Maybe one day I’ll grow a better beard, but that seems unlikely. There are parts of the country grass just won't grow.

I’m running for office, fueled by anger and an ancient deep fryer. And since I appeal to the lowest common denominator, I am starting to understand fractions. I believe that’s what Madison warned us about in The Federalist Papers. Not having read it, I can’t say for sure. 

I’m a meathead. That’s not an insult and were it one, it's okay, it's my noggin. My head has been assessed by locally sourced meat purveyors as something that would garner a pretty penny on the open market. But I’m planning on keeping my head right where it is. There it can do the most damage - to me, as well as the country. I’d be wasted on a plate, surrounded by celery and carrots, ranch and blue cheese. I belong in Washington, flanked by plenty of pork. Hold on, I think I just saw a siren. I’m gonna go chase it now. Wish me luck and a good dental plan. 

The Many Feints of New Work

Yesterday, I did what I do during typical mid-week lunch breaks, when the work piles up light fixture high and so does my appetite for all things rich. Basically, I took a luxurious three-hour lunch. Champagne, oysters, white napkins and a comped check, all with an understanding that in the course of time it would be paid in full. 

At some point between cannoli and espresso, I called my driver, David to pull around back. He was waxing the wheels and wasting my time at time, something I pay him to do on a daily basis. With that finished, we headed for an aimless drive. Any meetings would be dialed in from the backseat, sated on bivalves and bubbly. 

We took an impromptu cruise to the old neighborhood, a place I hadn’t seen in fourteen or so years. At first, I was excited, jumping out of my recently moisturized skin. Then I saw things that were different, things that I didn’t understand. What happened to the neon sign over Ralph’s Hardware store? When did we start using LEDs? Yeah, I can still use "we." The creamery was gone. The creamery, can you believe it? I thought this place had a strong sense of historic preservation. Apparently not. 

The whole experience made me angry and confused. This wasn’t the town I remembered, and this wasn’t the town I grew up in. Some years had passed and necessary improvements had made, but the famous pothole on Main Street. Did they really have to fill that in? I heard people from up and down the East Coast visited and paid their respects, tossing dandelion greens into it, saying a prayer and making a wish. The Pothole on Main was our Oracle at Delphi. It’s gone, paved over, like most of my better memories. What am I supposed to do for good luck? Church? Synagogue? Find a natural sinkhole?

The town’s resident artistic genius had a bunch of new canvases for sale. But his style had changed and it bothered me. Why couldn’t he be happy with where he was fourteen years ago and never change? I always felt Dylan should’ve stayed acoustic, too. There’s another author in town who wrote this great children’s book and drove his scooter off a scenic overlook after the book party. Too many oysters, I think. But he never declined. As an artist, that is. The fall was a steep decline. A couple hundred feet if memory serves. 

When I go to a museum I’m not interested in the artist’s personal vision. What I want is how their style aligns with my own preconceived, rather narrow notions of the world. If I’m the one standing in front of it, shouldn’t it be my perspective that's taken into consideration?

Where'd the neighborhood go?

State of the Union

Lots of folks within the ranks of advertising want to start a union. I don’t understand it since that was what the Civil War was fought over about 150 years ago – in other words, a settled issue. Or it should be by now. But no matter, people want to protect people from the horrors of copywriting and art direction. I’m all in favor of that.

A century ago it was rows of destitute immigrants dangerously packed in the locked room of a poorly ventilated shirt factory’s top floor. Today, it’s creative dilletantes nitpicking over pop-ups and banner ads – the good stuff, the tricky stuff, the stuff that matters.

Operating heavy machinery for little pay is one thing, but remembering to go off mute during a client presentation is quite another. Sure, there were horrors back then, like stockyard mutilations and the occasional goring, but carpal tunnel can happen in both hands. Did you know that? I know one copywriter who got it in his feet, the poor sole. 

Unions saved this country, made it a better place by protecting the rights of workers. Today it’s not people on oil rigs or climbing to the top of utility poles, but the hunched over ad school dropouts making their way through a career of plagiarism and predictability. We must change with the times. 

The conditions of a typical agency are beyond words. But since it's my job to put things into words, I'll do my level best. The coffee in the coffee maker? It's not always gourmet and for a gourmand that's a god awful decision. Sometimes we take the stairs instead of the elevator. Though not much in the last year when people have spread out over their bedsheets in remote working ecstasy. The lights aren't usually LED. So much for going green, huh? Lunch isn't a universal human right - not yet. Get with it, people, this concerns you, too. 

Slackers of the world unite.