Power Trip

 

This is your captain speaking and I’ll be the one flying today. You? You’ll be sitting when I say and maybe standing when I say it’s okay. Welcome aboard for what should be a brief, yet eventful flight. I don’t have a co-pilot today. Dave’s more like a codependent enabler, bowing to my every whim, caving to my every caprice, and telling me what a great job I’m doing at all times. Plus, he holds the wheel when I'm eating.

I used to be just like you, struggling to buckle my safety belt, wondering what sticky substance was causing my tray table to stay in its upright and locked position during mealtime. Wondering how they made ice cubes look like that. Not anymore.

I’m a pilot. You wouldn’t tell a bus driver how to drive, so you wouldn't tell a man in my position how to fly. You trust me. I get off knowing that without me, you folks would still be on the Oregon Trail, dropping from dysentery, slapping some oxen, sleeping with one eye open, terrified of a sudden Indian attack. Not me. I’m on a higher level. 

I know that you people bought a plane ticket for New York to Chicago, but the route I take is up to me. Look, I will get you there. It might take a little longer than you expected, but that’s why God gave us time zones. I have an extra hour to play with. What are you worried about? You’re not in a rush. I’d like to take a more scenic route, one that makes a few maneuvers out west, show off some of this country’s greatest National Parks.

Robots can fly these planes, that’s no longer even in doubt. But you chose a person, one with his own pathologies and passions. Don't forget, a pilot is a moving object. 

 

My colleagues never believed this day would ever come. Saying that I wasn’t mentally equipped to fly. Too many demerits and HR issues. I’ll show them (right now). Remember: it’s not a hijacking if you know what you’re doing. I’m many things, but one thing I’m not is an amateur. 

 

Oh, one more thing. No talking, no walking, no movies, no meals. No bathroom breaks, no sleeping, no laughing, no squeals.  No sighing, no miming, no barking, no spiels. I need silence to concentrate and minimal distractions. Thanks in advance. 

 

Enjoy the flight.

Kameo

 

Cameo is viewed in certain circles as a sad statement about the financial feasiblity of art. Look at it like this: Here are some of our favorite actors forced to regularly debase themselves for small bills and loose change, reading from a stranger’s silly script, they received only moments before hitting record. These videos show thespians at their most vulnerable, preying on their urge to perform. This desire to find a spotlight, wherever it shines, isn’t the fault of the subscriber, paying good money to see an idol brought down to earth. 

According to a usually reliable source, Kris Kringle has gotten into the act himself, suddenly leery of welcoming scores of children and adults onto his lap. For too long, he let his thighs be the brunt of Christmas shoppers' retail zeal. It’s an odd thing, being extremely fat yet spreading himself too thin each year. Might explain why he never shied away from Mrs. Claus’s serial baking, loading up on cookies and other sweet delights. 

With something other than the Christmas spirit in the air, Kris opted to stay home during his typicaly instense post-Thankgiving schedule. In the rush towards December 25^th, he tried to hit every major mall, as well as working out a deal with law enforcement and local DAs to expunge his record after years of breaking and entering. This year though, he’s too tired to try. 

Can you blame him? So he’s on Cameo for the first time. Bizarrely, few people have asked him for gifts, instead quizzing him on his connection to the Military Industrial Complex and fossil fuels as stocking stuffers. He’s been forced to debate angry carolers, utterly uninterested in presents. Still, fifty bucks a pop isn’t bad for a semi-retired, reindeer-loving recluse. Since they’re literally paying for his time, he has to take it, recording his detailed answers to their meandering questions. 

His job is easier this year. The thought being, everyone else works from home, why should he put himself in harm’s way? It’s dangerous enough dealing with NORAD and air traffic control, occupying evening airspace. He wishes good cheer to those that listen, and to those who don’t? Ordinarly, he would send them coal, a useful, yet rather messy gift. These days, things are different, especially with soaring gas prices. Like the rest of us, he’s gotten into gift cards. 

Old Man Nuclear Winter

 

First of all, he is not to be confused with Old Man Winter. So let’s get that straight right off the bat. He hates the very idea of it. The way Dick York once felt when someone mistook him for Dick Sargent, the woebegone, second Darrin Stephens. The show's loyal audience was hardly bewitched by the latter’s performance. 

Old Man Winter is a seasonal, foulweather friend, turning to hibernation as a form of annual security. This is not the case for the other guy, whose judgment is often mushroom-clouded by external events. Look, Old Man Winter is a sap. He’s overjoyed during mild flurries or an icy road where black ice glows under the morning sun. However, this is a deity without real imagination. The guy can control the weather and he rarely has any fun. He never strays from his comfort zone. When he’s really bored, I mean, completely stuck, he might bring some snowflakes into May – but that’s about it. A few tropical islands could get a sense of what winter partisans are always raving about in the form of a midday snow gust. But most people treat such anomalous weather happenings as comical at best, annoying at worst.

They don’t take them seriously. Not so for Old Man Nuclear Winter. Most of the time, he does nothing. He sits on his throne, knowing that the specter of nuclear annihilation is better for his brand than an actual apocalypse. If there’s no one left to fear you, what good is fear? Old Man Nuclear Winter didn’t first appear on the scene with Oppenheimer, Fermi and the rest of the Nobel savages scurrying around Los Alamos. He’d been around for years.

Ever heard of Vesuvius? Before he was nuclear, he was positively volcanic. His temper has cooled over the years, and those who’ve felt his wrath must deal with the fallout. It’s never pretty. I take that back. It is quite pretty, in a sublime sort of way. 

The two Winters run into each other at holiday functions or in the homes of mutual friends. They share a good deal of acquaintances. If you think the world is small in your little patch of earth? Picture the deity circuit. Everyone attends the same benefits, charities, autograph signings. At least today is the shortest day of the year. As Old Man Nuclear Winter always says, "it's over quick." And it doesn't matter what "it" is. Though considering who said it, safe bet he's talking about  the atom bomb. Just a hunch. 

The Year In Review

At the tail end of another tumulutous year, the tailed and tailless alike prefer to take refuge in the calculated comforts of lists and reviews. It is, they say, furry appendange of not, the only true way to assess the previous twelve months. How’s that? By tallying things that took place during the year. Looking into the past isn’t the same as living there – though it’s unquestionably in the same neighborhood. These people are ones to dwell, at least during the duration of the holiday season. An excuse they never tire of giving more than giving gifts.

Troubling as it may be, most see their duty to rate subjects no one cares about. Books, television shows, movies, music, this is what dominates the end of year. Rightly or wrongly, most assessers choose events that took place in the middle of the year. Whatever happens in January is ignored in the way, standardized test takers get shaken when they fill in too many As in a row. Of course, this is nothing more than ancient superstition rearing its mildly attractive head in the throes of modern times. 

For my look back, I’ve ignored all those things usually focused on, picking people and things too often overlooked in favor of album releases and fillm premieres. Here are the three accolades I have the honor of giving out for 2021  

Best Parking Job: Santiago “Bert Rubber” Trafficante, Bronx, NY

I have often been accused of having an “east coast bias,” referring to large portions of the country as “drive-thru” states, belittling provincial pride belying territorial triumphs. But here’s the thing. Parking in New York City, while fraught with obstacles, requires certain dexterity and self-denial that parking elsewhere simply does not. In parts of the Midwest, a toddler could parallel park a Mack Truck in most downtowns without coming anywhere near opposing vehicles. If the term “wide open spaces” isn’t about parking, I don’t know what is. In New York, specifically in the Bronx, with its topographical variance, the degree of difficulty must be accounted for when reviewing parking. In the old days, this award was given out based on word of mouth. Now, thanks to the surveillance state upgrades, footage of pretty much every parking job from subpar to par excellence is readily available.

Best Handshake: Janice Hartsdale, Norman, OK

After about two years off, Janice returned to manual normality with a good grip on reality. Where most people swapped out pumps for bumps, she went in like a person despearate for human contact. Her handshakes remind me of James Gandolfini early in his career, often shining despite mediocre material. It’s why her partners aren’t even worth mentioning. 

Best Yell: Federico the Howler Monkey, probably Guatemala, but without a mailing address, it’s hard to know

I thought about giving this award to the fine falsetto of a furious activist or someone else within the species at-large. But, time and again, I kept coming across entries from wolves, crows, and monkeys. The problem with people is that they say too much, which is to say, anything at all. Animals, on the other paw, don’t waste a breath on making some clever statement. Their screams are truly primal and worthy of our praise. Maybe one of us can catch them in ’22. 

What's My Crime?

From a stuffy attic somewhere over Grand Central Terminal, amid the mothballs and canned peaches, a little known game show once broadcasted. Its signal is only now returning to earth…

John Weekly: And now, What’s…My…Crime? Brought to you by Bleach, for when your alibi can’t clean up the mess. 

 

*Applause

 

John: Let’s meet our award-winning panel. First up, you know her from police blotters coast-to-coast, the crown princess of criminality, Ms. Dorothy Killsomeone. 

 

Dorothy: To my left, is the punitive and petty young penman, the veritable voice of villainy, Mister Bennett Curfew. 

 

Bennett: Why, thank you. And to my left is a very lovely actress on the stand, having pejured herself more times than I can count, Ms. Arlene Tapdances. 

 

Arlene: Wonderful, just wonderful. According to a recent issue of Wrong Doers Magazine, our moderator was described as having possessed paplable hostility to some of the contestants litany of misdeeds, only able to soldier on after reviewing his check. So to my left is the hostile host of this provocative program, our own angry young man, John Monthly Weekly. 

 

John: Thank you so much panel and good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, were going to begin with our mystery guest. Are those blindfolds and ballgags firmly secure, panel?

 

*Inaudible gasps

 

John: Good, good. Remember to remove the gags when you want to speak, panel, so we avoid last week’s unintelligble debacle. Please sign in on the chalk out line, mystery guest.

 

Guests signs in to a smattering of claps and gasps. 

 

John: For this portion of the show, we dispense with any nonsense and get right down to it. The first question goes to Ms. Killsomeone. Take it away.

 

Dorothy: Mystery guest, did your alleged crime occur on a sweltering day?

 

Guest: No. 

 

Bennett: Did it occur in a city famous for wind?

 

Guest: Yes.

 

Bennett: Were you out attempting to get a latenight snack in Chicago? 

 

Guest: Yes.

Bennett: Was it a famous Chicago style hot dog? 

 

Guest: No.

 

Arlene: Mystery guest, was your food of choice Chicago style pizza?

 

Guest: No.

 

Dorothy: Was it a Chicago style Italian beef?

 

Guest: No.

 

Bennett: Would you describe the food with the words, “Chicago style?” 

 

Guest: No. 

 

Arlene: Was it a sandwich?

 

Guest: Yes.

 

*Applause

 

Arlene: Did you leave this sandwich at the crime scene?

 

Guest: No.

 

Bennett: Mystery guest, I am so curious about your relationship with this sandwich.

 

John: Panel, one more question on the sandwich. Time to move on. This is a live show. 

 

Bennett: Sorry, John. It’s just so odd. Here’s a man, outside in the cold, in a Midwestern city…

 

Arlene: I remember the story, but I can’t for the live of me recall this fella’s name.

 

Dorothy: It’s the strangest thing. I can picture him perfectly well, his face, but nothing about his name or occupation. 

 

Bennett: Me neither.

 

Arlene: Mystery guest, you’re so mysterious. 

 

John: Well, this is a first. Sorry, mystery guest, but it’s time to slink back behind the curtains into relative obscurity. Looks like your time in the spotlight is up. Thanks for coming by. And thank you panel for a valiant effort. Until next time on…what’s…my…crime?

Rap Scallions

In the early, hopeful days of hip hop, there existed one overlooked, now forgotten, frequently misunderstood group. They were self-referential before that was even a thing, turning simple solipsism into high, or as a vegetable, rather low, art. Was it an organic, totally sustainable compost pile that first hosted them? Maybe. But more likely it was a trash heap tucked in between building and railing along one of the Bronx’s many imposing staircases, often littered with, well, litter. The smell is what people noticed right away. The music came shortly afterwards.

We’re the Rap Scallions and we’re here to stay,

Decomposing before your eyes, don’t you say.

Composing is what we call exercise,

It’s quite aerobic, not that we caramelize. 

We're pretty and grounded, coming up from the soil,

Why not try us with a little pepper and some oil?

We can't shut up, unless we're taking a quick rinse.

But words are one thing we don't mince. 

You might have heard of our cousins before,

Like onion and garlic bringing tears galore. 

Leeks are weak, chives talk jive,

But give us a cipolini to feel so alive.

Don’t confuse us with those onions too green,

We have a separate identity and want to be seen. 

At the end of the day or the end of the root,

We’re safe and secure, just don’t tug on our shoot. 

We’re good citizens, never stuffing any ballots,

The only thing we ignore are sprouting shallots.

So we grab the mic like a rhyming ham,

We’re all alliums, one big bulbous fam.

As you might imagine, this niche never caught on, except in certain corners of Van Cortlandt Park where chives grew wild. There are only so many beats you can make about onions before the engineer's have had enough indigestion for one lifetime. But boy did the Rap Scallions try. Some say they ended up in salads, or on baked potatoes, atop chili bowls or scattered across New York’s tidal waterways, resting finally in a thousand little pieces.   

Hitsch

 

Contrarians are an interesting species in these wacky times. They are seen as either kneejerk reactionaries or reactionary jerks kneeing rivals in their most sensitive places. But even the most ardent contrarians don’t have it wrong all the time. 

 

Basically, all it is, is basic math. Some are reflexively hostile to those deemed their intellectual foes, disagreeing not based on what someone says but who is saying it. Frankly, it’s much easier to roam through public discourse in such a manner than to honestly and articulately contend with opposing arguments. Imagine a person who forms their own opinion at every juncture, assessing and reassessing, unconcerned that their words may be misinterpreted by the wrong people. It’s far simpler to accept their participation on a team and leave it at that. Team members might get uniforms with their name on the back and a nice new hat to go along with it. 

 

This way, they don't have to parse the issues, diving deep into the underbelly of foreign policy or any other subject piquing interest at the time. Contrarians merely have to go against the grain, the stream, the status quo enough to stand out. Which in itself is a form of conformity. Surely solidarity among a tribe ought to count for something. 

 

It’s why the finest contrarians out there are as predictable as the most conventional people on the scene. They don’t worry about fully comprehending an issue as complex as healthcare. All they need is to figure out what Dave - their Twitter nemesis - says and they know just how to zag. You see, that’s the secret, really. What they’re doing isn’t carving positions but rather filling shadows, only as substantive as necessary.

 

Now, of course, there is one school of thought that says when a person actually thinks for themselves they might end up pissing a lot of people off. It’s not their intention, though it can be exhilarating taking down sacred cows (especially when famous for their hatred of milk, favoring a darker, stronger beverage). These people though aren’t contrarians – not purely. They are rarer, since they are following some inner code of ethics, guiding them through the world. Much different than reacting to your enemies in an expected way, never siding with the “bad people.” 

 

The best contrarians march in their own lockstep, slightly off beat from the crowd, but in still in rhythm with their followers. Many go on social media believing their perceived cleverness is proof of genius. They seek adulation from other places, trolling for clicks and clicking for trolls. They have a brand to maintain, after all. These people still want to be part of a club, popular with a certain crowd, kowtowing with the best of them.  

These folks are poseurs, frauds, charlatans, hucksters, and serial prevaricators. Embarrassing imitations of sharper images from a different past. They copy the worst of someone and lean in, as only a cheap copy can. Still, it make for a breezier, entertaining read. There aren't enough balconies for all these middling malefactors to loom over their herds.

 

Then again, the worst contrarians aren’t really contrarians. They think for themselves, which is pretty bad for business. They’re all right sitting alone at the end of the bar, brooding and stewing, reading and scowlling. They’re not in it for friendship or camaraderie. Frankly, they don’t care. They’re in it for conversation, for debate, for the possibility, however remote they might change their mind or they might change someone else's. 

Ten years sure is a long time without it.

Pier Pressure

Living by the sea is a breath of fresh salt air. But it’s not always rainbows and cuttlefish. There are unwelcome guests like jet skiers, ski jetters and proponents of strange seafaring conveyances, pushing the limits of riparian strictures, flaunting tide lines with sheer panache and clear puddles. What’s your dock in theory is each sea dog’s this side of Cape Horn in practice. You may have a private cove, having years ago signed on the dotted line of several legal documents, believing it gave you total control over your immediate domain. 

Well, it doesn’t. You may live for years under the delusion that your cozy lagoon is yours and yours alone. That it’s a place to set up shop with a cold drink and a hot periodical, wasting away in the high summer sun. And you can keep reliving the same afternoon forever. Sorry, but that’s not the case. Unless your pier is made of some composite carbon fiber material, mined from a distant galaxy, your problems are the same as every sap staring into the Hudson River’s overwhelming decay. 

The piers you used to construct your personal dock are rotting from pressure created by shipworms. These little mollusks bide their time, waiting for the right moment to sink your dreams, torpedoing any hope you might have had at a sunny retirement. Are you going to evict them given everything we now know about bivalve cognition?

 

You can’t own the water. It’s one of the great things about it. We all rent from the same sealord, Poseidon. He’s the one who allows the boat traffic, the weekend paddlers, the swimmers and the yachters. It’s why before every beach day there are no throat-clearing “sea acknowledgements.” It was his long before it was anyone else’s and not much has changed in the interim. The briny deity is often angling for us to get into the water, tugging at our own sense of nautical obligation. 

But when the piers go, the shore comes next and pretty soon, you’ve got Costner and crew sailing around on driftwood catamarans seeking out cleaner waters. 

Take a dip, the water’s fine – for now. 

It’s Awareness Awareness Week

It’s Awareness Awareness Week. What does that mean to you (or is it, “for you?”? Prepositional privilege is all too real. It means you need to, first and foremost, be aware of the situation. You must come to terms with things that have finally and mercifully been brought to bear. Possessing a sharper perception is a good start, but not sufficient for a pure, intellectual cleansing. Not working? Grab some Windex and smooth your panes.

Now, it is possible to be in touch with reality without touching. But I never said it would be easy. 

 

This week you ought to set out to gain knowledge on your own. The best thing for all parities is for you to own your personal elucidation. You could, in the beginning, accept things for what they are. But that’s not enough, is it? You must reckon with the past, manage the present and barrel headlong into the future. Something you can’t do without reading material. It’s not like your education ends the day you become aware. If that were the case, this would be an Awareness Awareness Day – instead, it’s a week long. So there’s more awareness where that came from. 

Challenge yourself to push on through. When you cross the street, look up. When you hear a distant cry (avian or avuncular), look around. Is there anyone to wave at? Then nod back when the time comes. Show a little solidarity with an earthy wink and a toothy smile. Stay up to date on au courant events, as only you could. Listen to podcasts that focus on awareness, read books about staying in-the-know and watch anything to get you up to speed. 

Ultimately, this is about your understanding and cognizance. Realizations can’t happen in a vacuum, unless it’s a Dyson. 

When all is said and done, you can’t say you weren’t aware. Because we sent an email reminder about this week’s festivities over a month ago.

That's All Hoax

The lesson today with respect to fabricating personal mishaps from whole cloth, weaving them into bold political statements, is to leave a few extraneous ideas on the sewing room floor. The fewer lies you have to remember the better. I think Lincoln said that. A detail or two helps, but that’s it. Any more and people will start to wonder just why your memory was so good during such a traumatic event.

Say I’m running late to the office one frosty morning and instead of pinging my boss, alerting him to this sad fact, I decide instead to hoax it up. It’s been done before and it will surely be done again. I tell him that just as I stepped outside to walk to the subway, a duo of miscreants attacked me, yelling derisive terms about advertising copywriters and people with long hair. One of the bad men called me “Bill Bernhack” while the other poured ink from a ballpoint pen into my scalp. The message was clear – there’s no room for pens in a world with word processors. They proceeded to pummel me with an ancient fax machine, analogizing my utility with this once piece of valuable technology. 

My boss wasn’t buying it. I got greedy, he said. I decided for one too many details. He was particularly puzzled by the decision to mark my entire body with highlighter (highlighting the “good parts” as my assailants might say).  

I was a gilding of the lily situation. A practice I take very seriously. First, you need to identify said lily, then take it to your friendly, neighborhood gilder. Use it as a boutonnière or a Christmas ornament. Your call. 

Legislation By Fiat

 

Democracy is on the rocks, or so it seems. Voting and elections are constantly being called into question by those who wish to alter our shaky system of government. Instead of letting the glacial pace of the republic keep on shifting its mighty weight, admiring as progress moves tectonically  – there is another idea in the air that’s currently catching fire. Which, as any arsonist knows, you need O2 for a decent blaze. 

That is, accomplishing legislation by fiat. Giving people a small Italian car when what they actually want is a better, more just world, can be seen as something of a dropoff. Not to me. Fiats, like lasers, are under-the-radar acronyms, residing in plain view for all to carefully parse. 

I want politicians who get things done. What better way to do that than by a formal decree, enacted arbitrarily, delivering these quirky little automobiles to every garage in the country. A Fiat is not an Alfa-Romeo or a Renault, nor is it a less svelt mini-cooper. It is something else entirely. 

The rusty levers of power creak under the weight of public perception (and a shortage of WD-40). Instead of worrying about that, why not instead focus on the oversatured photographs of these weird, cute, yet oddly compelling vehicles from Torino? Now, there will be people who think this distracts us from the issue. I disagree. Fiats will finally give car lovers something other than Teslas to talk about, with their familiar exterior and uncanny chassis, a design copied from every luxury car over the last 50 years. 

Doing something by Fiat is a helluva lot more fun than passing laws the standard way. You might have a rotunda in your statehouse – but it’s definitely not a convertible. 

Chant Even

In the year of our bored, burned-out populace, 2021, you wouldn’t necessarily know it by reading the news, but crowds are very “in” right now. Despite rules mandating space between people, it is seen as high-minded and noble to stand in a circle and yell about something, anything. 

Like all things worth doing, from sautéing pine nuts to removing lug nuts, there is a right way to do this and a very, very wrong way. No protest or political gathering is complete without a chant. A chantless parade of meddlesome malcontents is like music with no music. What’s the point of saying what you feel without saying it in a catchy way? 

Rhythmic clapping, though perfected by the band Boston, following the supremacy of whistling and humming in recordings, has reached a new apex by rank amateurs in the streets. I used to think that getting a song stuck in someone’s head was a mortal sin, but I have come to understand that it’s a forced gift. Gifts are something we don’t mind being forced upon us. 

Chanting has its roots in the monastic life. Though I wish more protestors found the time to distill their own liquor instead of pilfering it from a store inexplicably without a front window. When chanting, the purpose is not to inform, but to annoy. Over time, through constant repetition, they will realize the error of their ways and the information buried into the chant will start to seep in. 

Some swear by the efficacy of puns, others are devoted to the pulsing beat of a good rhyme. Whatever your preferred mode of chanting becomes, the only thing that matters is repetition. Say it over and over, until you need to take a water break. Your mouth should become so dry, the words barely come out. 

Chants are not about making cogent arguments, but creating an atmosphere of madness. While I’m not here to do all the work for you, I can offer up a few examples of how I would go about chanting in the public square. Imagine you’re standing in New Orleans, an out-of-work sous-chef, worried about the sudden sentience of your bubbling creations, “stews will not replace us” or the simple, “roux do you think you are?” or even the popular, “no more gumbo mumbo jumbo” (a personal favorite). The always popular, “hey hey, po’ po’, tasteless menus have got to go.”

Come to think of it, one thing that has never been tried is a chant of silence.  

Lunching Down

You were probably planning on taking a long, leisurley lunch break this Friday. One with plenty of libations and nominal glances in the direction of your inbox. Winter, for you, is when you see friends on the company’s dime and pointlessly wander the streets on the company’s time. Not anymore.

Because you are cordially invited to a Corporate Sanctioned Human Resource Approved Non-Denominational Holiday Luncheon. It’s unclear why we’re choosing to have a “luncheon” this year versus a regular ol’ lunch, but an extra syllable never hurt anyone. Except when the floridly profane give the Son of God a middle name, one he shares with the likes of Bucky Dent (in greater New England). 

Since it’s been a while since we’ve all been together in one place (under one roof and one evacuation route), therefore, in an effort to reduce awkwardness, we’re instituting several activities sure to make your time chewing much more pleasant.  

That means we won’t be doing the usual conversation – asking questions, answering questions. We won’t be getting to know each other by gentle, polite interrogation or reconnecting over a shared appetizer e.g. what is that, marinara? I love marinara. Time is too precious, as we’ve all learned. We want to rekindle the old flames of office culture into a blazing inferno of corporate responsibility (be mindful of the emergency exits). 

There will be games. Lots of games. Charades, pictionary, pin the tail on the accountant, and a live-action version of Monopoly where one lucky individual gets to wear a monocole for the entire meal. 

 

There will be also be cash gifts. The company doesn’t want any chiselers. Instead of giving you a bonus this December, we expect you to pony up for a White Elephant deal, exchanging presents with people who you hardly know and in some cases, have never met. Don’t arrive empty-handed.  

Lastly, we have several colleagues who are in need of money. Maybe they’re getting married in the New Year, having a kid or two, buying a house, or thinking of finally ordering a case of Chateau Margaux 1986. So bring your checkbook and multiple lines of credit, unless you want icy stares to complement the wind chill.

We’ll draw straws (organic and totally sustainable) to see who picks up the tab. Expensing lunches is a thing of the past, unfortunately.

Happy Holidays.

Sanctimoney Talks

You probably saw an article in Furniture Quarterly (FQ) entitled, “Put Your Feet Up: A Guide to Next Year’s Top Ottomans.” It’s been making the rounds of late, popping up on the feeds of those most worried about supply chain struggles in the context of last minute Christmas shopping.

I hope you didn’t read it, because it’s easier to convince people of something they haven’t read than to try and erase their biases wholesale once they’ve made a full-on intellectual ingestion. I’ll assume you only skimmed it out of politeness.

The article employs several nefarious strategies to gain your sympathy. For one thing, it frames Ottomans as creatures of comfort, eliding the tacit approval of genocide you give after a single toe reaches its primary propping position. Anyone remember Armenia and Attaturk? Or are you too busy admiring the threads on the plush cushion resting at your feet to notice?

Fifthly, the piece propels the reactionary furniture agenda through a seemingly benign lens of a person’s bunion, which is real and pungent, but from a hygiene perspective, simply catastrophic. 

Seventeenly, the reporter traffics in innuendo, alluding to what sneakerheads track into places, as if someone barefoot is in capable of stepping in things and bringing them into the home. 

Then there’s the issue of word choice. Is it Ottoman? Or Ottowoman? How about Ottoperson? This ongoing debate subsuming subsets of interior decorating subcultures isn’t even addressed. 

The bottom line is that I’m always right. The furniture I like is the right furniture. Foot stools are a thing, a real thing, not a cynical item brought in to upstage classic sofas and chairs. An ottoman is for sitting, relaxing, and eating grapes. But you wouldn’t know that by this calculated piece of fourth estate trash. The fact remains that each of those activities can be accomplished more easily in a chaise lounge. Search online for images of Dom DeLuise if you don’t believe me. 

Popped Culture

 

I am what you might call a “taste-maker.” I make taste, which is quite different from having taste. It’s also not to be confused with being a taste tester, those fine people who are necessary in times of great confusion and gastronomic delights. 

While it’s dangerous and self-defeating to admit you like something, it never hurts to come clean about hating things. Showing appreciation is the same as revealing a vulnerabilty, giving your enemies the power to use it against you. When you hate something, you are the one with the upper hand, standing apart from the fray, remaining distrustful of authority and superior to everyone else. Your taste hasn’t yet been sullied by the unadvisable affinity for a boy band or avocado toast. 

It requires no thought either. Saying you hate The Beatles is a great way to become known as a defiant rebel. You’re showing people you go against the crowd and have taste that is hard to pin down. What moves you is unknown – as it should be. You don’t like catchy melodies or things other people like. You see Ringo as a dog’s name and wonder what effect painting a submarine yellow does to the ecosystem. Good questions, nary a Beatlemaniac ever thinks to ask. 

Keep what you love under wraps, since that's more unique than putting it under sandwiches like bread commoner. 

If not this, then what?

For reasons I can’t begin to comprehend, many well-intentioned, meddling individuals insist on asking me what I would do if I didn’t work in advertising. I believe humility is almost as important as preserving one’s inner confidence in a Lenin-like tomb, pumping it up daily with whatever is at your disposal and encasing it in a protective barrier that blocks out any unwanted comments.

Like an interviewee who leans in ever closer, McMahon style, to the interviewer, pressing nose tip to nose tip, upon receiving a unreasonably hostile question, I might way that it’s not what I would do as much as it is who I’d be.

I believe I would be the next Vonnegut, but without the urge to doodle. I contend I’d be the next O’Rourke, but with no conception of politics. I think I’d be the next Angell, but with an appreciation for something besides baseball. I know I’d be the next McPhee, but with a focus on incompetence instead of rarefied expertise. I imagine I’d be the next Mencken, but without ever feeling the urge to live in Baltimore. I feel like I’d be the next Plimpton, but with enough intelligence to stay in the stands, a safe distance from batted balls and battered humiliation. I might be the next Hamill, but without the column space. I could be the next Breslin, but without the paunch. I assume I’d be the next Keillor, but without access to a live audience. I presume I’d be the next Hitchens, but with no urge to participate in the circus that is cable news. I suppose I’d be the next Twain, but with a commitment to use my birth name in print.

At least that’s what I say when asked. Most people stop listening somewhere around Plimpton.

Barking Over Someone

 

I’m so sick of going out for a dawnish dewy amble, only to end up battling noisy dogs just to be heard. Dogsplaining is an epidemic in parts of the country where every park has a fenced in area surrouned by sand and some excrement. Who am I kidding? It’s not “some.”

Plenty of people have reason to be angry at Hollywood for cartoonish portrayals in television and film. Every group, profession and type of person has been caricatured at one time or another in the name of entertainment. But not dogs. Dogs are given superpowers of sagacity and strength, roaming the streets as saintly figures of any given story. Even the behavior of bad dogs is usually blamed on the owners and not the canines themselves. They are heroes, perfect in every way. 

But in truth, dogs are all bark and lots of bite. They speak up simply to be heard, drowning out any competition with their restlessness and high-pitched yelpings. And when they have the floor all to themselves, what do they do with it? They don’t make a grand statement. Let’s just say the floor is used for non-verbal activities. It’s one thing to do this in the wild, but in a crowded city where hearing comes at a cost, sometimes it’s too much to take. 

Dogsplaining occurs whenever a person is drowned out by a yapping mutt in their general vicinity. It’d be one thing if some of them spoke a language we understood.  

I don’t know why it bothers me or if it bothers me, since I don’t actually own a dog.