Oh, The Places You Shouldn’t Go

Traveling for the traveler has gotten fraught as it’s become much easier and cheaper. There was a period of the past when you had to be really lucky or extremely rich to travel a couple miles from your birthplace. Out to where the accents bent unfamiliarly and the cuisine left a bad taste in your mouth. Arch-criminals and moral reprobates usually found the time to skedaddle to the outskirts of town. But lamming it after a big heist isn’t the same as touring ancient ruins or a geological wonder. Feel free to document either case, but in one, it will be used against you in a court of law.

You’re fine just where you are. Which is why, at the travel desk (a desk made of the finest endangered sequoia), burnt beautifully with the rosiest of streaks, we aren’t recommending you go anywhere special this year. Here are a few places not worth traveling. When you pack your bags, you’re part of the problem.

Europe? For what? It’s been done to death. I have a friend who’s dream vocation is hatmaker to the French. His idea is that berets ought to adjustable like baseball caps, made to refit due to sudden growth or an influx of hair. What the bald call, “a follicle infusion.”   

The Midwest? Not likely. You go there and comment on the pizza differences and how nice everyone is. Leave it alone. 

The West Coast? No thanks. But they'll thank you for not going.

If you can’t walk there, you shouldn’t be there. Imagine if Columbus had followed this advice. What a world, huh?

Anywhere they don’t speak English. Because all you’ll end up doing is asking, “excuse me, do you speak English?”

Anywhere The United States has ever had beef with. This could be a big war – like say with Germany, Japan or Britain. But smaller gripes shouldn’t be overlooked. Personally, it’s why I avoid Connecticut.  

Try staying home. You should have had enough practice by now.  

Solid Life

You know that sound when you pull a fresh ice tray out the freezer for the first time? The snaps, crackles, and pops it makes while resting on the counter awaiting your next move are enough to bowl over any elf in the area. If anyone understands the power of ice, it’s elves. During the frenzy of the holidays, many non-unionized workers are known to pass out from exhaustion in massive snow banks not far from Kringle’s sleigh. Though tired of flagrantly violating copyright laws ignored by their superiors, the little guys have little recourse. They are expected to build an iPhone from scratch, using nothing but wooden blocks. Everything is considered a toy up there. But they know ice. They know that after a long day of cleaning up after ornery reindeer, the raw emotions brought to the surface by a chunk of ice floating in a stiff drink is unrivaled. Despite their small stature, more than a few are known for throwing back more than a few. 

At Solid Life, we also understand the importance of ice – spiritually, functionally, and recreationally. Flicking water in a person’s face is a mild, almost genteel prank when compared to pelting someone with a handful of crushed ice. The latter sends a message they’ll never forget. We let people animate their thirst with all types of ice living beyond the tray. We have canned ice, bottled ice, mason jarred ice, and even, bagged ice. And we’re selling fridges where the freezer is on the bottom for easy access.  

Within the office, we don’t talk about climate change. But given our elven pedigree, the North Pole is an interesting point of interest. It’s common for people to decry the melting polar ice caps, but that doesn’t stop them from wasting it to make dead fish look better. We’ve decided to do something about it. Our plan is to pack in the ice in the places most in need of it.

Will it melt? Maybe. Probably. Definitely. At least we tried, huh? It’s much more than can be said for our competitors. There’s plenty of water to go around. Enough already. But ice? Not so much. As the old saying goes, when it rains, it doesn’t always snow. Now if only we could just freeze time.  

Collage Debt

If your desire is to avoid the digital slings and arrows of the uber-online, then it’s best not to profess a deep-seated love for the quaintly analog. You don’t want people to suspect you harboring a pet rock in your desk drawer or worse – a chia pet with monumental aspirations. You’re expected to plug in at all times. As if we're merely lost cords looking for an outlet. For the early adopters, few have met an app they didn’t like or a piece of technology not worth promoting. But you’re different. You still buy magazines, cutting out the pictures of your favorite celebrities, creating a bulletin board collage – an unsullied lens into your sullied mind. Want to know what I think about something? Take a look at this collage I’ve spent the last three hours carefully constructing with thumbtacks, scissors and the occasional white-out pen. Then don't ask me again. 

There was a time in this country when collages were more popular than college. Everyone from school kids to hostage takers understood the efficacy of some shiny paper displayed in an interesting way - with or without glitter. Sure, you could write a ransom note by hand – like a real nut. Or, you could pick up copies of Esquire, Life Magazine, and Golf Digest and go to work. When the authorities finally got to examining the glue (it was always Elmer’s) they had to respect your craftsmanship before critiquing your morals. Nowadays, wackos and lunatics put their manifestos in online blogs and comment threads. The artistry is all gone. The intrigue is no more. 

This gave way to dioramas, the three-dimensional cousin of the collage, putting the shoebox to good use for the first time since the heyday of baseball card collecting. This of course gave way to other miniature pleasures. Figurines, dolls, model aircrafts – all deemed toys by the establishment, but what fun they are. Instead of walking around all day with theories of what Napoleon should’ve done at Waterloo, you could take over the copy room for your lunchtime war games. Just a thought.

A digital collage isn’t the same. Where’s the risk to life and limb? Putting together a series of amusing photos without using an X-acto knife – while safer, sure – eliminates the exhilaration inherent in barely missing an artery during the creative process.

I’ve taken to affixing things directly to my phone, as a sign that glossy magazines have some staying power as long as there’s a healthy supply of rubber cement at my disposal. Not at my fingertips, since the stuff can be so darn difficult to remove. Stick around. It’s not like you have a choice. 

Hall Aflame

Every year around this time, a gaggle of pre-selected folks vote using a set of pre-determined factors on which demigod gets the call up to the hall of immortality. In between grape leaves and jugs of wine, they handpick olives and Gods. You see, Mount Olympus is a mountain, but it’s also a museum. A place where fannypackers pack in and selfie-stickers stick around until the gift shop closes. Early on, people living nearby understood that tourism depended on an annual influx of new mortal blood. They couldn’t have the same twelve guys in there forever. It would feel stale over time. 

For some purists this has spelled disaster for a once great institution. They believe inducting Gods like Parcus Parallelus (some still hold a grudge dating back to when chariots were the primary conveyance. He would watch as drivers struggled to fit into tight spaces offering no assistance. This is what Ben Our was really about.) and Crispus Beerus diminishes what the place originally had. A rarefied air meant for a special group of divine individuals.

It was not for everyone. It wasn’t even for every God. The trouble is, standards change, mores shift, and values evolve. What was once acceptable, is now frowned upon. It’s a great honor to get the call though. It used to be blown through a conch shell - now it's a text (Text STOP if you don't want special promotions and weekly updates from Mount Olympus).

Don’t let any half-a-God convince you otherwise. These guys want their bust beside all-time greats like Apollo, Aphrodite and the rest of ‘em. 

A few years ago, a social media campaign aimed at destroying the reputations of certain figures began. It started with Dionysus in an attempt to prove that a straight line can be drawn from his lubricated feasts to the rampant binge drinking on college campuses. The word "campus" certainly sounds Greek. And there are those who want Poseidon kicked to the marble, believing any dangerous rip tide is on him. Other people questioned the amount of nepotism in the hall – weren’t they all related to Zeus? And the God of Thunder himself wasn’t without past sins. Like most of the inductees, he offered no defense. It was a different time and immortality has its perks, but it can also lead to a pervasive nihilistic malaise.

The voters are a small enclave of theologians who have studied this stuff their whole lives. Some abstain from voting in protest, saying until Jesus is inducted, what are we even doing here? But Zeus has made it very clear he only wants dear friends and family members. It’s hard to argue with someone literally holier than thou, sitting atop a throne, dismissing any candidate from the last thousand years. Personally, I’ve reviewed the documents, and there’s actually quite a strong case for L. Ron Hubbard. The toughest metric is determining whether someone is a God or just a really good magician? While I’m okay with putting David Blaine alone side little Hermes, but then Houdini should be in, too. It’s only fair.  

As religion wanes, does that mean we should start putting in regular people? I say, absolutely. The Home Depot employee quite helpful tying your Christmas tree to your car – a veritable miracle – deserves consideration. In the end, getting into Mount Olympus doesn’t make you a God. In the same way winning a grammy doesn’t make you a great musician. It’s just a nice line on your resume. Nothing more.

Critics would like to see the place burned to the ground. As if that matters. They are immortal. I don't worry about who gets in or who doesn't. It's nice to know that even deities want a social club to validate an eternity of questionable behavior. There's talk they may move to Olympus Mons on Mars at the behest of Musk. I don't buy it. These guys belong in Greece. 

But how seriously are we supposed to take a place when God himself has to buy a ticket to visit? It's still just a mountain. 

If Iran The Zoo

What are we going to do with Iran? There are lots of ideas out there, flying in the ether, floating in the ointment. So I pick and choose between the buffet offerings at the realpolitik cafeteria. In geopolitical terms, we’re at a fork in the road (or on the plate). I’ve spoken to generals who’ve actually said that. But what if we’re focusing on the wrong utensil. Like a toothpick? What if the road isn’t split by a fork, but a spoon, curving off in every direction, confusing us and ruining what little respect we had left for Robert "Bite" Frost. Or, what if it’s a spork - something no poet - not even the Bard - had to combat. That would really be bad.

I was eating a bialy, extra butter, toasted, soaking up the wax paper, pondering these questions. That’s when I thought – the generals have gotten us into this mess. The politicians have brought us to the brink. Do they deserve to help claw us out of the diplomatic broth? I asked a different person, a strange person, a person without credentials. Just some guy who happened to walk past me and go “nice bialy, mister.” I nodded and said, “hello friend, what should do we do about Iran?”

“I walk,” he said, and kept walking. 

There it was, as clear as my windshield on a snowy day. It hit me like a pallet of imported cheese, both pungent and portly. I knew this man was onto something – in this case, it was common floor tile. Linoleum? I thought so by the scuffs. No matter, what if we reframed the debate about Iran and their atomic aspirations with a different verb. Why run when you could walk? Why walk when you can sit? Why sit when you can sleep? 

Some people like to sleep on an idea while it’s still percolating. I've come to appreciate percolation ever since my spoils of scribbling rewarded me with an expensive Italian espresso maker. There are others, call them the non-somnolescent, who take a shower as an idea gestates. Me? I sleep in the shower. The best of both worlds. It’s worked wonders for my career (three pulitzers and counting). I've said too much already, having pulled back the shower curtain back on my mysteriously magical process.

Iran doesn’t have to run. And neither do we. I don’t even have to write. And I don't. 

With no apologies to Thomas L. Friedman.

Head of Steam

Jobs change over time. It’s practically inevitable. Yesterday’s chefs had to understand the succulence of pheasant. Nowadays, few of them could identify the bird on sight. Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to a thick church door. Today, he’d tweet about it, fearful of clerical reprisals, then retweet himself tweeting about it, only to finally share over Instagram. It happens, I guess.

In 2022, the job of a professional headhunter has never been more difficult. It’s a profession based on fielding stacks of resumes and consoling teary-eyed candidates, sobbing at the slightest misadventure. You want to help them, you really do, but ultimately, their decision to attend the interview shirtless is up to them. Though it all reflects on you regardless. Their poor grammar, their use of profanity – everything. 

Headhunting is the example I point to when people say everything is better today than it was in ancient times. Take a look around. Peruse LinkedIn for any amount of time and you’ll see countless headhunters at their wit’s end, cursing the communication onslaught, valiantly fending off burnout only to succumb to an inevitable, public breakdown. These are no longer the pillars of mental toughness. 

They make money, that’s true. But at what cost to their souls? They can’t hide from prospects either. There is no door to close. It’s always open, whatever it is. 

Ancient headhunters had a much easier time. All they had to do was collect severed heads and the task was finished. There was no worry about compensation. If you had the stomach for the gig, that was good enough. The most common problem for these people, which should be viewed as a mild inconvenience and nothing more, was finding a mantle big enough for the heads. The whole point of headhunting was creating a vibrant display. It does no one any good to keep them in your attic beside dusty Christmas ornaments and old photo albums. 

The head was their prize. They didn’t expect a bouquet of flowers or a case of champagne. No thank you note was forthcoming and that was okay. I know what you’re going to say. But those were heinous acts that had nothing to do with job placement. Fair enough. But you’re forgetting one thing. The job market in the afterlife. Something that’s only grown over the years. 

LIVE at the DEAD Horse Comedy Club

“How’s everyone doing tonight?,” asked the untalented, uninteresting, unctuous host of Central Pennsylvania’s least popular and most expensive comedy show. “Good? Great? Well, boy do we have a great show in store for you tonight. If you think you’ve already heard some of the jokes beforehand, it’s because you definitely have. We’ve been testing them out on our social media pages for weeks as a part of community outreach.”

“A few ground rules here at the Dead Horse…”

As the crowd filed in, he continued. “There’s a 12 drink minimum. What does that mean exactly? You don’t have to drink that much, in fact, we’d prefer you don’t. You just have to pay that much. Think of it as an investment in art of the future.”

“Who wants to laugh tonight? The first comic is a dear friend, so please put your hands together for Lee Harvey Oswalt.”

After a smattering of applause, the host knew it was time to bring up the first comic. He’s wearing overalls. Only two types of people wear overalls. Farmers and fashion models. This guy is neither. 

“Thank you, Steve. Does anyone drive a car around here? Thought so. You’d surprised at the places I get crickets after asking that. Well, mine is in the shop right now, so instead of walking or running the risk of turning into one of those biker boobs, I got myself a horse. A real thoroughbred. I knew it would be slower, I just didn’t figure on how much slower. After twenty minutes I looked down and you know, the horse wasn’t breathing. I was still in the driveway. I was sold a dead horse. Imagine that.”

The host jump onto stage. “That’s enough of that, Lee. Our next guy you might remember from a few failed pilots and a recent cancellation. Here he is, the one and only, Dave Eggshell.”

“Appreciate it, Ben. I started gambling again. You people gamble? I went down to the track to bet the ponies. I thought I picked a winner. But my horse went up and died right out of the gate. So much for horsepower.” 

The host was started to feel the heat. Not literally, since this joint had sent up a row of malfunctioning space heaters along the perimeter of the crowd. “Rounding out our show tonight is your favorite and mine, back from court-ordered isolation, Mr. Huey SK.” 

“Hey Don, doing well, doing well. I will keep it quick tonight. I decided my eroding basketball skills were not good enough to challenge members of my own species. That’s why I’ve taken to playing dogs, cats and just last night, a horse. Yes. I beat a dead horse in H-O-R-S-E.”

The host, who’s actually name is Aubrey, not Steve, Ben or Don, reclaimed his microphone. “Thanks again for joining us tonight for a night of laughs. Anyone else hoarse from talking too much? If you’re not ready to go home yet, join us out back for a little post-show glue huffing. Sure beats working for a living.”

Manhattan Is Going Down

When it comes to making Manhattan an affordable place to live, New Yorkers see more proposals than a Las Vegas chaplain, welcoming sloshed lovebirds to his 24-hour chapel. And much like most activities in Vegas, they are quickly forgotten by everyone except the holy Elvis. That’s if they were even remembered in the first place. 

So there’s a new idea floating around which would make floating around that much harder. Some guy wants to fill in the land between Governors Island the Whitehall Terminal. Something about more space to build homes. What about the jet skiers and other wild waterway disruptors? Will the Staten Island Ferry have to put on wheels to get around? What about the skyline? I reject this proposal on purely aesthetic grounds, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a counterproposal of my own. It's not polite to come empty handed. 

Why engage in such a disruptive sea grab, when we have plenty of room left on the island? I know it’s not the nicest spot around, but last time I checked, there are hundreds of abandoned or unused subway tunnels in this great city. How about refurbishing these subterranean gems? It’s true, there are the mole people to deal with, who went underground ever since the Vitamin D tablets became more accessible. Honestly, they should be paying rent. To whom and for how much is not up to me to decide. 

I know there are many New Yorkers who prize things like “natural light” and “cleanliness” over space, but if this city is really reaching a housing crises, are we actually going to ignore this opportunity? Plenty of teenagers live in their parents’ basement during transitional periods. Are we so much better than a typical pimple-faced adolescent, sneaking cigarettes and 40 ounces under the nose (and floor) of their family? Not to me. Subway tunnels are more spacious (some even boast Guastavino tile, much nicer than anything in your bathroom), especially when you remove trains from them. Yes, rats are here. But you’re being naïve if you think rats stick to where you can’t see them. That’s just what they want you to think. 

Look at this way. It worked for the Ninja Turtles. 

Naan Fungible Tokens

I skipped every economics class in college, preferring to absorb information from professors unaffected by the mean streaks common with the typical Nobel taint. So I don’t know what I’m talking about, but since it’s 2022, that isn’t going to prevent me from saying it. The main reason I haven’t jumped at the opportunity to embrace Blockchain technology is simple. I can’t eat it. Sorry, but that’s how you invest in yourself.

Cash, the old kind, is filthy, changing hands millions of times before finally leaving circulation. I’m not a vending machine prepared to accept the crinkliest of dollar bills and the greasiest of coins. When NFTs came along, I thought, there goes another thing I can’t eat. What good is that? Wouldn’t it be nice to leave a tip at a fancy restaurant the waitstaff could use immediately and digest eventually? You would think so. 

My idea is for naan fungible tokens. Right away, they’d the best tasting thing in the marketplace. I’ve heard from a couple sources that old French francs aren’t bad, all that butter I think is the difference. But good luck finding a few bills in a world full of trash Euros. There have been coins oxidizing over centuries, developing a certain copper tang associated with select breakfast cereals and lampposts. However, edible examples of currency are few and far between. Chocolate gelt only comes around once a year. And that’s just dessert. 

Naan is the bread of life. It goes with basically anything and it teaches all these people trading old NFTs what life is really about. Of course, there are very real issues with basing an entire economy around bread and bread-related items. It’s not always a simple process fitting your earnings into a normal wallet. That’s why you start with flatbread and slowly expand out, leavening your portfolio. Or something. Plus, that’s what vaults are for. For once, the smell of a bank could be something other than carpet cleaner and hand sanitizer. Lazy bank robbers might actually get off their computers and go out into the world for once. Bread has that effect on people. 

We’ve been referring to money as bread and dough for centuries, rarely analyzing the meaning. Wouldn’t it be nice if those words finally rang true? 

The...

A man walks into a talent agency. He brings his family – his wife, his two kids, a boy and a girl, plus the family pet, a Russian sheepdog named Sputnik. This a family act. The talent agent is prepared to roll his eyes, typically unmoved by what’s referred to as, “family entertainment.” The man explains they are different, more wholesome than every other rival put together. The first thing the man does his take his wife by the hand and begin a slow, sweet dance. She twisted her ankle walking up the stairs, the elevator in the agent’s office has been out of service since 1962. Every step of the way, the man gauges her pain level, not wishing to even approach the threshold of semi-paralysis. He carries most of the weight, lifting her up and ensuring she doesn’t aggravate the injury. Art needn’t hurt anyone.

The music is placid in sort of Kenny G. sort of way. Nothing about it is dangerous or risqué. The two children begin singing tunes of peace and reconciliation. They are nice kids. The older one, the boy, accidentally knocks over a glass paperweight on the agent’s desk. He apologizes profusely, stopping the performance for a second. The agent has a eye for talent and sincerity. The boy begins to cry, taking out a notebook and quickly scrawling a handwritten note, owning up to his mistake, saying the fact that it wasn’t intentional is no defense. He hands the agent a blank check and insists he write the amount in damages on it. It’s the least he could do. 

The man pulls the team together, but he knows that there are far more important things than impressing this person. Like what they’re having for dinner or where they will sleep tonight. These are actual concerns that put the idea of auditioning in perspective. It might explain why the no member of the family displays even the slightest sign of nervousness. The wife asks the agent about his family, wanting to get to know him a little before their time is up. Instead of wasting it on making balloon animals or other pointless circus tricks, she would like to know his story. It’s very nice, but he doesn’t have time to get into how he ended up in this career. Would he change some things? Certainly. 

The man’s daughter starts dusting the window sills of the office, after seeing the agent rub his nose. Allergies can be a killer – not literally, not usually – but still, quite annoying when persistent. She suggests they open a window and offers to run across the street to the appliance store and buy a small fan to help with the room’s circulation. She begins adding fresh flowers in tall, skinny vases to spruce things up as well. 

It was at this point in the performance that the agent wondered when the dog would appear. He noticed him right away, but for the previous twenty minutes not a peep. Then he heard a flushing sound and out scurried the dog from his personal restroom. The dog, apparently the only nervous member of the crew, decided to relieve himself right then, but not there. In fact, he was thoughtful enough to use the proper facilities.

The audition concluded with a long, sincere salutation on gratitude, in which each member thanked the agent for the opportunity, regardless of the outcome. They all understand the business. When they stopped the agent nodded and said they all seem like very nice people, albeit a little boring. But before they left, he asked, “so what do you call themselves.” 

In unison and without hesitation, they responded, “The Psychopaths.” 

Who's On Worst?

This routine was recently discovered beneath the floorboards of a Paterson, New Jersey bowling alley – if you must know, it was between the 7 and 8 pins. The game has fallen out of favor in the Garden State, since people are not sure where to stick their fingers safely, given the last 18^th months of sanitization. Oddly prescient, hardly prurient, it deals with issues of our day. There is the theory that it was created by the hologram, one I roundly reject. But here it is, nonetheless. 

Abbott: Hello, Costello. Are you up to date on insulting and objectionable language?   

 

Costello: I think so, but it’s early January, so things like that are subject to change.

 

Abbott: Would you like to know more about speech you should avoid? 

 

Costello: Sure, but you’ll have to tell me what to say. I want to hear it verbatim. ‘Cause I can’t afford to get in trouble.

 

Abbott: Oh, I can do that. What you can and can’t say has only gotten odder over the years.

 

Costello: You mean like weird things? 

 

Abbott: Strange things, bizarre things. Like oriental rugs. Once okay, now no way. 

 

Costello: How about calling toupées rugs? 

 

Abbott: Not anymore. Since it offends the bald and the rugman alike. 

 

Costello: Interesting. So tell me the new rules, if you would be so kind? 

 

Abbot: With pleasure. It’s offensive, that’s problematic, and I can’t say what’s next.  

 

Costello: Go on.

 

Abbott: I have.

 

Costello: You know the words I should watch out for.

 

Abbott: Yes.

 

Costello: The words that will cause us trouble in our act.

 

Abbott: Yes.

 

Costello: So tell me what’s offensive.

 

Abbott: It’s offensive. 

 

Costello. What is?

 

Abbott. No.

 

Costello: Let’s say I say something offensive. 

 

Abbott: Be careful, Lou. We’re on the air.

 

Costello: I know, I know. But whatever I say, you’re saying that’s offensive no matter what. 

 

Abbott: That’s problematic.

 

Costello: What is it?

 

Abbott: That. 

 

Costello: So it’s offensive. 

 

Abbott: Yes.

 

Costello: What?

 

Abbott: I can’t say. 

 

Costello: It’s problematic?

 

Abbott: It’s offensive.

 

Costello: What is?

 

Abbott: That.

Costello: You don't say.

 

Applause, laughter, a few tears. 

Centering My Thoughts

It started off innocently enough. With a quip, a chortle, and an entire argument left justified. I decided to finally do something about it. I went straight to the formatting window, totally changing how I viewed the world.

You see? That wasn’t so hard. Given the amount of yammering by people reluctant to center, you’d be forgiven for thinking the process was a complicated one. It’s not. With all this talk about centering – who even knew it was a verb? – my thoughts drifted to basketball, once the premier bastion of centers. Not anymore. The game has turned into a three-point shooting bonanza. A long-range extravaganza. An exhibition of talent players, launching distant balls from way beyond the arc. This wasn’t always the case.

 

Where would a person like Wilt Chamberlain fit into our current mess? Not into a Volkswagen, that much I’m certain of. He was a powerhouse of a player, but in todays’s game, a man of his stature – on and off the court – would become a bystander. Passively watching the game from afar, incapable of shooting a distant three. 

 

Where are the rest of the centers? Some work in rambunctious studio shows, dissecting the game to a degree few fans appreciate. Despite society’s current wave of centering things, we’ve forgotten to center centers. They remain on the court, nominal figures of a game that is literally passing them by. Watching as teammates drain buckets isn’t too fun, unless the buckets are those filled with a janitor’s delight after giving the court a necessary cleaning. Players aren’t the only ones in need of a post-game rubdown.  

 

Stay centered. It might look weird at first, but like the most important in life (for instance, when a beloved brand suddenly changes their beloved logo), you’ll get used to it eventually. 

Trained SEALs

I can understand a former high school football star preoccupied with past glories from a faded gridiron. A place without cheerleaders, concession stands or competent coaches. Because all these years later, his exploits on the field are among the finest achievements in a disappointing life since catching touchdowns.

There are others who enjoy telling stories to anyone and everyone, making themselves the hero of any protracted tale. I never thought former Navy seals would engage in similar barstool banter. “I killed Bin Laden.” “No, I killed Bin Laden.” That sort of thing, which, on the surface, can humanize a person, demystifying their day-to-day. As anyone who’s ever passed a construction site knows, most jobs, no matter how physically demanding, involve lots of waiting around and doing nothing.

In the old days, it was expected that wartime traumas would be repressed, not shared over the airwaves. Nowadays, there’s hardly a job where people don’t one day convert their experiences into podcast fodder. At times, it can be awfully relatable. Who wants to hear another copywriter complain about an unreasonable client? I want to be lectured by someone whose training involved an extending breath-holding session. Anyone who does that understands the world better than me. When oxygen is rerouted from the brain to normally deprived offshoots, they say brain cells are lost. It’s my opinion that only the dumb brain cells are lost. 

Life after the SEALS can be difficult, which sort of explains the foray into entertainment and politics. Though, given their background, the circus remains a good and honorable option. 

The Frozen People

 

The central tenet of winter theology is not focused on rogue elves, but rather, that God froze a specific group of people, who were notably well-suited to enjoying the elements without the help of an expensive down jacket. The Lord knew that he couldn’t base his decision on who was able to afford Canada goose. One of the great mysteries is that anyone able to wait in a long line out in the cold for a jacket doesn't need a jacket. But again, for him, brand loyalty was never the point. Except for when it meant siding with him and his ilk. Though he never liked idols, he still provides moral and financial support to the Academy Awards. Just watch how many people thank him in their rambling speeches every year.

These people – the Frozen - were selected for their passion and preference for skipping layers. We all know them from the neighborhood. In every community where snow comes into play, there are people who wear shorts and t-shirts in December, skimping on thermal underwear as a way of proving their toughness and showing off their frostbitten calves. They are insulted by regular folks digging out their driveways. Normal people, the Unfrozen, are incapable of concentration while a neighbor prances through a snow drift in clogs and Bermuda shorts. The thing is, entire museums depend on Frozen People. 

When a caveman would go missing, often fighting with this compatriots over pelt wearing, he’d leave the camp in a huff only to freeze to death in a snowbank. Most of the conflicts between humans pre-civilization centered on clothing. What to wear, what not to wear, and this was at a time absent fashion listicles. This sort of natural mummification is preferred by curators in the way many smart shoppers seek out words like “organic” and “Paul Newman” on products before purchasing. It's true, some early men mummified their dead, but like a street tamale, the seal is never perfect. Which is understandable, since both are made under duress. 

This is why the Frozen People have gotten so far. They weren’t snowflakes. Although, they were affected by them. God’s Frozen People are still around – for now. Shoveling sidewalks shirtless and the rest of it, but for how much longer is anyone’s guess. One of the many risks of climate change is leaving these people left to thaw in the sweltering heat. Maybe then, they’ll finally put on a coat.  

Morning at the Bemuseum

Anyone who’s ever studied Greek mythology in school or, during a class trip, fogged up the glass encasing a piece of ancient pottery, toothlessly grinning at the depictions therein, should be more than familiar with the concept of muses. The muses were a gaggle of gals, who served as inspiration for the struggling artist. Can’t tune your lyre? Give Euterpe a holler. Joke isn’t landing? Call Thalia for a second opinion. There are others, focused on history, epic poetry and astronomy – and this was long before decent telescopes were available.

What most people don’t know, even apparent experts, is that there was a lone, marginalized member of the musing community. Surprisingly, she’s the one who’s endured to this very day. Her name? Ladida. She has helped stupid people sound smart for thousands of years. For one thing, she’s not technically a Muse, but a Bemuse. Her concern is not inspiration, but indoctrination. 

She’s responsible for all the smiles associated with the word “bemused.” Somehow, along the way, her hard work paid off and “amuse” and “bemuse” became synonyms. Instead of people being confused at the sight of her, they came to smile, seeing it as a wonderful part of the creative process. 

Bemuse’s transformation is truly baffling, at times puzzling, even perplexing, yet, at the end of the day, it’s quite an entertaining turn of events, considering it was the handiwork of a diligent Bemuse. Amuse and bemuse have become synonyms, thanks to Ladida’s relentlessness, pausing to work in between courses of grape leaves and sticky baklava. 

They became synonyms. No one really knows how this happened. Auger, the imposing tool used to bore holes into the earth or pieces of wood, is not to my knowledge a synonym for booger, what dangles from a neglected nostril. 

Ladida knew what she was doing and that it was going to be an uphill battle. It is only the most impressive of her exploits. She’s had other minor successes. Honing pigeons, for one thing. People who don’t jive with one another, for another. She knows exactly what she’s doing and her goal, if I can safely state here, is to make it so that one day every word is a synonym, rendering language useless. 

Kind of bemusing when you think about it. 

It's a slippery slope

It starts off innocently enough. With a few flurries tantalizingly falling from above. But you don’t think much of it. Like a perp with actual blood on their hands recounting an elaborately constructed, extremely absurd, clearly fabricated alibi, it just doesn’t stick. Not yet anyway.

Let’s remember that your driveway is on a slight incline, facing the busy street below. Oncoming traffic, as it’s often called, awaits your next move. This is the environment you sought out after too much time under the shady palms and shadier people of southern California. Because as slippery as things get in the famed Great Plains, the slopes are never quite like this. 

Before slinking off to sleep one winter night, you check the window and then tomorrow’s forecast. You start to worry about the commute. You’re not prepared. Your boots are in storage and your loafers won’t do the job. Not when show shoes are needed or those ice boots with pointy little spikes for traction. Do you even own a pickaxe? 

No, on a day like this, people would stay home and not work. That's when society starts to unravel. At the top of your driveway you are transported to a childhood of slipping, sliding, and sledding full snow days. It’s perfect. You haven’t calculated the mathematical slope since high school, which, interestingly enough, is also the last time you indulged in this brand of unbridled sledding. The only rise and rise you’re concerned with is connected to the cheap piece of plastic you’re laying face down on. This is much to the dismay of area children with similar interests, who lack the requirements to compete with your skills and body mass. 

This is how the breakdown of civilization begins. You can’t drive. You can’t go to work. But you can break out the ancient sled from storage, taking it for a few spins down the block. The cars give up, with each passing driver growing more envious of your icy recreation. Pretty soon everyone is out sledding. Whole streets are closed down to traffic. People and their families gather at the top of hills all across the city barreling down into a snowier future. It gets colder though, as things melt then they freeze again. 

When the snow clears, we have an entire society that has given up their responsibilites for another shot at a lifetime of slippery pursuits. You’re suddenly skipping breakfast to sled, pawning off clothes and furniture for a fresh shot at the slopes. Imagine going to a big ski resort with a sled, watching as the skiiers and boarders look on in horror. But this is what happens when we build societies that aren’t level. Picture a future where the climate changes to such a degree that a place like San Francisco, with its stupid hills and idiotic topography, gets blanketed in snow. Now that’s a slippery slope.  

Meathead in the Morning

It's me, Meathead in the Morning. Which is why I'm not a vegetarian. I'm meat, for God's sake. If animals want to eat me, they are going to have to catch me first. We’re taking your calls for the next three hours on any subject under the sun. What’s that? This is a podcast? We can’t take calls? Looks like someone has taken too many kicks to the head. My mistake, honest mistake. That’s what PDs are for, I guess. We don't have a PD? Okay then, well, there's a voice in my head. I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it soon enough. Either way, back to that phrase, “under the sun.” How do we know what we’re under the sun and it’s not the other way around? Maybe the sun is under us.

My first and only guest is an esteemed Mixed-up Martial Arts fighter with thoughts on lots of non-fighting related subjects. Although, to be fair, he likes to liken everything to his pugilistic period. I heard him compare navigating the buffet at Waffle House with cage matches. The violence, the resentment, the mashed potatoes. Those potatoes are the perfect metaphor for getting ones face bashed in, especially if the skin is included. What was I saying? My long-term memory ain’t what it…I can’t really say. My short-term memory used to be good a long, long time ago. 

As I was saying, brain damage is a beautiful thing. It’s like an acid trip without the acid. A trip with the ornery gate agent and crying babies. The good acid, not the acid that burns a hole through your engine block. The only thing that dies is your ego. Not mine though. He has risen. A couple hundred million in the bank will lift anyone out of the doldrums. What's a doldrum anyway? A dull drum? That’s a figure of speech. I wouldn’t keep my money in the bank. The bank is for suckers. In fact, where it put it rhymes with bank. I put it in my isolation tank. I tried meditation for years and year with no results. Pillows, yoga mats, it didn’t matter. The second I got this much money, I found my mind was infinitely clearer. I was more surprised than anyone.

What do you think about the earth being flat? Let me answer and see how you react. I think it makes sense that the earth is flat. When I was fighting competitively I started with a rather round head. But a funny thing happened on the way to fame and fortune. I got kicked in the face so many times that my head started to flatten. Look at it. It’s like a roof deck now. So much for the chrome dome. The same thing happened to the planet. I buy that in the early days the earth was rounder than a cue ball. But millions of years getting bombarded by asteroids are going to have some effect. Sorry, they do. They flatten things. It’s like baking. Did you take up baking? You don’t need a baker to know which way the dough rolls. Right?

Now here’s a question for you. Do you like coffee? This coffee here, a sponsor of the program, is made with actual jet fuel. Of course it’s organic, it comes straight from the ground. That’s what I never understood about the anti-drilling people. Oil is like the earth’s blood. We’re vampires, which could be worse. Because one thing I know about vampires is that they live forever. I'm not much of a garlic lover, so the transition from the living to the undead has been quite easy. The point is that this coffee gets me going. You might want a breath mint or two if you’re planning on locking any lips later today. I could do a couple thousand squats after a cup and benchpress a tectonic plate. Another thing that’s flat. 

Thanks for joining the program today. You made me think about a lot of things today and the time just flew by. I’ll be telling poorly constructed jokes that aren’t funny but offset by constant yelling and uncomfortable microphone play. See everyone there. Bye.   

Wack Jobs

As this young year grows ever so older, more and more people are quitting their jobs. The issue is that a good portion of them are doing so for new positions boasting very little real in terms of change. All they’re doing is swapping one boring job for another. If we lived in a culture where wack jobs were valued over other types of jobs, this is one predicament we’d skip right past.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that wack jobs are people. Those wild-eyed psychos, standing on the hood of a car not their own, ranting, raving, and railing against whatever crosses their path. Be it flock of seagulls or a stack of unmarked c-notes. But that’s the old type of wack job, the type our grandfather warned us about before heading for the mall to toss pennies into an overflowing coin fountain.

These new wack jobs are different. They are occupations where little or no thought is given to them. By employer or employee. They put freedom first. The freedom to take a five hour lunch, dip paint chips in hummus, or construct the world’s largest rubber band without any protective eye gear. Wack jobs give a person the ability to make the most or least out of their position. Ambition is not a requirement. Nor is productivity. The only thing that matters in wack jobs is the story you tell the next day. “Can you believe Steve tried to walk down the elevator shaft and climb up the stairs?” 

The truth is that any job can become a wack job with the right hire. This goes for everyone and everything. From president on down, the person makes the position. 

When the day finally comes to quit your wack job, you don't do it with a polite phone call or e-mail. You do it without shame and usually when done right, it involves the disrobing and calling security. It should be a Broadway production in its theatricality. What's wonderful is that quitting a wack job like this will help you get your next wack job. Because help isn’t always all that’s wanted.