Simon of the Dessert

“What are you doing up there?,” asked a schoolboy, no more than 6 years old.

“I’m waiting. I’m praying and I’m waiting,” answered Simon. 

“What are you praying and waiting for?”

“What we all pray and wait for: a seat.”

The boy was confused, he scurried off out of sight. For sixteen years, Simon had stood atop a 30 foot cannoli. You’d think it would be difficult, but ricotta hardens over time, creating a platform from which to survey the world. So there he was, Simon, patiently perched on a gigantic Italian pastry. He made it for a festival of some local Saint, but upon seeing it from the crowd, Simon knew he was looking at, and most importantly, smelling his destiny. He wouldn’t let any of the starving throngs take a bite. It was difficult in the first few weeks of his mission. He would throw pebbles at wild dogs picking at the corners. Birds were a particularly frustrating problem in the beginning. But as the dessert grew stale, beastly interest in it wavered. 

The townspeople always tried to get him to change cannolis. Some even suggested he try a different dessert. Some said it should be French. A cavalcade of pastry chefs would visit offering him a fresh croissant for his quest. He waved them off. One baker nominated him for a James Beard Award. Intrigued, Simon comes down and asks to hear more. How is this possible? The baker is coy, but says that judges would still have to eat his creation. Sixteen years after the fact that wouldn’t be a good idea. Simon climbed back onto the cannoli and told the crowd to disperse. Everyone should go home. By then, it was getting pretty late. 

The same baker came back the next day, saying he was a personal friend of Dominique Ansel, of cronut fame. The baker offered Simon his place in line, a highly desirable position, at Ansel’s bakery where he was currently promoting the “Cannot,” a half cannoli, half garlic knot; a divine melange of the sweet and savory. Simon nearly lost his balance at the thought, but somehow maintained his composure. 

The baker came back on the third day offering him a taste of Ansel’s pastry. He handed him a 30 foot metal spoon. As the skies opened up, the rain came down. Simon couldn’t resist the garlicky smell, something that evoked memories of his childhood, one spent standing much too close to the open flame of a rustic pizza oven. The second he grabbed the oily spoon, Simon felt a shock run through his entire body. 

He'd been struck by lightning. Honestly, it was shocking it hadn’t happened sooner. There were plenty of close calls, usually involving his affinity for ostentatious bling. He was fried, along with his edible pillar, and barbecued cannolis were born. 

I Have Issues

So I’ve had a few hours to think about my platform. Although, like I said, it’s more of a series of planks than a full on platform. The kind pirates insisted captives ambled over for a final Olympic dive into the briny deep. I am not seeking out controversy with this campaign. What I want is a broad coalition of like-minded people who just happen to have a lot of money they are willing to put into my purse. Yes, I carry a purse. You can only fit so much cash in a typical gentleman’s wallet. 

CRIME

My surefire way of reducing crime is to make everything legal. That’s the only thing preventing us from transforming into a crime-free society. No crimes, no criminals. It really is that simple. 

ENVIRONMENT

In honor of Frederick Law Olmsted’s bicentennial a few days ago, I will extend Central Park to include the entirety of Manhattan. I don’t have the ability to do that – yet. But I’m tired of people on this skinny island feeling superior towards outer-borough folks. Won’t be so easy to look down on us when a friendly game of ultimate frisbee ruins your dinner plans, huh? 

ECONOMICS

I want to get back to the barter system. I want a bagel. Take my hat. I need a coffee. Here’s my watch. 

TRANSPORTATION

Not enough people ride bicycles. I have a simple solution. Take every bicycle in the city and double it – that’s how many vehicles should be on the road. How? Simple. By executive order, I will cut every bike in half, creating a city of unicycles. While there is a steep learning curve outside of the circus (especially in the heights of the Bronx), our city will become a far more interesting place if every bike messenger had only one wheel to weave in and out of traffic. 

HOUSING

Since everyone deserves a roof over their head, I am going to give out special-made “shingle hats” made from actual condemned buildings.  Where do you think straw hats came from?

VOTING

I don’t believe in "one person, one vote." I think we should reward the punctual, giving them more votes. Encourage special 2 for 1 deals. Voting should be a fun thing, done over and over. If a person can shoot their age in a game of golf, they should be able to vote their age too.

EDUCATION

Kids are smart, but they don’t need to be too smart. I will abolish schools and encourage a more latchkey existence for our city’s youth. For this, they’ll be given the right to vote. 

MENTAL HEALTH

I want to create a pipeline to help the mentally ill. They have made incredible strides in politics, but in other aspects of society are they lagging behind considerably. Every company should have a certain number (I’ll decide on it), of crazy people to provide a different perspective. 

ANIMAL RIGHTS

All animals should have the right to vote, not just domesticated pets. 

Running From Public Office

After speaking with a committee of close friends (paid confidantes), I have decided to throw my tinfoil hat into the ring. While certain types of hats upon folding easily transform into frisbee-like projectiles, with aerodynamics rarely seen outside of a sporting goods store. So there it is, balled up and bouncing across the political arena, a sign of my ascendancy. I’m running for the alternate town council person in a municipality that shall remain nameless. I don’t want to give material to my opponents.

However, they’ve been begging to know my platform. My stance on the issues is simple. I can’t be bothered to address local problems that are plaguging the community. Instead, I want to make it clear that I would have supported the Union Army during the Civil War, John Adams was wrong when he enacted the Alien and Sedition Acts, and slavery was wrong. I don’t want to mince words here. But an issue isn’t really settled until I have weighed in. People ask me what I think about alternate side parking, bike lanes, and affordable housing. I don’t have time for that, when few citizens have heard my take on Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt or The Whiskey Rebellion. 

I spoke with an elderly woman the other day in the supermarket, though I’m not sure how she knew who I was. My campaign site doesn’t have any photographs or personal information. Needless to say, someone had tipped her off. She wondered what I knew about healthcare. I told her about my vehement opposition to using leeches in medical procedures. She left satisfied. I think. 

Since I launched my campaign, I have moved my headquarters farther away from the district in question. This is the best way to keep me safe and secure. 

I will be adding new planks into my campaign in the coming weeks, after I carve out enough historical positions to show where I would have stood during the Civil Rights movement, among other important moments of social upheavel. I hope you’re with me. Good luck finding me. 

Pearl Clutchers

There was a time, before New York City’s waterways were polluted beyond belief with PCBs and self-importance, when any halfwit could wade into the harbor and dig out a dozen oysters with no extra effort. It got to the point where the first happy hours occurred in the tidal estuaries surrounding the greatest city in the world. People would file out of taverns, disgusted by the food offerings, believing they had the right to a full stomach while drinking themselves into oblivion. 

Those were different times though. While boat traffic got more and more aggressive, in the initial period of bivalve bliss, the water was practically open. No jet skis, no tankers, no swimmers. The only thing that offended people was the lack of oysters. The hoarding of a plate. The inability to find enough ice to keep the raw fare fresh and clean. 

Back then, you didn’t need a rake or a net. People simply grabbed bushels of oysters by hand, willing to put up with the brine and seaweed for a premier product. Today, that’s not that case, with middle management butting in, adding a level of hygiene not even witnessed during the height of a pandemic. People wear gloves. That sort of thing. 

Then came the pearl clutchers, who weren’t interested in guzzling Schaefer and having a few dozen oysters on the half shell. They wanted jewelry for their toy poodles. They threw out perfectly good ones when nary a pearl was found. It went on like this for years, carrying on until this very day. The pearl clutchers are ascendant, picking at their food like Diamond District dilettantes. It’s said that some of them keep a clothespin over their nose, since they can’t stand the smell of the sea. They aren’t in it for the appetizers, uninterested in proper pairings and the affect citrus has on a meaty oyster. It’s all about the glitz. They warn of food poisoning like it’s not simply a byproduct of eating well. 

Too bad you can’t find a good oyster in the Upper New York Bay any longer. But you can’t find pearls either. So sewage will have to suffice. 

No Joke

 

You guys ready to laugh tonight? ‘Cause I sure hope not. If so, then you’ve come to the right place. I don’t have any prepared jokes for my set. I just have a long list of things I need to get off my chest. Starting with this dollop of salad dressing. Did I hear a chuckle? That wasn’t a joke. I have a not insignificant amount of Balsamic Vinaigrette on my natty blue blazer. 

The reason is I’ve given up sandwiches, opting for a breadless existence, full of verdant bowls and greener, is not for health reasons. I got too spooked seeing moldy loaf after rotten baguette baking in the noon sun. They’d sit there, frying on my windowsill, something I found it harder and harder to stomach. I tried at first to power through and eat it, figuring there’s a whole line of fancy cheeses based on the principle of mold. I guess it’s different for bread. Whatever you say, you can’t say I didn’t try. 

So here I am, picking salad greens and bean sprouts out of my shoes and teeth. I started opting for paisley and other loud patterns, combatting my inability to finish a meal with wearing some of it home. First it was a radish flower in my jacket pocket, then a bunch of micro greens in my hair, like a latter day Roman emperor. What if Brutus and his co-conspirators had used salad forks instead of knives? Caesar might still be alive today. Ferns, Roma tomatoes, country markets…

I still don’t know where I stand on bread sticks and croutons. Seems to me like a loophole in the  diet. But restaurants don’t always say they’re there.  I won’t resort to picking them out like a spoiled child. I just won’t do that. 

It’s not so bad, the balsamic on my shirt. I should’ve known better. It is called dressing. I feel much better telling you this. Like a great weight has been lifted off me. Or it could be that the liquid has fully seeped into my clothes. One or the another. 

There were more subjects I intended to get to tonight, but I’m getting the light now. Maybe I’ll get a pilot or an HBO special out of this. You never know.  

CNN Minus

I am proud, excited, and a little nervous to announce a new service coming to a screen near you: CNN Minus. We wavered back and forth whether or not to use the “-” symbol in the name, but eventually decided against it. Too small, plus, what is it anyway? An em dash? An en dash? A hyphen? A horizontal monolith floating across the desert for simians and space aliens alike to marvel at?  This was the clearest, cleanest solution.

A series of unfocused focus groups gave us the confidence to forge new ground in the media space. What do I mean? Well, for one thing, I mean that while cable news is a fearsome beast with a prodigious appetite, what the people want, consumers as it were, is less. They want less of everything we usually serve them.

So that’s just what we’re going to give them: nothing. No studio shows with nineteen yammering panelists. No creepy crawls scrolling by, the Chyron of lost dreams. CNN Minus is a groundbreaking enterprise, the most revolutionary thing to hit TV since the late night color bars. But we’re here for more than simple gradient calibration. We’re not actually here. In fact, CNN Minus is already extremely profitable since we’ve hired no one for this new venture. And yet, despite all that, the ratings and click rate for our empty newsletter are already higher than Wolf Blitzer’s Last Stand.

People yell on cable news all the time, constantly disagreeing and staking claims to the most extreme position out there. As an antidote to all that noise, we’re going to give people actual white noise. Many viewers have noted that the most peaceful time of their day is during the brief static of HBO's famous intro. The soothing hum and crackle of a television screen is far better than anything produced under the banner of "new media."

 

It’s no wonder the Internet has gotten away from us, too. We miss the salad days of a dial-up modem gently turning on. As it booted up, so too did our hopes and dreams. There’s none of that today. Everything is expected to happen instantly. Not here, not on CNN Minus. Instead of hiring the brightest lights within the media landscape, we discovered that what people really want is a meditative experience, or at least, the equivalent of a traumatic brain injury. Anything to drown out the cacophony of dissonant voices howling endlessly into the ether.

Let us be your go-to get away from it all. It’s worth a shot. We’ve certainly tried everything else. Don't watch before bed and ruin a good night of sleep. Turn it on and go to sleep. That's the Minus touch.

CNN Minus. Entertainment by subtraction. 

We are S.C.A.M.

Here at S.C.A.M., “Some College of Advertising and Marketing,” we believe in credentializing skills any sentient being can easily pickup inside the echoey elevator shaft of your average office building. There’s a saying here, “there’s no predation like accreditation.” It rhymes, which is mostly what we teach budding writers to do. After alliteration and pointless punning, rhyming is what sets most writers apart. As we tell all our new students, if Shakespeare ignored the pull of iambic pentameter, he’d be Aaron Sorkin.

What advertising folks lacking a degree can’t seem to comprehend is how the industry was practically failing until these schools came along. Bill Bernbach had gone to the other side and David Ogilvy was firmly ensconced in his French countryside dotage. Ad people deserve the same thing regular people receive. A cappella groups, wine-fueled symposiums with professors, and a period in fall to sign up for activities you’ll never actually do. There are lots of ways to waste money, but they aren’t all the same. Instead of going to ad school, you could buy a nice car or a couple jet skis.

At S.C.A.M., we understand the skepticism that comes with the territory. Which is why we consider it our greatest achievement to have a student body at all, especially given our curious acronym. We are selling a product that no one needs. Sound familiar? 

Ad school gave me the appreciation that all occupations demand a certain set of standards. I stopped going to my bagel shop when I discovered the bagel boy behind the counter could barely explain the scientific process behind rising dough. He never went to school, learning the proper seeding. He skipped philosophy courses, which would have given him a better understanding of why everything bagels are far more than the sum total of their ingredients.

Now that you’re here, you should know a few things about how we operate. We used to give out X-acto knives during orientation week, but like everything these days, digital has made things easier. The last thing you want when you arrive in the agency world is to find out your partner doesn’t have a PhD in their chosen field. For example, in my history of advertising class, you’ll learn that taglines were started on the shallow banks of Lake Winnipesaukee when campers used a short, sweet, strategy for winning game after game of tag. It was only a matter of time before the Mad Men took notice. 

Former students are always saying that they’re forever in our debt. And with rising inflation, that shouldn't change any time soon. 

Compari-sins

I have a loose, clammy grasp of history. And it’s only getting less secure by the day. I simply can’t hold it together for much longer, shamelessly pretending to understand the relationship between past, present, and future. Things always seem barely out of reach. So what do I do? 

I make comparisons all day between current events and touchstones from the past. My favorite phrase is, “this is exactly like Weimar. You had to be there.” While I wasn’t technically there, I have a good idea what things were like in the apocalyptic glow of a certain country. Of course, I don’t know what “Weimar” was like, but it sure sounds good to my merry band of clickers, following my every move with bated breath and far firmer grips than I can muster.

There are plenty of terrible leaders I could drawn upon. I could reference Vlad the Impaler, Pol Pot, or any number of cagey Khans pillaging across Eurasia. I don’t do that though. I only allude to one sickly man whose rhetorical histrionics are infamous to this day. When I speak of fascism, I might be talking about Pinochet or Salazar, but I’m not. You know what I mean. I don’t have time for cleverer comparisons and references to non-Teutonic barbarians. 

My inability to think deeply is by no means limited to history. No, no. I do the same thing at the dinner table, putting every dish from Italy in how it stacks up against spaghetti and meatballs. Babe Ruth is the only baseball player I can think of. And Baby Ruth is the only candy bar that comes to mind. 

I like to maintain a surface level understanding, like a frog resting on a lily pad, never diving deeper. That and I line my home with important books hoping people watching at home notice the breadth of my shelves. Both to seem to work. No one has noticed yet.  

Putting the Cute in “Execute”

 

It’s possible, however disturbing, that you aren’t already intimately familiar with me. For the uninitiated, painfully ignorant out there, I’m Konflagra, the fiery, flamboyant, flagrantly foul, forty-first Kardashian sister. 

I have thrown my zirconium tiara into the ring of criminal justice reform. Only in my case, I’ve begun an obsession with capital punishment. I bought a bedazzled axe from the 7^th century on Etsy. The problem with the death penalty is that we’ve taken all the fun out of it, making it all about xs and os, instead of pomp and entertainment. Why can’t firing squads be fierce? Hangman? Please, it's hangperson to you. 

I never thought I liked gallows humor until I found myself pulling an executioner’s trapdoor. Laugh riots are much funnier when followed by a Pamplonan style stampede. Instead of being a model or acting, I am breaking barriers when it comes to this draconian form of violent retribution. I’ve been reading a lot of Old Testament lately and wow, it’s quite a ride. 

I am even offering a lucrative internship for a lucky Gen Zer, who will receive real-life experience as my personal “guillo-teen.” If this was a question of French cuisine, no one would bat an eye. But since it involves the death penalty, people say, “Kon, hon, you’re going to far.” Maybe. I bet you would’ve said the same thing to Robespierre. See below for a voucher for my capital collection called “Pierre’s Robes” for all the sartorially sound among the executioner elite.    

Down the Wabbit Hole

Easter isn’t easily understood by most casual church goers. They question the décor and rituals. The painting of eggs, the hunting of eggs, the obsession with eggs. Wondering aloud from their back pew why all the rabbit is involved at all. Which came first, the crucifixion or the egg?

At one time in his life, Elmer Fudd had a purpose beyond the Easter bunny. He was a hunter, he had a few friends at the VFW hall. While he spoke with a slight lisp, which old timers would ridicule him mericlessly for, there was still some comfort in their thoughtless barbs. The fact that his parents couldn’t afford speech therapy did nothing to lessen the barrage of hurtful comments. 

After a few pints with the boys, Fudd would wander into the forest, looking for his furry nemesis. Upon finding his hole, he decided to go inside instead. He’d spent much of his life waiting for the rabbit to appear. Going down the rabbit hole was an unexpected life changing event. He gained a new perspective, especially on things like dirt, rock, and worms. He started to appreciate roots and sediment, two things he had dismissed in the past as pointless obstacles to smooth ground. 

Once underground, Fudd began to see the whole world differently. He wasn’t interested in the machinations of the messiah any longer. He wanted to dig deeper, see if there were any arrowheads embedded in the earth’s crust. He yearned for a fossil, proof that his rabbitless journey was not without a cool souvenir to show friends. The lower he got the more confusing things became. He found a small studio apartment hundreds of feet below the forest floor. He saw dozens of silk robes all stenciled with the initials “B.B.” And he found a computer. 

He scrolled and scrolled, skipping between video commentaries and forum diatribes. He learned the truth this way. Things finally made sense. He never questioned why this one rabbit he’d spent years trying to kill could A) never die and B) spoke better English than he did. Nothing added up. What was he hunting anyway? Besides a being smarter, wiser and wittier than he could ever be. He had forgotten about his initial confusion surrounding Easter and what the pointlessness of decorating eggs. He saw the global masters controlling his future and past. It was as if he couldn’t escape a world animated by someone other force. He’d reach the end of a frame, believing he could dig no more and then, miraculously, there would be a little more dirt to scoop. The conspiracy unraveled as he descended to the planet’s core.

When he tried to get out of the hole, he couldn’t. There were no stairs or ladder. He had no sense of direction and it was so very dark. So he decided to stay there, which wasn’t so bad, since the rabbit had paid for a good Internet connection. He could peruse cyberspace at his leisure. He couldn’t leave a single stone unturned, which of course led to many insects replying to his actions.   

After what he learned, how could he go back hunting again? How could he wear such a ridiculous hat with the knowledge of Holden Caufield’s awful fashion sense. Plus, he’s a vegan now, forgoing his famous rabbit stew for carrot pasta. When would he return? It was hard to say. Getting out would be more than a miracle, it’d be a revelation. But getting a rise out of him after learning so much wasn’t too difficult. So he stopped talking to himself, knowing the government was listening in, even this far down. He had to be very, very quiet. That and remember to delete his Internet history. 

Sweet Charity

You’re probably confused why your donation check to the parent organization with the memo “charity” scribbled at the bottom was used to purchase jet fuel. It’s a reasonable question, one I get a lot. I’m here to put you at ease and come clean with the goal of further transparency and honesty. First of all, did you know what jet fuel is cheaper than gasoline right now? It’s true. The reason I bought it is because I have a Gulfstream G700. Why did I buy a private jet? Simple. I have so much work to do I can’t possibly waste it at the airport, checking bags, and eating sad salads under the patter of workaday travelers. 

I have places to go and if we’re going to make a major difference in this world, time matters. Did you know I was able to go to the Bahamas over the course of a regular weekend 15 times last year? I’m not talking about long weekends where I could take off Friday or shove off Thursday evening. These were regular, Saturday/Sunday variety. The classic, as I have been known to call them.

But why a private jet? I live near a small airport now in a gated community. I could have bought a different home in a different community, one without gates. That wouldn’t work though. I need to be protected at all costs. To paraphrase Louis XIV, France’s glorious Sun King, “Le movement, c’est moi.”

Why did I purchase an infinity pool? You’re right, I could have bought an old pool. But to me, an infinity pool represents the work we’re doing and striving for. It’s got that beautiful horizon line, which almost blends in with the Pacific Ocean. I turn around and there are the San Gabriels in the other direction. My child's little league team are better hydrated than their rivals because I insisted from the first practice to use only glass bottles of Acqua Panna. You can't change the world if you're stuck to an IV-drip. 

What does an activist need with a 20,000 square-foot compound atop a secluded hilltop? It’s a great place to think. I’ve been here eighteen months and I still haven’t set foot in every room. I’m really looking forward to exploring the observatory by fall. I’ve heard very good things. The aquarium is incredible too. I find that I can better relate to human beings after hours of conversing with exotic fish. 

I’ve been shocked by the criticism of my financial situation. It’s offensive to suggest that a charity doesn’t need a tennis court or two. It’s violence to assume that a hot tub and a sauna are essentially the same thing. The air I breathe is about fighting the powers-that-be. Every ounce of water I drink is consumed by thoughts of speaking truth to power. Every morsel of succulent steak au poivre expensed by the organization contains my highest aspirations for this country. 

There are lots of ways to do the work. I’d continue but I have a spa treatment in a few minutes.

 

Andy Mooney

I don’t get the moon, even though lots of people seem to like it. Children are supposed to have “phases,” not celestial bodies deserving our admiration. I guess the moon is full of it. I’m old enough to remember when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. I met Armstrong and his partner Buzz Aldrin once at a stuffy soirée in midtown Manhattan. Buzz is a funny name for an astronaut. He probably would have made a fine clown, too. I told him as much. Everyone at the party was enamored with the two moonwalkers. I don't want to go to the moon. I'd rather go to Alaska.

I have all these items from the first moon landing in '69. Coffee mugs, t-shirts, buttons, bobble-head dolls, stamps, hats, and a plastic kazoo I haven’t blown in decades. I have all this stuff to commemorate someone talking a walk. Strange, isn't it?

I take walks all the time, too. Around my block in my slippers, my bare feet or these rubber boots that haven’t seen action since the Second World War. I walk around my neighborhood with my dog Walter or my wife. Her name isn’t Walter, but I do cherish her privacy. Sometimes, when it’s nice out the ice cream man rings his bell and I buy a cone or two. He sells something called mooncakes, though I never buy them. 

I don't understand why we went to the moon at all. It seemed crazy at the time, especially during the middle of the Vietnam War. Then we kept going back. I guess now we know why, with Watergate and all. I suppose the people at NASA are worthy our respect, but I still don’t see the appeal. The moon is so far away. I don’t like trips where I can’t roll the windows down so I wouldn’t have made a good astronaut.

Mooning is something we used to do as kids on trips to Coney Island. This was during the roaring 20s and it was okay to be a little inappropriate at the beach. I’m not going to admit anything on national television, but there are more than a few people in Washington who could use a good mooning. That’s certainly something I can get behind. 

Our moon isn’t unique either. It’s just the one in our neck of the woods. Jupiter has 79 moons. Saturn has 82. That’s a lot of moons. You don’t see any t-shirts or bumper stickers about that, do you? When I was in the service, no one much cared about the moon. It was just another dot in the sky. We were much more concerned with the dots that fell out the sky. Mortar shells and other heavy artillery. 

There used to be a word for people who loved the moon: Lunatics.  

Here's The Thing

So this thing happened. It doesn’t matter what this thing was. Because I already have a ready-made response to it. And no, before you ask, it has nothing to do with empathy or compassion. I don’t have to know any details. I simply have to know that it’s a thing. And like all things, it lines up with my natural thing-response.

Which, if I’m being honest, is nice and convenient the way things always seem to work out. Take anything, anywhere, at any time and I’ll know precisely what to say. Things aren’t that different. Why should they be? They’re all things, after all. Why can’t I see one thing here and another thing over there and say the exact same thing for both? The world isn’t so complicated when you reduce it to its inherent thingness. 

Take this thing the other day. I won’t go into specifics, because they are irrelevant. I’ll say only this. It proves what I’ve been saying all along about things. Three paragraphs in, I bet you’re pretty curious. I’ll bite.

It’s a God thing. Happy now? God has a plan, okay? He sees it and he does his thing. Actually, he is more of a doer than a watcher. Although, he does that as well. To me, monotheism makes sense because it’s one guy versus a bureaucratic apparatus of lesser deities. Plus, you don’t have to know anything about any one thing. It always goes back to him. 

He did it. He thought it. He made it. It’s his thing and we’re invited to participate, but there isn’t much for us to do. I sleep better this way. There’s no parsing things or figuring things out. I know things before they happen. Not like I’m some sort of soothsayer, but my inklings are stronger and my instincts are stronger. 

You might think I’m unique in my belief system, arcane as it seems. But there are others who worship a singular force, watching as everything circles their preferred drain. This just happens to be mine and I just happen to be right. 

Incurious George

George lived in the jungle. Maybe it was the forest. He never asked those types of questions, never bothered with those distinctions. To him, home was home. Whether that meant a tree house in a rotted out  trunk or a palatial penthouse apartment overlooking Miami Beach. At one point, he was transported from his birthplace to a new place by a strange man. The details of this man were inconsequential to George. He didn’t pay attention to what color the man’s hat was or if he was  wearing a hat at all. Hats weren’t his thing. He was a monkey. Or was he a chimp? Again, it was immaterial to the matter at hand. Namely, what was for dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.

George followed the man everywhere. To meetings in alleys with guys wearing trench coats, marking mailboxes with chalk and staying in the shadows. The kind of men who were perfectly content with getting rained on. These were no umbrella men. George went along anyway. He went to big political rallies about subjects he didn’t understand. Still, he clapped when other people did and cried when they did that. That was tougher, since his tears were usually in short supply. 

He never asked the man who the people in the crowds were and what they are so animated about. He didn’t consider it relevant. He minded his business, but there he was, every Tuesday at the same apartment building with the same people. He didn’t wonder what they were planning. Sometimes, if he asked anything, it was where can a “monkey get a decent banana in this city?” Though, to be fair, it was a rhetorical ploy. He knew the fruit stands and the farmers markets. He’d been to a few organic grocery stores and others that were quite filthy. He ate the peel, too.

When the police raided the building and began arresting people, George was surprised. He never paid attention to the pamphlets or the large crates that said had “munitions" crossed out with the word "jewelry" written over it. He probably should’ve been more curious. He never thought to ask the man if he knew any good lawyers. That could've come in handy. Being himself had always worked though. Just not this time. 

Acronumb

Today in the USA, most PPL can’t resist the urge to abbreviate ASAP. FWIW and IMO but FYI, they prefer to use this shorthand to communicate with everyone from CEO on down. But there are SNAFUS. Misinterpretations of common expressions that happen 24/7. WFH could mean you’re lounging in your living room or working from the nether region known for its humidity and hooved demons. It’s not clear to me that OOO means one’s on a relaxing vacation or having just been rescued from a dangerous rip tide. Nothing quite like those first gasps once out of the ocean. 

This is what has been known as FUBAR since about the second World War. It’s all well and good to refer to presidents like JFK and FDR by their initials. But what do we do for someone without a middle name like our nation’s first president? GFW, perhaps? BLT works fine at a deli, but you can’t then add avocado, hold the tomato and ask for an edible bread bowl. 

I’m not content to LOL or TTYL when I can just as easily GAG (guffaw and gag) or simply WAIT (write about in ten years). I don’t have FOMO when my nature is to have GOOD (God or others dance). Your job isn’t to LMK when you’re probably better off SAD (squeezing a date – to be clear, we’re talking about fruit). Why take the SATs when life itself is a TEST (tortured expressions soured by toddlers). 

And don’t LMK what you think either until you’ve considered SCAM (self-censoring another mistake).

-OBM (ordinary blog man)

Odd Job

There was once a blessed man who worked in the land of Manhattan. He had a good gig in a one of those tall office buildings ascending through the clouds. He got away with a lot of questionable behavior while on the clock. His co-workers tolerated him, since he did a good job. The one day a new hire suggested to him that the only reason he remained employed was due to a personal relationship with the Big Boss. The Boss protected him, looked out for him, apologized for him. But the new hire told the blessed man that things were changing. A major merger with a Japanese conglomerate would alter the way everyone here did business, including the Big Boss. 

 

The blessed man doubted anything would change. The new hire taunted him, claming he’d quit if the Big Boss was no longer there for him. That’s when things got confusing. 

It started with a paper jam. The blessed man hadn’t seen a paper jam in years. He hadn’t needed to print anything in years. But there it was, jammed all the same. Then came network outages, the sputtering connectivity of paltry WiFi. He forgot what a modem sounded like. Then chairs were missing. The desks were gone after that. It seemed no one cleaned the office either. In the old days, you could set your watch to the whirring vacuums and soaking mops that commenced every night at 7 sharp. 

His studio-grade headphones were gone. The noodles he put in the fridge were missing, too. They were sesame and quite delicious, but now they somewhere else. He walked into a conference room one day to find the meeting had already happened, hours before. Someone had rescheduled it without telling him. The lights started to flicker more than usual. He ran through the halls looking for someone to tell a provocative joke to before finding an adequate audience. When he arrived on the punchline, the person waved him away, “no English.” He couldn’t seem to get a rise out of anyone. The windows fogged up, going uncleaned except for the occasional rainstorm. He was asked to run errands way uptown, ride a bicycle, and get strangers to sign documents in cramped foyers.

He begged the Big Boss to fire him. But his emails to that effect bounced back. He went to the top floor and found the Big Boss’s desk cleared out, like he had never worked there. Some people blamed the economy. He didn’t feel too blessed. Still, every two weeks his bank account received the same direct deposit. So something was working, even if he wasn’t. 

Just fire me, he begged. HR called him in and said he was getting a promotion. It would be more work. He didn’t want more work. He wanted his old job back with its perks and oodles of downtime. He said he had to think it over. 

 

He met up with three friends at a bar around the corner. They’d all quit their jobs, discovering newfound salvation and peace. The first friend counseled him to give up and move on with his life. The second friend said he didn’t owe the company a thing, especially not now. The third friend questioned his loyalty to the Big Boss, considering his salary was a fraction of his. But maybe it was all a misunderstanding or a test of faith. The three friends were speechless. The Big Boss raked in 25 million last year and he had a mortgage. He respectfully disagreed with his buddies, explaining to them how the Big Boss loved him and one new perk was that he didn't have to wear a suit and tie to work. In fact, he was shirtless most days. 

The blessed man knew it wasn’t easy, but he also knew he wasn’t qualified. He didn’t want to go back out on the job market. He was lucky to have a job. 

Parliament Defunctadelic

A political party is like a piece of fruit. In its prime of life, there’s nothing sweeter. But when the rot comes, everything goes to pot. It’s why a quick squeeze is important before consuming, testing for ductility. Beyond anything else you may think about politics, it’s time for us to come together as a country and get two new parties. We’re in need of a refresh. We’re not still playing The Jazz Singer at local cinemas or drinking spruce beer at the tavern.

The Whig Party is long gone. The Federalists faded into obscurity on a  Weehawken plain, some two hundred years ago. The Copperheads and the Commies went bye bye. There’s nothing like a defunct political party in order to perform a post-mortem. Because you can’t perform on autopsy on the living. But is living what we’re witnessing right now?

Then again, fruit that’s withering on your plate, has many fermentation possibilities. You don’t have to throw it in the garbage or find a nearby compost heap. A piece of fruit you thought was done can quickly transform into a blinding beverage illegal in most states. We’ve never finished the fermentation process when it comes to parties. We get rid of them too soon, before they age into something finer than wine. Although, there is a strong case that the Know Nothings, by other names, became ascendent and took over politics, entertainment, sports, and culture.  

If that’s too much work and involves the technical know-how of a middling moonshiner, then there are other options. I’m not asking for ideological purity or a major shift in policy. A simple name change might be enough. The way one day bartenders became mixologists. Though I don’t recall sloppy drunks turning into classy inebriates. Whatever we’re doing, the current names aren’t working. I mean, sports teams do it all the time when public pressure mounts. While we’re at it, a few of our biggest states could use a refresh. How “new” is New Hampshire? 

Veto Corleone

You don’t have to go far to feel that very little gets done these days. I’m sure there’s a set of construction cones blocking off a roadway near you, disrupting traffic for the foreseeable. Most projects languish for years before someone even notices. The point is rarely to finish something, but merely to kick the cone down the road. Where’s the imagination? Today, our visionaries are engaged in mostly abstract thinking. Would it kill Musk to build a skyscraper? He’s thinking about Mars or drilling to the earth’s core, but isn’t there a middle ground out there, just waiting for his backhoe? 

If government has sat idle for years, afraid of the cost of things, it seems other businesses have also caught the bureaucratic bug. The mafia, once the living (not always living) embodiment of the American Dream, actually accomplished stuff. They built cities, moved massive amounts of drugs, and gallivanted across the globe like feudal lords. Today, they concentrate on cyber crime and other online transgressions. Like many others, they are glued to their phones, which is amazing when you consider that after J. Edgar Hoover and Rudy Giuliani, Alexander Graham Bell is the most hated man in the history of La Cosa Nostra. Put down the smartphone, Sal, and a pick up a baseball bat. You’ll know what to do with it. 

Mobsters, afraid of doing real time, object to basically every new idea that comes across their olive oil stained desks. They lack the can-do attitude of their ancestors. Why aren’t they trying to solve climate change, skimming a little off the top in the process? Instead you hear about harebrained operations to steal identities or get into crypto. 

It’s no surprise that the mob was once heavily in construction. Now that they’ve turned to other things, we have a housing crisis. Coincidence? How could it be? Making someone an offer they can’t refuse is taught in every Business school in the country.

Everyone would do a lot better if more people simply said, “yeah, okay.” Most successful people end up in prison or bankrupt and those are the facts. There isn’t the same stigma as in the old days for spending a few years in the slammer. Ask Elizabeth Holmes.

 

I believe in criminal justice reform for criminals who haven’t even committed their crimes yet. Try and beat that. 

Yawn Stewart

 

 

There’s this thing I want to talk about. No one else has thought to talk about it before me. Okay, so maybe that’s not technically true. But I wasn't part of the conversation and I was raised that if I’m not there, then it didn’t happen. The falling tree in the forest thing. Conversations go on all the time and I can’t possibly know everything that’s been said, but that doesn’t stop me from assuming I know exactly what’s been said. We’ve been talking about certain things for centuries. How old do you think I am?

I have a point to make. A few actually. They’ve all been made before, repeatedly by people both dumber and smarter than me. Which is to say, everyone. I want to make it clear that what I’m saying has been vetted. There’s no way I’d risk speaking extemporaneously right now. 

You may be wondering why I’m not just counting my money in my palatial estate. It’s simple. Counting money these days involves computer screens and spreadsheets. I got rich in the first place so I could see cash, hold it in my hands. Apparently, my coterie of financial advisors advises against that. 

It’s a shame, really. I had this plot in my backyard perfect for a money pit. They told me you can’t accumulate interest like that. Sure, but what I don’t want is interested people, snooping while I’m sitting down with a banker beneath the glow of those little green lamps.

Look, I've done some good things, legitimate great things for the less fortunate. Which of course means it's not sanctimonious when I lecture the audience. It's just a little medicine for the masses. Remedies for the rabble. A panacea for the polloi. My show is an extra dose of reality. I'm up here searching for a vain. 

I once had a side-splitting disposition, taking down sacred cows with the alacrity of a gentleman farmer. No longer. Don’t be fooled by my gray beard, because I only see things in black and white. The truth is, my time off gave me the authority to chime in better than wind chimes, casually sounding off in the breeze. I know what I'm talking about. I know better. I always did, but now I really know. 

I used to finger wag and smirk, roll my eyes and feign shock. Sometimes, I’d even yawn. My time off stage was rough, as I saw others take my schtick and enrich themselves beyond my wildest dreams. The funny thing about show business is you still need a room full of writers to write the same joke.

Hex Appeal

 

I’m not here to criticize someone for protecting their establishment with a security gate. Something that rolls down like a curtain, only inside of the finest silk, it’s steel or wrought iron. These paranoid owners are interested in keeping their merchandise safe from handsy interlopers. Cameras are a possible deterrence. As an our alarm bells, a far, dissonant cry from the fair weather clang of an Ice Cream truck. 

There are other dilemmas facing the average small business owner, besides the faint prospect of looters. Whatever your specialty is, there’s one thing most people these days never think to guard against. It’s almost as if it’s fallen from public consciousness, with us forgetting our roots. I’m talking about the Devil. Not a devil, but the horned, hoofed one, used to hot, humid environments. He’s here. 

What people don’t appreciate is that, when you figure out a devil stopping mechanism, all your worries about minor transgressions will also fall by the wayside. Shoplifting goes away once Satan is relegated to a different block. But how?

Early farmers knew the deal. They’d put ornate patterns on their barns to keep Lucifer from getting into trouble with the chickens, or the pigs, or the cows. He would keep moving down the road, often looking for horseshoes after admiring the gait of a working horse. Because the Devil, like many a greedy philistine from history, doesn’t understand key principles of industrial design. It confuses him. Nor is he a patron of the arts. 

Where are these patterns today on the aluminum awning of a late night bodega? Nowhere. Want to get crime down in urban areas? This seems like a good place to start. Go right to the source.

A Moving Day

 

Back when New York City began as a colonial backwater, May 1^st was a day of madness, something worth noting despite the prevalence of aberrant behavior. On this day, every year, all leases would end at the same time – 9 AM. The landlord-imposed frenzy created a mad rush for new homes by anxious renters. But it was a sensation, a local custom, which carried on through the years. For many people, this was the only exercise and fresh air they got. And think of the deals. This was long before people hoarded expensive Louis Vuitton luggage parcels under their beds. The weather was usually good and by 11 AM, the people who hadn’t found shelter, simply went across the river to Brooklyn for cheaper pastures. 

What many people, even the nation’s preeminent legal scholars don’t know, is that for centuries April Fools’ Day provided a similar circumvention of the social contract. As the country and city grew together, April 1^st represented a chance to get away with things that would otherwise be considered if not criminal, than in poor taste. There are rulings, which had withstood the test of time.

The Estate of J.A. Delancey v. Trinity Church

Josias Delancey visited his local parish on April 1, 1818, getting a guarantee from the on-duty priest he'd make it to heaven, despite a lifetime of sins, big and small. 

Lispenard v. Giovanni The Grocer

A landmark case in New York Supreme Court history (1797). Lispenard, a wealthy magnate, shopping for his weekly produce, stopped by Giovanni’s stand on the morning of April 1, 1797. Giovanni convinced the richer man to purchase sixteen hundred “El Dorado” papayas, claiming they had similar properties to the Fountain of Youth, though immortality was only attainable in huge quantities. Lispenard eventually first went bankrupt, then lost his home exactly one month later. The only good news for him was he kicked his gout with a steady diet of fresh fruit. 

Chrystie v. Forsyth and Forsyth

Moses Chrystie was a city politician with a penchant for the dramatic. On the afternoon of April 1888, he was walking his dog, General Washington, through the streets of Old New York when he was approached by Mortimer Forsyth, a local rogue. Forsyth mentioned how it was a shame his dog couldn’t speak his home country’s native tongue. The beast was a German Shepherd, so his knowledge of the teutonic tongue was probably hidden, out of a sense of propriety and respect for his master. Chrystie handed over thousands of dollars watching as Forsyth patiently taught the dog how to conjugate verbs. Later in the day, Forsyth’s youngest brother, Randolph, arrived on the scene hauling a dolly of Dog to English/English to Dog dictionaries. In all, Chrystie spent most of his life savings in one afternoon hoping to hear General Washington recite his namesake’s famed Farewell Address. 

The last two cases were important in upholding the now universal principle of caveat emptor, or buyer beware. If you can believe it.