The Roar Shack

It was like any other bistro on the promenade, with waiters in ill-fitting tuxedos and loud, clod-hopping footwear, completely destroying any element of surprise. At noontime, regulars filed in, finding their usual seats. Newcomers always had trouble understanding the rhythm of the place. A starving tourist wandered in. He was met by the host, who instructed him to sit wherever. The Tourist got the sense that this is what he really meant. He could sit wherever. Chairs, floor, even behind the mysterious “Employees Only” door. 

Nonetheless, he picked a spot by the window, a prime people-watching position for the lonely diner. The waiter arrived with a long menu and handed it to the Tourist. Something was terribly wrong. He couldn’t read a single item. Each line was smeared with what appeared to be expensive black ink. This had to be some mistake. 

“Excuse me, garçon, my menu is illegible. Do you have another one?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The waiter handed him another menu, this one entirely smeared, arguably worse than the first one.

“I don’t understand. How can I order if I can’t read a thing?”

“You know how.”

“Any specials?”

“Nope. What are you in the mood for?”

“I’d like a burger.” 

“Very well.”

“Do you do burgers?”

“We do whatever you want, sir.” 

He walked away, leaving The Tourist, even more puzzled by the interaction. Leaning over to a neighboring table, he tapped one of the men on the shoulder.

“That salad looks good. Is that a special?”

The man giggled. His partner giggled. Even their toy poodle yipped in a way that might have been described as a canine guffawing. 

“Thanks.”

The food arrived without incident. The Tourist ordered whatever he wanted. More of everything, as he said several times to several people not his waiter. When the check landed it was perfectly legible, in the high triple digits. To add to his distress, it said, in clear bold letters, “cash only.” The waiter walked over to The Tourist.

“Is there a problem?”

“Had I know that water refills were 8 dollars each, I might have gone easy on the pitchers for every table.”

“At the Roar Shack, diners see what they want to see.”

The Tourist paused, thought about it for a minute and plopped down two crisp twenties.

“That seems good. You good?”

“Good.”

Good Eye

When people drone on about monocultures and the inherent problems arising from their subsequent cultivation, the commentary is, generally speaking, way off base. These critics are too far in the weeds, or in the case of soil deprivation, in the dirt, to offer up cogent thoughts on the subject. Lost in the aggressively irrigated spaces of vast farmland are other opinions worth listening to. 

On the rare instances that I hear “monoculture” discussed within impolite society, I don’t think about singular crops, repetitive art, an aversion to stereo, or cargo cults committed to the slobbering transmission of mononucleosis. I think about monocles and their honored place in society. What gives us the right to prefer glasses to the single lens of a chained monocle? It’s a wondrous implement of power, class, and luxury. A way to see things clearly without seeing things too clearly. 

Depth perception is just that – perception. An awkward gait marked by bumping into furniture and curbs, gives others the impression that you possess a certain undefinable eccentricity. Glasses would take away that uniqueness, making you just another straight walker. The monocle is like a pocket watch, impractical yet indispensable all the same. 

Like many people growing up in America, I was raised to appear smart. College bound and with a bookshelf to prove it, I soon discovered that no diploma or grade point average is a match for a British accent a pair of glasses. Spectacles are a spectacle, monocles are spectacular.

Thoughts and Hot Air

I was once religious in my relentless devotion to giving gifts to friends, family, colleagues, and strangers. I had a detailed spreadsheet of birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and every significant moment worthy of celebration. I hoarded wrapping paper all year round, filling an entire room of my home with ribbons, bows, boxes, tape, and scissors. Everything a person needs to deliver the ideal gift without a UPS uniform. I knew everyone’s address by heart. 

Like I said, that’s what I used to do. I spent thousands of dollars every month on appliances, books, a stockpile of generic gifts so I was never caught off guard or worse, empty-handed. Then something changed. I realized I was adding to the clutter of their lives. People whom I allegedly cared about. That’s when I found the perfect solution. 

Thoughts and prayers. Instead of wasting time browsing Amazon or camping out in the Walmart parking lot just before dawn, I close my eyes and think about the person. First off, it’s free. And though I was becoming a minor celebrity in the halls of my local post office, I don’t miss the waiting and the survey questions buried at the bottom of long receipts. I don’t have to worry. Then when I do see the recipient in person on speak to them on the phone, I say, “did you get my gift?” When they act confused, I explain the deal to them. this way, the next good thing that happens to them I can take full credit. “Oh, you got a new job. Must’ve been my thoughts and prayers that did the trick.” 

The great thing about thoughts are how unspecific they are. I start by thinking about anything. A baseball game, what’s for dinner, if they’ll ever repair the pothole on the end of my block. Prayers are more focused, and usually deal with the person in question. Sometimes I can even do things in bulk and offer the same thoughts to the same person. This is how Christmastime goes. Honestly, I can always just say “I’m thinking of you,” without actually thinking anything beyond that phrase. Who’s going to check?  

It's gotten me into meditating, which is how my thoughts and prayers generally evolve. First there’s a thought, then a prayer, and pretty soon I’m oming on the nearest yoga mat. I’m much more relaxed, too. Since I’ve switched to my new gifting method, I have so much more free time. For one thing, I get far fewer paper cuts than I used to. 

You Turn

You didn’t tightly pack a series of geometrically perfect snowballs last winter, storing them in your freezer for a warmer day, when the expectations of an icy projectile have reached their seasonal nadir. They did it. They changed the climate, making it worse. They invented refrigeration, allowing for such a frozen cache to take up attractive real estate within your modern ice box. They said you wouldn’t get in trouble for pelting a confidante with a frosty ball of pent up rage. 

You didn’t forget to close the garage door or lock the house. They created a society reliant on security systems and distrusting of strangers. They forced you to install doors as a barrier to others. They made a world with too many distractions. They shouldn’t be surprised you forget little things when there’s so much to scroll past on social media. 

You didn’t leave the stove on, turning the quiche into a burnt brick of dark matter. They did that when they removed burning wood from the process. They put you in the position of making a mistake that simply wasn’t possible in the 12^th century. 

You didn’t rob a liquor store. They did by making the price of Boone’s Farm so expensive. They were robbing you before you ever walked through the entrance and smiled into the camera. They made you like this.

You didn’t overcome a tough upbringing to succeed in life. They get the accolades here, since they gave you the opportunities. They took you along for the ride and you were mediocre enough not to hop off. 

They get the blame, they get the credit. You’re a vessel for them, since they made you do it.

Farewell, Friends!

Goodbye, so long, and see you later,

The void I’m leaving this magazine is a sizable crater.

I got myself started after the Second World War,

Since fiction editors weren’t needed in the Army Air Corps.

I was often mistaken for an Episcopalian,

Which is certainly preferable to a tatterdemalion.

For seventy years, I corrected the best,

Rewriting sentences and deleting the mess.

Of Thurbers, Nabokovs, and John Updikes,

Since few writers get the benefit of three strikes.

In baseball, my fandom went back a long ways,

To Ruths, Gehrigs, and Napoleon Lajoies.

I supported teams all over the league,

Life’s too short for rooting fatigue.

Admired Koufax’s curve and broke Gibson’s stare,

When the weather misbehaved, I turned to prayer.

Enthralled by the bunt and the infield fly,

I spent a lifetime parsing nuances, both subtle and wry,

Some sportswriters resented my special access,

With plenty of time allotted to indulge and digress,

I wasn’t Jimmy Cannon, Red Smith or even Damon Runyon,

At first they treated me like I exhaled raw onion,

To put them at ease, I made my intentions clear,

I wasn’t after their jobs, how ‘bout a beer? 

I made friends across the press box and into the dugout,

Earl Weaver was one, who liked to shower then air out,

Short and clever, naked and profane, 

Clothes were a nuisance when chatting post-game.

Names filled my notebook from seasons now gone,

I was lucky to pitch my ideas to Mr. Shawn.

Yogi, Reggie, and a young Tom Seaver.

Mickey, Whitey, and an old John Cheever.

Astronauts may have walked on the moon,

But Bill Lee spoke with an alien tune.

In ’67, there was nothing like Yaz,

‘Cept maybe Miles revolutionizing jazz.

Jackie, Joe D., and The Splendid Splinter,

I always wept a little, with no games in winter. 

I entered the Hall of Fame, not too long ago,

With a place among the greats along Lake Otsego.

I wish you all contented returns,

Even those who never read me, owing it all to Ken Burns.

Would you look at the time, it flies like a liner,

There are no ties, neither here nor the Minors,

I enjoyed my extra innings the best I could,

Let that be a lesson for living well and good.

That's me in a nutshell.

I bid you adieu and farewell.

But to make it to 101?

Not bad, what a run!

Gullible's Travels

When Gullible was a young boy, he’d sit by the port, watching the tall ships arrive and depart. It was here he learned the word “embark.” At first, it seemed like a superior canine gesture. Did you see the postman today? He barely survived after the guard dog nearly embarked him. A captain corrected him, an ongoing theme throughout his life. 

Whenever the sailors walked ashore, Gullible asked them where they were going. They usually answered, unless they were awash in drink, giving their sea legs the consistency of seaweed. The gelatinous joints of a liver-spotted lech. Some mentioned the West Indies, where the natives were over 20 feet tall. Or Mars, where Columbus retired after his Transatlantic voyages. He thought he was on Jupiter, but navigational errors never seemed to bother Genoa’s second favorite export after any dangling salame.

Gullible worked up the courage to join his nautical heroes aboard the deck of a recent arrival. Or that’s what they told him it was. “Staten Island Ferry” loosely translated to “Spanish Galleon Ferry.” The first mate blindfolded Gullible, telling him it would cure his seasickness. A old pirate’s trick, which also included sucking on a lime for the duration of the cruise. When they landed about thirty minutes later, Gullible was told that time is different on the high seas. What felt like thirty minutes was actually weeks. And the language the people on shore were speaking was not English but what’s called a “mirror tongue.” It only seems like they’re speaking English. Gullible was hungry after the crossing, made worse by realizing he hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks, excluding lime juice, of course. 

Now ready to return to their port of origin, Gullible said he wanted to stay and make it work. This was his first time visiting the tropics and their culture intrigued him. He was also quite taken by the skyscraper mirage in the distance. Cloud formations that appeared to look exactly like the lower Manhattan Skyline. First thing though, he had to pay the Captain. It’s not like the ferry was free. 

Credit Cards

It’s a weird thing, the blog writing non-business. The truth of the matter is, I’m not the only person involved in writing this daily screed. It’s anything but a solo effort. There are many individuals who until today have remained nameless. They will continue to remain faceless, but that’s their choice. I am simply here to set the record straight. Every morning I get up and contact this list of hard working people. Type A personalities who help make this blog what it is today and prevent it from turning into what it isn’t. 

Executive Traducer

Irwin Winker

 

First Assistant Hectorer

Pest Anderson

 

Sounds Good Effects Supervisor

Cate Play

 

Blunt Coordinator 

Dean Brusk

 

Makeup Stuff Artist 

Connie Jurer

 

Still Photographers after all these years

Diane Airbus

 

Boom Operators

T. Entee

 

Bang Operators

Tim Pani

 

Crash Operators

Commander E.S. Cape

Keyboard Grip

Allen Qwerty

 

Gabbers

Telecom Savalas

 

Site Decorators

George “Geo” Cities

 

Set Dresser

Wes Elm

 

Set Drawers

Potter E. Barn

 

Intellectual Prop Masters

Cop E. Wright

N. Fringe

 

Destruction Grip

Armie Wrestling

 

Construction Stranglehold

The Gambino Mime Family

 

Chief Carpenter

Jesus

 

Editors

Blob Gottlieb

 

Re-Rewriting Engineers

Richard Fine Man

 

Hotairstylists

Helium

 

Special Affects Department

Sinn Feign

 

Vocation Managers

Bill Burnback

 

Ghosting Writer

Ted Borenson

 

Arts and Craft Service

Mark Ara

 

First Aid

Chimera Barton

 

Second Aid

Ed Rash (Nurse)

 

Transportation Coordinators

Wario Andretti

 

Assistant to Mr. Mosier

Dan Sing

 

Bad Publicity

Reed Urs

 

Lack of Research

Doris Kearns Badwin 

 

Special Thanks

You

 

Special You’re Welcomes

Me

Smug for the Camera

3…2…what is it? Suddenly, after applying makeup, blush, a little rouge, and a flowing fake mustache, you have problem with my camera. I told you I was going to use my phone. It’s 2022, people take pictures with their phones now. Look at it the shot. You’re fine, the background is fine. It won’t hang in the National Portrait Gallery, but for your purposes, I wouldn’t complain too much.

I don’t have a polaroid camera. In fact, who even has a polaroid camera? Do you know what year this is? That sort of kitsch is beneath my self-respect and well-above my pay grade. I’m doing this as a favor, only since you asked me. And now, I’m starting to regret it. 

I told you already, shooting on film means we have to wait for the roll to be developed and then get things printed. It might take a week. Can you wait that long? You’re willing to wait a month if that’s what it takes. 

Sorry, but I can’t afford a Hasselblad on such short notice. I know the Apollo astronauts used them. But you’re going to Massapequa, not the moon. 

Let’s get this over with, okay? Mugshots aren’t usually taken by friends. I’ll see you at the trial.  

Smart as a Rock

“Dumb as rock,” skips across conversations like a lone pebble traversing a gentle stream in Christ-like fashion. But are rocks truly dumb? And even if they were, what gives us the authority to deride and dismiss?

In a time of widespread micro-aggressions, where every offense is taken personally and the worst possible interpretation is accepted, I still have never seen anyone come to the defense of rocks. Not even geologists who, given their chosen profession, have plenty of time of their hands. Doesn’t seem right to me.

Rocks don’t take a vow of silence like liquored up monks. They don’t need to. They come and go as they please, drifting in and out of our lives, playing the long game. They can freely ignore our thoughtless barbs, knowing they aren’t going anywhere. They were here long before us and they’ll be here long after us. 

It’s wise to never get into pointless debates with yammering fools. That is the rock’s mentality. They roll, fall, and crack depending on the situation. That is what dictates their movement. Dumb? Hardly. Sure, some have the ostentatiousness of a great Redwood (white cliffs of dover, I’m looking at you), but most are austere and unassuming. Keeping to themselves and out of harm’s way. 

They have friends. Boy do they have friends. 65 million years ago they had a friend who settled a dispute they were having with the planet’s primary tenant. Needless to say, the eviction went off with plenty of fireworks. 

You're Reaching

There’s an old Scottish saying, “happy wife, happy fife.” The best way to know a phrase isn’t contrived or complete and utter nonsense is when it rhymes. If it’s catchy, it can’t by definition be inane piffle. I have heard a lot from otherwise stupid people that, "freedom of speech, something something, freedom of reach." It has that same golden ring found among the peatiest bogs north of Aberdeen. So what does it mean?

I have an idea. You can moralize, you can expound, you can lay out while laying out a case for anything from the silky boundaries of a King Sized bed. But what you can’t always do is reach for the ringing alarm clock on the other side of the bed. You can’t reach for the remote to turn the AC down to truly tundral climate. You can’t get that thing you dropped behind the headboard years before. Too bad. It’s really starting to smell now. You can’t stay in bed all day and remain a high functioning criminal defense attorney. Sometimes the aches and pains from the previous day disqualify you from hopping out with the bounce a fresh tennis ball. 

It happens elsewhere. In the car when you parked, it’s pouring and you can’t quite reach the golf umbrella wedged under the backseat. A shame. To stay dry, you’ll have to get wet. A Confucian conundrum if there ever was one. 

There are even moments when you can’t reach a true equilibrium without accounting for alternate realities. After a rather hearty meal, I’ll ask myself out loud if I have reached genuine fullness. It’s a tricky question, since while I might be full here, it’s very possible I’m still hungry in the metaverse. I grab an extra biscotti or two and that often does the trick. 

There’s also the case of self-appreciation. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, one’s own natural agility can prevent reaching the back for a quick, complimentary pat. You may be reflexive, but are you flexible? Dislocation is a constant risk. 

But you know what they say. Freedom of speech, freedom of reach, freedom to preach. Although, you can’t necessarily pick your choir. That’s usually up to the higher ups.

Fritter

I saw the worst minds of my generation destroyed by 
            inanity, gorging idiotic exposed,

scrolling themselves through the moronic tweets at dawn

            searching for a boring fix,

artisanal hipsters yearning for the asinine hellish

            connection to starry celebrities in the machin-

            ery of trite,

who politics and hot takes and follow-eyed and why sat

            up vaping in the preternatural darkness of

            social media profiles floating across the tops of cities

            contemplating nothing,

who barred their brains from functioning and

            saw Mozillan angels fading into the inter

            net abyss excoriated,

who passed through institutions with vacant dead eyes

            plagiarizing America and Shakespeare-like tragedy

            among the scholars of more,

who were admitted to companies for stupid and

            publishing insane odes on the screens of the 

            numbskulls,

who lowered into unspoken rooms in outerwear, burn-

            ing their eyes in cell phones and listening

            to the Error through the wifi,

who got disgusted in their public beards returning through

            Facebook with a meme of idiocy for Instagram,

who ate facts in quaint motels or drank Snapchat in

            infernal valleys, meth, or multistoried their

    condos flight after flight

with screams, with rugs, with woke nightmares, al-

    mighty and TikTok and pointless takes,

incomprehensible unkind clicks of doddering crowd and

            interference in the mind buzzing toward poles of

            Democrat & Republican, surging all the kil-

            terless world of Time between,

who climbed atop rickety soapboxes for the

            endless pontification from the Battery to the Bronx

            hopped up on adderall and Dim Sum,

who stared all night into the glowing light of Steve Jobs’

            creation and waited for someone to answer or

            someone to provoke,

who talked continuously about headlines they skimmed but

            articles they would never read,

who vanished into the abyss believing what the planet

            needed most now was another podcast,

who wandered around parks at midnight looking for a

            worthy intellectual opponent, human or rodent, 

    canine or avian,

who wandered between the thoughts of others without

            ever once forming their own opinions,

who repeated slogans about slogans about slogans about slogans

            to prove their purity in the face of skepticism,

who kept up with a Jones of the dope scripture because nothing

            on TV could hold their attention anymore,

who conspired to come up with theories about recent events

            in history and their personal life,

who paraded across different platforms in search of meaning

            and joy despite the constant march of vitriol,

who felt a sense of peace and tranquility when surrounded by

            unending vituperations,

who became much dumber over the years and less generous

            from the person who graduated eighth grade,

who lost their grip on reality with each click and let the clammy

            palm of convenient half-truths provide solace,

who accused old friends of terrible things and gave new friends

            unearned compliments,

who howled into their built-in laptop cameras whenever they 

            were on mute,

who didn’t know what they were so angry about but couldn’t stop

            fighting,

who bought things from fools that weren't for sale and

            gave them away for a big profit,

who weren't happy but couldn't stop doing the same thing

            again and again and again and again,

who felt the warm glow of a mid-afternoon book burning and

            all-day character assassination,

who piled onto things they couldn’t begin to understand but 

            were compelled to join,

who would've been comfortable at Salem during those hot

            nights of fiery rage,

who missed out on life and sunny days and cloudy days and rain days

            and sunsets and sunrises and wind storms and thunderclaps and

            full moons and half moons and gibbouses and crescents and

            shooting stars but had more and more unspoken wishes,

who forgot the smell of a fireplace and freshly cut grass and 

            hot pretzels and hot dogs and hot nuts,

who couldn’t hear the sound of an Ice Cream truck and a sant-

            itation truck and church bells and overhead planes and 

            singing and laughing and talking,

who wasted their time and ours,

            and for what again?