The Bear Minimum

Shark attacks are up in the New York area and swimmers are running scared. Doesn’t make sense to me. Why can’t we be happy – happier than clams – in pools and bathtubs? It’s not like we’re in boiling pots of water or cracking along the grates of a fiery grill. We’re not exactly sea creatures, are we? You can’t blame the sharks for acting out either. It’s not like they’re coming to trivia night at your local bar or catching you at the office in between meetings. We’re the ones going into their homes without so much as an invitation. Human beings might be at the top of the food chain on land, but in the ocean, we’re just another snack.

But they aren’t alone in their bad publicity. 

And given the constant barrage of shark content, you’d think these apex predators were the only ones prone to human attacks. Have we forgotten about mountain lions? There are others, too. 

Take bears. Like most mammals, they’re struggling in this economy, trying to figure out where their next meal is coming from. So here are some things you can do when confronted by a bear at a park or in the workplace. 

Capitalizing the B is Bear is a good, though hardly sufficient start. They won’t know it by yelling “Hey Bear!” at them. To make it clear where you stand on this issue, you need to write memos to them and long, formal emails. Otherwise, it’s a meaningless gesture.

Don’t humansplain while enjoying some wild salmon. You can’t possibly understand what it means to “catch” salmon with your bare hands (your bear paws). Defer to their expertise. 

Apologize if you’ve caused them harm by placing a beartrap in your backyard. Hanging your food from a tall tree via an intricate pulley system is patronizing. Like all strong relationships, this one is built on mutual trust and/or a love of candy.  

Could they eat you? Yes. But that’s what happens when groceries are expensive, many have to consider other options simply to survive. 

Boredom Peterson

Lately, many people have accused me of being a cult-like figure. Which is not the same as a cult-like figurine, protected under the plastic sheen of packaging material and re-sold on eBay for top dollar. Neither are correct in the technical, historical, or mythical sense.

How come? For one thing, I lack the charisma of a Jim Jones, as well as the sunglasses. I don’t know the difference between kool-aid and regular ol’ fruit punch, a key component of any communitarian enclave. I don’t have the easy-going personality of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, nor do I possess his love of the color red. I haven’t sat on the ground in decades, preferring a throne. I look better from the neck up in an ill-fitting suit, complemened by a choppy internet connection. Others assume I have fascistic inclinations based on my love of harsh hand gestures. It’s not true. I was told by my doctor that keeping blood to my extremities is extremely important. 

How can I be a cult leader without a name? Every movement has a name. I’m just a man with a few ideas. Ideas that before me were so obvious most people had never thought to put them down on paper. I got a book out of it. Before me, clean rooms were few and far between. People let sheets dangle on the floorboards and stacks of used periodicals pile up to the ceiling. I was the first one to publically recommend napkins and a mirror to check the whisker-to-crumb ratio.

I’m a recovering drug addict, not that you’d know that. I blame society for my problems and the arc of history bending towards solipsism. Plus, I was a drug addict in the same way Robert DeNiro was an Oscar Winner. The is a man who starred in Dirty Grandpa.

The real reason I’m not a cult leader is because I don’t do anything remotely interesting with my supposed power. I lecture people. I get interviewed on podcasts. But I haven’t bought a private island. I don’t wear a funny hat or written a sci-fi novel. I haven’t changed my name to something catchier. Maybe I’m not cool enough for the role. I certainly am rich enough though. 

Life Intimidating Art

There are schools all over the world teaching acting to actors. Where people sit around all day running lines and giving their characters life with a fake paunch, a pronounced slouch, or a carefully crafted wobble. They get critiqued by teachers who look them up and down and then listen as they deliver words written long, long ago.

But you don’t need to go to school to be an actor. Maybe if you want to play lots of different parts and learn how to do a cockney accent that isn’t just a Michael Caine impression. Then it can help even the most naturalistic of thespians. 

And method acting, while admirable, can be quite annoying if you have to share a cab or God forbid a meal with an artisanal cobbler with a foot fetish or a budding psychopath preparing for a part. Some people simply choose to live their lives as if acting is not a thing. As if movies and plays aren’t real. Then one day they are called upon to use the skills accrued over a lifetime. For some people, acting coaches help about as much as parole officers. That is to say, only a little. 

Instead of hiring an actor to play a chef, you could hire an actual chef. The same goes for landscapers, cops, and yes, mobsters. But for the last one, it takes more than a closet full of track suits and love of cured meats to pull it off. You need the ability to say “oooh” in hundreds of different ways. Your hands need to have an accent thicker than your average paisan from Sheepshead Bay. And your hair can’t ever be out of place, unless you find yourself wandering through the barren pinelands of central New Jersey. Though that’s the exception, not the rule. 

About Tonight's Performance

For those who were looking forward to tonight’s performance, we’re almost sorry. Almost, because, any person looking forward to such drivel is clearly in need of serious professional help. But you paid for your tickets and expected a show of raw, uncensored comedy. That isn’t going to happen. Not on our watch, anyway. There was an overwhelming response from a single outraged audience member. That was enough for us to cancel the show.

In its place we enlisted a group of local bluegrass musicians. Unfortunately, we did so without realizing this problematic Southern tradition. We aim to be an inclusive space for all types of artists and art consumers. Too bad drums – and by extension, drummers - are not welcome on a stage with the descendants of Bill Monroe. Therefore, bluegrass is another example of us falling short of our lofty ideals. 

After that we booked a new age dance troupe, not thinking about the heteronormative implications of a group of a dancers.

Then we asked a classical quartet to play, forgetting the connection between it and Nazism. Wagner anyone? 

The pull of problems seemed to be inescpable. At every turn, we found each new performer had their own baggage – to say nothing of their actual baggage, which our tiny theater can barely store.

Then it dawned on us. Mimes. We’ll hire mimes. Mimes can’t offend anyone, can they?  They ride around on silly bicycles, gesturing and never saying a word. Then the letters started pouring in about the French, Freedom Fries, Vichy, and how silence is now considered violence. Suddenly, mimes were out. 

We did the only reasonable thing and closed up shop for good. But if you feel like you have to get out of the house tonight, our doors will be unlocked and our lights will be off. Concessions will be open though. So feel free to sit and ponder deep questions of the universe while nothing takes place around you. Because an empty stage is a safe one. 

Tree Hugs

Environmentalism suffers from the same set of ailments usuallly plaguing activist movements. Which is, of course, a lack of focus. Are we here to promote tricycles, bicycles, and unicycles? Or are we here to deflate the air in car tires and setting up protests at the feet of congested urban areas? Is it about switching our straws from plastic to paper or our underwear from linen to burlap?

The problem with environmentalists is simple: they aren’t always who they say they are. I suppose in a perfect world, hugging trees would be fine. But the practice, which has been a primary plank for centuries, may not survive the #MeToo era. Trees are living things, like your shrieking salad, shrieking at every fork poke. The last thing trees need is for a human being to wrap themselves around them. When has it ever really prevented the impending blade? We all know that hugging is a gateway to other more sordid acts. The casual chiseling of one’s initials or using whole pieces to make a nicer, stronger deck. 

If it stopped at hugging, I would imagine few would have a problem with it. But as we all know from other degeneracy, it’s only the beginning. The first step on a long decline. It’s true that over the years trees have had their way of getting back, but such instances rarely end well for the tree. When a trunk splits your house in two, you have a lot of cleaning up to do. It’s no picnic for the tree though, having chosen a loud kamikaze exit. 

What do you call a person who gets all starry-eyed at their non-reciprocal, non-consensual relationship with a tree? 

A sap. 

Paying Your Dews

When you’re starting out your career, there are too many pitfalls to count. Grabbing coffee for the higher-ups. Photocopying depositions. Cleaning windows with a silk rag and truffle oil. All normal parts of growing into a new job. But one thing you hear often is the necessity of paying your dews. At first, I wasn’t sure what this meant. For years, I thought it was “dues,” as if employment is akin to membership in a cult or fraternity without the inter-dimensional field trips. But working in advertising, there is very little that goes in unrelated to Yellow-5 and other artificial colors.

Going to business school isn’t important. Neither is sucking up to your superiors. But sucking down case after case of sugary soda shows everyone in the office that you have an affinity for both dye and carbonation. As long as you’re making a good impression, better wear a smock to skip any stains.

But Mountain Dew isn’t really a soda, is it? Long before a nation of teens stained their teeth the phosphorescent yellow of a tennis ball, the term held a different meaning. It meant moonshine. Bootleg whiskey to the patrons living in the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky. It’s like calling your soda Coke despite its illicit connotations. 

Drinking moonshine is important in an office, especially for underlings. It shows they are willing to break unjust laws for the good of the group. Fitting in isn’t easy, but it’s made far easier with the assistance 180 proof grain alcohol. It’s not a social lubricant, but a sort of blood oath between you and your bosses. Once you prove you’re willingness to drink a bottle of unlabeleld hooch, you won’t object to shredding a few documents – will you? 

I didn’t think so. 

Unfriendly Reminder

Are you going to fill out the survey or not? This is America and in America, when you do anything, people need to know what you think. It could be a hotel stay, a shipped package, or a concert attended – your thoughts matter. And I asked you nicely, sent you several courteous, well-written notes. Civil missives that have yielded no response from you.

What gives? I’m doing my job, which is to find out what you thought. You think because you signed a big bill at the end of the night, you’re given some sort of special dispensation. You have carte blanche to ignore me. That’s not how this thing is supposed to work. If anything, the more you spend, the more I need to hear from you.

Do you what happens when we don’t hear from you? We fill out the surveys ourselves, conjuring results from thin air. That means me and my other idiot co-workers making up stuff. We are going to imagine your innermost thoughts and use them as business objectives. 

So I’m going to ask you one last time. What was wrong with the shrimp? You left one little on the side of your plate next to three peas. Should we serve it again? Are you kosher? Do you have a shellfish allergy? Or were you simply full? Was it a problem that most of the meal was cooked on an engine block? Could you taste motor oil? Do you understand now why we can’t guess? We need your input otherwise, this whole operation is doomed. Thanks in advance. Also please rate our service on a scale of 1 to 100. 

Raising Cane

If you tie up most parents, haul them down into a musty basement, duct their hands, and inject them with a little truth serum, very few will express concern about their children learning to talk. They'll express concern about the kidnapping, but that is something you can both address at the trial. Talking just happens. They pick up little things. When you’re yelling at the customer service rep, berating a restauranteur, letting loose a string of curse words while stuck on hold. Kids learn to talk. And the truth is, it can get annoying. They’re always telling you things, interrupting your conversation. 

The same thing cannot be said for walking. Walking is a much harder thing to grasp for most tikes. It doesn’t exactly come naturally. But we adults aren’t doing kids any favors. We’re forcing them to stumble across slippery floors and steeps stairs.

Babies have much in common with the elderly. Short attention spans, active bladders, and even their faces tend to evoke a grandfatherly vibe. To get kids walking earlier, parents should lean into the idea that their offspring are in some ways deeply connected to senior citizens. 

I’m not saying to move to Florida. Nor am I advocating shuffleboard. But I am saying that more babies should use canes. Canes help people walk. So why not help people who are learning how to walk? Physical therapists and those recovering from horrific accidents employ them. I think many adults consider a cane a cheating device. 

Canes also have a long history within self-defense. So they’ll be safer and sturdier. Plus, their vocabularly will increase as well. Finally, children from outside the Emerald Isle will know how spell “shillelagh.”  

The Camera Tricks

There are plenty of perfectly good reasons I keep my camera off during meetings. Like the great and powerful Oz, I want to maintain an air of mystery, as well as the upper hand. Too bad I don't own a really nice curtain, any green makeup, and exciting pyrotechnics are frowned up by building management. So, the next best thing I can do is keep my camera off.

How can I keep my reputation sterling when my co-workers can see the pixelated greens stuck between my teeth or take a gander at my slightly oversized melon head. Speaking of melons, they make a wonderful gift to new parents, since most (ripe ones) resemble the bulbous orbs resting atop an infant’s puny shoulders. A fun, heathy dessert the whole family can enjoy.

My camera stays off so I can stand up and work on my jumping jack technique. I have trouble sitting still and like to pace back and forth. I hang pictures during meetings, put a fresh coat of paint on my walls, and sometimes try and take a nap. The camera is an invasion of privacy. When I’m working from home, you don’t get to see inside my personal space. 

I don’t turn my camera on for another important reason – it allows me to leave the house and go on a quick trip to the beach without anyone being the wiser. Who are they to see my sunscreen lathered beach bod? It’s wildly inappropriate. 

The last thing I need is for some intern to critique how I fry an egg, since meetings have the tendency to make me hungry. I cook and clean while others are lost in projects.

I go on mute, too. This allows me to mutter during the duration of the call. I can even interject crude asides and never have to worry that my heavy sigh is too heavy.

The only time to turn your camera on are on those rare occasions you need a time-stamped alibi. 

Some Of...

Some of the most toxic people I’ve met throughout my career were other people. It’s funny how I’ve never been implicated in this way. I’m not an other, I’m me. To be fair, some weren’t people, but “agency pets” or “agency lunches” or “hanging wall art.” Many were my moral superiors, having studied in Tibet or college.

And it all makes perfect sense. 

America was built by and for other people. Not for me, since I wasn’t around at the time of the nation’s founding. What does this have to do with my upbringing or career? If you don’t get it, then you don’t get it.  

I have never been invited to the table. Once, while an intern, I walked into a conference room with the board of directors, only to notice every seat was occupied by people twice and sometimes three times my age. I wanted to sit in the back on a pillow. I had to settle for a dog bed, which only exacerbated my budding allergies. In my world, everyone gets a seat at the table. That includes dogs.

 

These other people have continued to do things that I don’t like. They rarely consult me when they do stuff, which is painfully insulting. Whenever I read about a billionaire’s path I think, “that’s not how I would’ve done it.” To me, that makes it wrong. I’m right here, waiting for the call. Why does it never come? Was it something I said? Or something I did?

Other people annoy me. They have called me out for being “cruel” and “petty.” For stealing pencils and paper from the supply closet, as if I haven’t earned a lifetime cache based on my path.

I’ve left every place that didn’t bow down to me right away and kiss my feet. Frankly, it’s why I wear sandals. It doesn’t always happen overnight, but it happens all the same. People have tried to silence me when I was yelling on a client call, screaming into the speaker. I’m not a smartphone. You can’t “put me on vibrate” or “airplane mode” or “plug me into the wall somewhere and forget about me.” 

I commit to the rest of my career to always being right and never backing down. Apologies are for other people, people who are constantly wrong. Not little old me. I am no longer worried about being likable. It’s why I take clearly marked food in the fridge that someone else brought from home. When I’m hungry, I eat what looks good. I was taught to share, weren’t you? I won’t be oppressed in the kitchen or anywhere else.    

And to anyone who disagrees with me about anything, allow me to say, stop it.

Where The Crawdads Testify

 

 

There’s an old saying about crawdads, if you want to get them to talk, just boil a pot of water in their general vicinity. And they’ll sing a different tune within seconds. Not literally. Crawdads lack the ability to carry a tune. The closest I’ve seen one sing was at the Def Poetry Jam in the mid 90s. It wasn’t singing per se, but it was rhythmic, entertaining, and had a nice beat. I can’t recall the audience’s reception though. That usually depended on their collective hunger level. 

Historically speaking, there have been very few Maria Callases in the rock lobster set. No Piafs among the mudbugs. Most crawdads pay their taxes under the name “crayfish.: Which is good for their future sustainability. Since crawdad is a wildly arcane, highly problematic term. So too is crawmom, for reasons, which should be clearer than the Rappahannock. Crawpeople is wrong, too. Crawguysanddolls should work but doesn’t. So crayfish it is on W-2s and elsewhere. 

Testifying is their role among marine creatures. They’ve spent their lives getting confused with shrimp and other more popular crustaceans, barely saying a peep. This isn’t how they wanted to get famous. But it sure beats getting eaten by drunk spring breakers. 

Crawdads can’t go into the witness protection like other informants. Simply setting foot in a place like Arizona, a destination favored by the FBI, would fry them. The desert doesn’t agree with the crawdads I know. Unlike Sammy The Bull and other leathery mobsters, crawdads aren’t popular around the tanning salon. Crawdads know their rights and taking into account, time served, good behavior, they can be back on the creek in no time, repairing relationships shattered by the penal system. Or that's how I like to think it'll go. 

Sit Your Ground

Sometimes, in the face of an emergency it’s best to sit on your hands. As Edmund Burke once said, “the only way to triumph over evil is for good men to do nothing.” Doing nothing, as a technique, is highly underrated. How many times have you stirred your sauce too much or tinkered with an engine block to the point of creating a new problem? Wait it out. The thing is, doing nothing is still doing something, just a different something from the standard thing.

Why sit on your hands? Because when you do that, they start to tingle and you forget what it is you were supposed to do. The only thing on your mind now getting the blood back to the two most useful extremities (which ones are up to you).

Self-defense is a strange concept, but the word mostly missed by critics and supporters of the practice is the word, “self.” It’s why the wisest fire departments in the country ignore every call. They understand that fire is a natural force, like wind or rain, and you don’t see any civil servants trying to fight back an out of control gust. If anything, these fire watchers bring s’mores and marinated ribs to a blaze, leaving the hoses and extinguishers at home. They are there to make the most of a bad situation, not to escalate, but to turn a raging inferno into a neighborhood cookout. Perhaps quick thinking and some marinated meat could have made Pompeii more of a “party atmosphere” and even garnered a Zagat rating.

When the lockdowns first started, the shut-ins, a community of people living a life of locked luxury, were many steps ahead of the general public. They understand that going outside can only cause trouble. 

People are always going on and on about the Good Samaritans. But notice how they were good, not great. That’s all you get for helping someone in need. Not only that, but do we know any of them by name? Nope. No statues to speak of, no free tickets to a ballgame, no ribbon cutting ceremonies, no nightclub invitations. We lump they all in together. The Smart Samaritans stayed home and kept to themselves. They didn’t get mixed up in the messianic aspirations of a local yokel.

And patience is always a virtue.

Don’t Shed Any Tiers

Podcasting is hard. Turning the microphones on and then finding something to talk about for three to four hours doesn’t come naturally to most people – myself included. That’s why I’ve devised a foolproof system to generate even more money from an adoring audience, currently sick of politics, pop culture and mindless detours into team sports. Friends, Romans, sycophants, lend me your money. Actually, don’t lend it – that would be a problem come tax season. Give it up. Here’s how.

Tier 1

For the cost of one extra large coffee (20 ounces, I’d say) a month, you’ll enjoy a ton of extra content. You will be the first in line to receive special short episode bursts. Five second shows where I string together as many swear words as I can before the recording stops. 

Tier 2

For the cost of a buttered croissant, fruit salad, and two coffees, plus an Arnold Palmer for dessert, you’ll get a t-shirt emblazoned with my catchphrase, “You’re on the air…” aross the front and “…airhead” on the back. Right now, pumpkin orange is the only color in stock.    

Tier 3

Instead of putting your kids through college, give that money to me and receive in return a special ceramic mug with my new catchphrase, “Tell me about your first million.”

Tier 4

Why own a second car when you can be my driver? Take and pass a defensive driving safety course (at your own expense, of course) and I’ll happily give you the address of my compound and passcode to the front gate. 

Tier 5

It’s sad to think that someone like Cezanne didn’t have a loyal patron until the end of his life. Don’t make the same mistake.   

Tier 6

At the blank check level, it’s just what you think. Send me a check and I’ll fill in the rest. Here’s hoping your bank doesn’t have overdraft fees. Keychain included. 

 

Tier 7

Opening a new line of credit is smart. Opening another line of credit for a complete stranger who hosts your favorite podcast is even smarter. 

Tier 8

At this level, my unborn second born child is yours. And for short time only, I’ll throw in a branded hooded sweatshirt. 

Tier 9

Finally, you can start getting some premium episodes the first eight tiers won’t. All you have to do is take out a life insurance policy on yourself and name my production company the beneficiary. 

 

Tier 10

Get a chance to be an extra in my soon-to-be-produced biopic. You won’t have any lines, but you will have a screen credit as, “Drunk #18.” 

Tier 11

You get to clean my house and if things are timed right, even take out the trash and do my dry cleaning. 

Tier 12

At this level, you can have the show itself. I’ll be somehwere in the Caymans, sipping on a mai tai and figuring out how to launder all the money I’ve squeezed out of people. Good luck and may this podcast be a blessing. 

Traitor Joe's

At Traitor Joe’s, we aim to please, even if our loyalty can be questioned – and is nearly every morning by the many delivery trucks waiting to off load expired product in our undersized parking lot. But that shouldn't stop you from starting your day off with our famous Eggs Benedict Arnold, a hostile blend of eggs, ham, and disreputability. Et tu, fruit? That’s what we figured. So enjoy our wide selection of Fruitus juice to wash down the shame, all served with knives instead of straws.

With lunch time fast approaching, why not sit down for the legendary Rosenburger? That's two very, very well done hamburger patties. Don’t eat beef? That’s okay. There’s always the Chicken Thigh Fawkes, roasted, masked, and marinated with a light dusting of gunpowder. 

What if you’ve eaten already, betraying your friends who were looking forward to a meal of togetherness and fellowship? That’s not a problem. Try a dish of Kim Philberts and say you haven’t been feeling well. It works every time. Or maybe something green like our classic Saladrich Ames. 

Kompromac & Cheese is part of a big culinary rollout for the fall. But we’ll see if we can surprise anyone and avoid the leaks of the past. While our speciality is treachery, taste is still paramount. Look for our nutirional snacks under the name, Health Foodas Iscariot, at bodegas near you. May your next feast be HMS bountiful.  

Exercise Your Demons

We all have demons. Fuzzy little psycopaths residing in our individual psyches, revealing themselves at the most inopportune times. A charity cocktail party celebrating a new medical breakthrough. A dinner with your future in-laws. A job interview for a position at a busy port. And the situation has only gotten worse since the beginning of the pandemic. It’s not an exaggeration to say that your demons have taken the brunt of unfortunate policy decisions.

In a lockdown, you could order delivery or walk the dog. What could they do with you sitting at home, binging mediocre TV and eating mediocre food? Not much, as it turns out. They couldn’t even exercise. So they languished within you, living a sedentary life, based around junk food and social media. Inertia set it, then entropy. You, of all people, began to feel sorry for your demons. 

Why is that? Because your demons fuel your passions. They give you purpose and reason to be. They break down politics and culture in a way no talking head ever could. They don’t do it with words. They do it with actions. Or they once did, in a better time when your demons could get fresh air with the rest of us.

You can’t wait for your demons to get motivated and take control. Two years of mental rot has rendered them useless, shells of their former selves. This isn’t like a horseshoe crab, where a shell is a good thing, a house thing. It’s something far more troubling. 

It’s time to exercise them. Don’t just take them to the gym with you – get them their own membership. You getting your steps in every day won’t do the trick. But with a little luck and a lot of reps on the elliptical machine, your demons might just return to fight another day.

The truth is they're getting out one way or another. Either you pick the time or they do. I know which I'd prefer. 

Centering the Earth

I know what you’re going to say before you say it. That the earth revolves around the sun. But you’ve been listening to Copernicus for too long. Taking the ideas of Galileo too seriously. Think of it, a man named Galileo Galilei should be laughed out of any room. Would the theory of relativity be the same had it sprung from the mind of Einsteino Einsteini? How about gravity from the raw intellectual power of Newtono Newtoni? It strains credulity to have a person’s first and last name so close – too close for comfort.  

I believe in centering our planet. Too many smart people have accepted our position in the solar system. That’s another thing, why is it a solar system? I don’t see the sun doing much of anything for half the day, while our blue orb is out here every second of every day working hard and getting little to no credit. In fact, it gets constantly criticized for things out of its control. 

The sun has had plenty of time to run things – long enough, as far as I’m concerned. We gave it plenty of time to cool off and try something new. Yet it never adapts, it stays there, hot and bothered, spurning any who dare to even look at it. I can’t respect someone or something that won’t even let me take a healthy gander at it. What’s it so afraid of? I think it’s afraid of what we’ll find given the chance.

Nothing. Anyone who’s ever stared into an open flame has a good idea of the sun’s lack of purpose. But flames go out. Fires die down. Our sun is still hogging the reins with little to show for it. This is systemic failure of universal proporitions. I’m not only in favor of earth leading the charge. Any planet would be better off as the top dog. How about an orbital time share? Could such a thing work? There are hippie communes in Vermont that seem mildly functional, if a template is something you require. 

Everything doesn’t revolve around us. But maybe it’s time it did. 

Throat Clearing in America

 

Before I bring you the broiled trout you ordered, there are a few things you should know. For one, it’s tonight’s special, which doesn’t mean trout is any more special than another type of fish. Far from it. All fish are created equal, even bottom feeders. 

Trout is a nutritious freshwater fish, enjoyed far and wide. A fish enjoyed by the ocean-going salmon lover. But it’s not salmon. And despite the similarities in appearance, there are major differences. Trout is far more inclusive than its seafaring cousin. What do you think Rainbow Trout is?  

I should say simply that it’s a good fish. Then again, how would I know? When most people claim such and such meal is “good” they are almost always overlooking the moral dimension. I don’t know how this trout lived before ending up on your plate. I don’t know what it thought about the direction of the country or the burst of comic book movies striking a serious blow at cinema. 

I prefer to say it’s good that you ordered it. I feel comfortable going that far. But good? Not today. Not tomorrow. In fact, the knowledge that it was a good fish ought to prevent you or anyone from eating it. Goodness is a powerful force. How would it feel to know you just consumed the trout-equivalent of the Dalai Lama? Happy belated birthday, by the way. I should be careful not to offend any members of the Chinese government since they are often, well-paying customers.

Oh and one last thing. Do watch out for bones. 

Disbarred and Disrobed

It’s never my intention to gratuitously flaunt my immense and constantly shifting privilege. But when it comes to robes I am a true partisan hack. I’ve owned many types over the years – linen, seersucker, wool, silk, cotton, flannel. You name the material, and chances are, I’ve had it draped over me while fixing a hot pot of coffee. But I’ve never once worn a robe to work. The farthest I’ve traveled beyond my capacious home is the curb, to take out the trash, or my backyard, to check on the “weed situation.” But I don’t want to the store for a carton of milk donning a robe. That is not who I am.

So while many fierce critics our judicial branch focus narrowly on their opinions and rulings, I choose to go elsewhere, into the realm of fashion. They wear robes to work – that’s enough for me to dismiss everything they say with, like a holiday hot dog, both pleasure and relish. 

In England, while jurists wear robes, they also wear wigs to make the whole outfit a kind of costume. That makes it fun walking into court every day. The black robes are ugly and boring, lacking all the clean lines and historic resonance found in each fold of a vintage toga. 

 

You want to be taken seriously in 2022, respected at home and abroad? Lovely. How about putting on a pair of nice slacks and a nice rep tie. Since when do supposed conservatives dress like the late libertine, Hugh Hefner? It’s puzzling to say the least. 

Interminable

I feel the way about ideas the way some diners feel about mealtime. Once they sit down in front of a tablecloth, they aren’t going anywhere for two, maybe three hours. Whether the chicken is undercooked, the seltzer is flat, or the flambé singes an eyebrow, they are there until the check drops. That’s called good manners and a commitment to sticking things out. Rigid as this might sound, this is a simple philosophy, which translates very well into one’s every day life.  

I believe wholeheartedly that every idea should be brought to term. That includes bad ideas. How can we really know that something is a bad idea if it remains in hypothetical limbo forever? The short answer, of course, is that we can’t. That’s why I choose to see it through. 

Someone might say that steel wool undergarments are an idiotic idea. That’s possibly true, but without trading in your silky boxers for something a bit sturdier, how can you know that for sure? Is it stupid to feed a wolverine pancakes and maple syrup by hand? Potentially. But without a perfect view down the gullet of said predator, no one really knows. Many would argue that leaving a newborn alone with fireworks is just asking for trouble. I guess, but dangerous celebrations aren’t necessarily age-specific. 

A mistake isn’t truly a mistake unless it’s given free rein to prosper and grow. And don’t let anyone try and convince you otherwise. It’s not like you have a choice. 

Sabbaticalling

My time away from the blog is not without a certain degree of historic precedence. I am not the first person of consequence to take a well-deserved hiatus from an essential occupation. The way I see it, plenty of folks have done the same over the years. Whether it was Rick Moranis in his Post-Shrunk phase of personal growth, Bob Dylan during a sobering onslaught of defensive driving courses, or Jesus Christ himself looking for advice anywhere but up. Father doesn't always know best. In all three cases, there were many people counting on them. But that didn’t prevent this crew of grounded individuals from taking some much-needed time off.

In fact, even the Lord did it without any real criticism. College students going abroad costs nearly what it must’ve for Jesus to traipse across the globe. The only difference is the students bring back little in the way of knowledge or wisdom. Unless you count getting mugged at 3 AM in the Latin Quarter and overstaying one’s visa as genuine life skills.  

Most are fixated on the superficial differences that manifest post-sabbatical. The long beard, the long fingernails, the long drawl adopted after too much time talking to farm animals in lieu of human companionship. Most people don’t know this, but when Jesus entered his wilderness period he looked more Beatle than beatified. He had no facial hair to speak of, a carefully pruned mop top hairdo and an unmistakable Liverpudlian accent. When he returned, it was Sgt. Pepper all over again, only before. He wore long flowing clothes and lots of bright colors, mostly used to conceal his newfound gut after acquiring a fondness for hiking trail street meat. 

But enough about the Messiah, let’s talk about me and my time away. What did I learn? In a word, everything. I know the secrets of the universe i.e. how to properly poach an egg. What more do you need?

Much of the criticism leveled at Jesus comes in the form of his lost period. Did he need to take so much time off? A perfect example of the problem with having "unlimited vacation." His manager should've stepped in and culled his initial proposal. He could’ve and should’ve done the Dylan thing. Stop touring, yes, but keep writing new material. It’s not a surprise that when he came back, the scene had changed. It wasn’t how he left it. And to think, he did all this without an iPhone so boredom was a real possibility. I, on the other hand, was never too far from the magnetic glow of a different screen, embracing its warmth for electronic sustenance. 

Will I do this again? Probably. June feels like a good time to tune out the world. NBA players call it “load management,” taking nights off to give their newest suit a little love instead of sticking to mesh. Maybe next time I’ll actually grow a beard. For now, I’ll have to find some solace in achieving a level of intellectual and spiritual balance rarely seen in human history. Unfortunately, unlike a beard, it’s hard to capture all that on photograph.