Carry that Weight

 

Ever since space travel returned to the news, people have once again begun asking me what I think about it. For starters, they know how many times I’ve seen Apollo 13. But they miss an important part of that journey. The astronauts on board understood they were more useful at home, so they turned back for a variety of reasons I won't bore you with now. 

Others engage with me not on the specifics regarding interstellar voyages, but how I feel about the bigger issues at play. My tune has changed all these years. I no longer support galactic joy riding. Think about it. One of the reasons I enjoy driving is because of my ability to roll down the windows and cruise along an open road. Space travel affords one an open road of sorts, but that’s it. Without fresh air, what’s the point? It can’t be the scenery either. Not that black void again. Until they make a spacecraft you want comfortably and safely crack a window, I will stand athwart each launch yelling stop. 

But that’s not all. We have plenty going on earthside that it makes leaving right now a bad idea. Besides the podcasts, TV shows, and happy hour deals, we’re not supposed to be anywhere but here. 

This is why, in large part, I’ve never troubled myself with statistics like BMI (body mass index). Mass is something that scientists deal with in labs, wearing lab coats, surrounded by bubbling beakers and boiling bunsen burners. What I care about is weight and the gravitational pull here on my home planet. 

Despite this clear fact, you still get people who swoon over the idea of what they’d weigh on the moon, Mars, or places far beyond the Milky Way. I don’t get it. Folks take me aside during pilates and whisper things like, “you’d be shocked to know what I weigh on Mercury.” Would I? That’s where they're wrong. I simply don’t care.

Weight is a beautiful thing because it takes into consideration its surroundings. I don’t care what you weigh in a vacuum; Dyson, Oreck, whatever. Now if only there was a way for really tall people to feel the same way about their height when entering different orbits.  

Appellation Trail

 

For a two month stretch two years ago I signed my official agency email “The Salmon King of Astoria.” Few could object to this designation considering my household’s prodigious consumption of the pink (when cooked) fish. But nameless critics implied it was unprofessional, ushering in an unregulated time for the proliferation of less empirically grounded digital signatures. I worked with a guy who, for 55 minutes was, “The Beef Jerky Baron of Bayonne, NJ,” before transitioning to “Young John Lettuce,” and then settling on the rather basic, “Meat Man.” I can’t be held responsible for this sort of thing catching on. Who doesn’t want a memorable, food-inspired nickname? 

Over the years, I’ve had other honorifics, which existed in places besides my company inbox. Inspired by Hector, breaker of horses, I was known as breaker of ices, for both my ability to converse with strangers as well as my strange aversion to air conditioning. More than one person has referred to me as the “Young Rascal Prince,” which, as I approach forty, may require a certain peculiar update for the accuracy obsessed. Duke, perhaps. 

Borne out of an appreciation for ocean sizzle, the resounding noise sea foam makes after a wave settles into place, I adopted the sobriquet of “Poseidon’s Apprentice,” after legions of sunburnt surfers and other boardwalk vagrants insisted on using it in lieu of my given name. They said it was easier, despite the extra syllable. I relented, only after threats of physical violence.

As a child, I earned the moniker, “Plunger Boy” after successfully warding off an intruder a plunger. The intruder turned out to be our plumber, there to repair a major clog in the master bathroom. In days of greater flexibility, I became known as “The Creature” for my ability to climb trees without fear or foresight. The latter being driven home when a branch cracked under my weight. 

I guess I understand why people go to grad school. Long titles. My are just as much fun, only without the debt. 

The Grass is always Grass

 

 

When you’re standing on your deck, sweeping up leaves and other expected detritus of the suburban homeowner, it’s all about perspective. In this case, that means standing several feet above the sea level, safe from both a future flood swell and passing Jehovah’s witnesses flooding your mailbox with admittedly intriguing religious literature. While you’re peering onto your neighbor’s manicured yard, it’s easy to get caught up in the rivalries that sprout up on every block like poisonous mushrooms after a torrential downpour. 

You admire their birdhouses, wishing yours had the same structural integrity. You gaze across at their deck, dreaming of yours, rid of termites once and for all.

But the grass is always grass. Even artificial grass is a type of grass. It’s just one you don’t have to water or mow. Although you may still have to clean up after your pooch since they can’t really tell the difference. 

And despite what you may have heard, it’s not always greener since these days that has very little to do with a verdant hue extending from your patio to the driveway. Want a green yard? Then you better make room for a Tesla, at least one wind turbine, and a full-time influencer giving a TED talk from your barbecue pit 24-hours a day.

Hiring a General Secretary

If they say titles don’t matter, they probably never hired at General Secretary. A General Secretary is not there to answer phones, send emails, and order lunch. What they do can’t be quantified for reasons less to do with their unique talents and more to do with rampant criminal activities.

You don’t want an employee who gives it to you straight. It’s much better to have someone seamlessly and effortlessly massage the facts. Facts, like people, get sore from time to time and benefit from the actions of a tender masseuse and a basic insurance plan. Facts aren’t things that exist in one place and are the same somewhere else. They are different in different situations. Kind of like you. The way you are around grandma is not the same as you are on the bocce court. Why would facts be any different?

While traditional secretaries may organize office pools and parties, a General Secretary focuses on one type of party. Happy Hour implies that some hours of the day are not happy, which is an impossibility. There aren’t shows for you to attend, only show trials. Interviews are exchanged for interrogations and collaborators, no matter how productive, are punished.  

A General Secretary is not meant to be your friend. You have enough friends. If anything, they’re a comrade. Possibly a fellow traveler, but definitely not a friend. 

Drawing The Line Somewhere

When you work in advertising, people tend to ask you where you draw the line. As in, what’s the brand or brands you would refuse to work on. Most industry people stick to the same script. Tobacco, pharmaceuticals, and the military industrial complex. When it comes to moral objections, I’m not like everyone else. Over the years, I’ve kept a long-running, ever-growing list of brands that give me pause or some semblance of concern. 

For instance, I’d work for a junta, but not a cabal. A junta does their business out in the open, while cabals meet in secret, sometimes literally in the shadows. While I enjoy getting out of the sun as much as most pale writers, it can be hard on the eyes to squint that much. All that smoke and glow from a row of computer screens is incredibly uncomfortable. With a junta, you know where you stand, which is usually in a poorly dug foxhole. Plus, it can be pretty steady work, as long as the guerrillas are committed to a policy of mutally assured destruction. Reelection campaigns in totalitarian states are far less taxing (for marketers) than those in democracies. You don’t have to waste your time on attack ads or going negative. 

I don’t think I could bring myself to write a commercial about a gun. But I could easily write them about knives, missles, maces, spears, swords, battle axes, and really long sticks used to swat at people. If I’m feeling exceptionally confident, I might even ask the junta if they have any recommendations for firearm alternatives. Honestly, there is a scenario in which I could write an ad about bullets. Divorce them from their notorious delivery system, and instead picture them in necklace form. Much cheaper and sturdier than pearls

I can’t imagine ever working directly for a religious sect. Too stuffy and old-fashioned. As a rule, they are rarely open to to rebranding. But a cult? That’s a different story. Cults are very conscious of the moment. But not just that. They’re also concerned with how they’ll be perceived a hundred, maybe a thousand years from now. 

You have to draw the line somewhere. And when you do, it should be done in grease pencil, hunched over a drafting table in a fortified safe house. But hey, that's just me. 

Babylon ZZZzzzzzz

I have this great idea for a no holds barred satirical news site. It’s where nothing is sacred, except for the divinity of his lord and savior, Jesus “John” Christ. We don’t take anything too seriously either, except for the resurrection, spiritual rejection, and Miles Davis’ original rhythm section (Red Garland, Philly Joe Jones, Paul Chambers). And here, nothing is off limits, except for abortion, which has its limits. 

Alongside several of my closest disciples, we are the future of comedy. Instead of looking at what’s funny or topical in the world, we stick close to the Good Book. There are plenty of strong, underused one-liners found in Paul’s letters to the Corinthians.

On this site, we take our responsibility as arbiters of good taste with good humor. Unless that aforementioned humor involves poking fun at the very idea of a collection plate. Why not just have a tip jar on the end of every pew? Or, if the lack of cash within your congregation is an issue, there are digital avenues like Venmo and Zell that work just fine for the in-the-red reverend.

To put it simply, we’re willing to go places our opponents won’t. Like into a musty church basement for something other than a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. 

Our creative brainstorming sessions are wild. Think SNL in the late 70s, only that white stuff you spilled across the table isn't cocaine, but warm buttermilk. I find that girl scout cookies fuel the writing process. 

There is no line we won’t cross. Unless that line takes the shape of an actual cross. Then it’s our duty as humble supplicants to tread lightly. You can’t spell irreverence without reverence. 

Shut Up and Sing?

Like most people, I don’t want politics polluting my daily life. I don’t go to Reggaeton concerts to listen to the performers pontificate on policy. In fact, I don’t go to Reggaeton concerts at all. Maybe I would if the genre was spelled, “reggaetone,” but it’s far too late for that. If I’m paying an astronomical ticket price, I want to eat overpriced food, drink overpriced beer, and hear a thumping bass line that registers on the Richter scale of nearby seismologists.I don’t want the artists to detail their political leanings.  

Unless of course I agree with them. Then there’s nothing better than listening to a miked up half-wit, explaining the pitfalls of the Green New Deal. Frankly, I’d rather hear them parrot my own internal talking points than repeat the same boring songs for 90 minutes. It’s nice to know that surrounded by all that money and smoke, some things, intelligent people can agree on. 

When getting in argument with someone in your life, a trump card is, “a grammy award winner and multi-platinum artist is on my side of the issue.” They might try the same tactic and reference how certain podcast hosts and pundits agree with them. “Yeah, well, I have Daddy Yankee in my corner, so there.” 

That last line usually ends any debate. Because winning a debate is not about making points, it’s about scoring points. And accruing the most celebrities to your side is the only surefire way of winning the day. 

Shutting up and singing sounds like a riddle to me. If you shut up, you can't sing. Though the few times I've fallen asleep during the Ring Cycle, I would've gladly approved of the singers closing their yaps for an hour or two. 

Salmon Rushdie

 

Long before salmon were farmed in what militant pescatarians call, marine le pens, always netted and frequently knotted, each fish swam free. They roamed across oceans, disregarding borders, dismissing geopolitical implications of their prospective hatching. They had room to breathe. That’s why having gills comes in handy. You don’t have to worry about keeping your nose clean. 

At this time, there were vipers, sniping at one salmon in particular. I should add that they weren’t actually vipers, since such an interspecies critique was unheard of back then. No, these were members of the global salmon community. There were only a few steady gigs for a salmon. 

You could do everything right, go to the right schools, study hard, stay out of trouble, and still end up on someone’s plate. There were plenty of fish who embraced this outcome in the hope of achieving greater fame out of the sea. 

But one salmon didn’t want to be on a plate, or a can, in a taco, or in cake form. He wanted more. What he really wanted was to be a writer. That alone offended many of his friends back home. They didn’t like that he wasn’t adequately  deferential to his native culture. The truth is, he agreed with the average salmon on most issues. On an issue like Roe he was quite radical. Being objective for a second, he could understand the appeal of eating salmon. But caviar? That was too far. 

He told tales out of school. He imagined himself a sea turtle or a tuna. He even had kind things to say about a certain trout. When for most of his brethren, that was like a Irish Republican speaking highly of an Orangeman at the height of The Troubles. It simply wasn’t done. 

 

He’d tell everyone, especially his agent, “I’m not a “salmon writer, I’m a writer.” Readers found his books in fiction, not oceanography. 

They sent every fisherman this side of Ahab after him for what he wrote. Boatmen and amateur anglers, and everything in between. But they won’t catch him, not there, not that way. He left the sea a long, long time ago.

Ideas Live On

There’s an idea going around, one that, for whatever reason, won’t die. Rather ironically, or quite confusingly, it’s that ideas can die. They can’t. Not when you really think about it.

For one thing, have you ever seen an idea in Florida for longer than a long weekend? Ever seen an idea at a Dolphins game, rooting for the hometown “fish?” Ideas skip Disneyworld for an audience with the king. Ideas aren’t ever found riding shotugn in a fan boat for a midnight swamp tour. They don’t trawl the everglades for delectable frogs and other barely edible fare. Ideas don’t play shuffleboard or wear white shoes. Ideas don’t lather on sunscreen or big floppy hats. They don’t sit poolside eating bowl after bowl of museli sipping on a tallest glass of vegetable juice. Ideas don’t wear glasses or have arthritis. Ideas don’t get visited by greedy children hoping for an early inheritance. Ideas don’t retire.

They stick around. Look at the flat earthers as one such example of this sort of persistence. They didn’t pack up their belongings in paper thin valises when the first globe rolled into town. They kept on believing. Why? Because ideas don’t go quietly into the night. They stay strong.

 

From the resurgence of the mullet to the indefatigable career of Keanu Reeves, I think I've more than made my point. 

Violence Isn’t Violence

How old-fashioned of you to persist under the demented delusion that violence consists solely of violent acts. It’s a little antiquated, don’t ya think? Like everything else in 2022, violence is far more inclusive than it used to be. Pugilism's big tent is bigger than ever. 

In an earlier era, hitting someone in your foursome across the face with a three wood was a violent act. Nowadays, it's only a mild critique. Violence is when you make fun of someone’s backswing while they're pitching out of the sand trap. 

It used to be said that kicking your fellow man in the chest with a steel-tipped work boot constituted violence. Today, it’s a form of constructive criticism, often from the leg of a construction worker. Violence, however, is remarking about their foot odor. 

Once upon a time, knocking another person out with a frying pan was considered extremely violent. When it’s just reasonable feedback. Violence is sighing at the sight of an overcooked garlic clove and sending them into a winter long depression.  

Rigorous debate should be as mentally taxing as bare-knuckling boxing was on the cerebellum at the turn of the 20th century. In order to score intellectual points and win an argument on the merits, one needs to land more than good lines. Headshots seem to help.

Limiting violence to the physical is a narrow-minded way of thinking and dare I say, violent mindset. So try not to do that. Or else.  

 

The But Brigadoon

 

When people say, “I believe in free speech, but…” my ears perk up like a golden retriever waiting for a fire engine to pass or a piece of delectable rawhide. I get all giddy like a doberman pinscher in a room full of brand new tennis balls. A spaniel espying a freshly painted hydrant. Why? It should be obvious. The thing is, I believe in free speech, but…

Not when it comes to talking animals though. Had I run Warner Brothers during its technicolor heyday, Elmer Fudd and not Bugs Bunny would’ve been its marquee face.

Poetry should be banned. In fact, rhyming in general is a sign of intellectual and moral degradation. 

Art is not the place for original thinking. 

A single person misinterpreting a joke is enough to garner a total rewrite.

Being offended is a basic human right codified by the United Nations at the time of its original charter. I think it was the pet project of Dag Hammarskjöld or some other tall, nordic statesman. 

Who needs gun control when you have can word control instead? 

If speech is free, why does it cost me so much? 

And no type of person should ever be the subject of an insult, joke, or riducle of any kind. That includes ethnic people, religious people, disabled people, unlabeled people, godless people, stupid people, sensual people, sexual people, thin people, fat people, bald people, hairy people, smart people, funny people, boring people, damaged people, broken people, fragile people, temperate people, excessive people, aggressive people, quiet people, loud people, normal people, abnormal people, animal people, cat people, bat people, rat people, dog people, hog people, log people, brick people, night people, day people, old people, cold people, young people, fun people, smug people, papal people, smoke people, drink people, eat people, and people people who read People. 

There are billions of exceptions to every rule. 

The Satanic Purses

For fatwa season, we’re slashing our prices like infidels on a wide selection of designer purses. But for someone with your amount of baggage, we wouldn’t recommend just any old thing. No shoulder bag can shoulder your insecurities. It’d be a sin to saddle you with a saddlebag. And it’s a crime against God to lather you up in leather. No grain but full grain.

What you need is something both practical and divine. With that in mind, I think we may have the perfect thing at a heavenly discount.

Introducing, The Messenger of God bag, delivering us from evil way longer than FedEx. The newest in religious radical chic. Ordinary messenger bags are the province of couriers, filled with papers, pencils, envelopes, and a greasy bike lock. The latter indicates most urban messengers’ vehicle of choice. But long ago you traded in your Schwinn for a winged steed. And you don’t work for the Post Office, do you? Your employer is a bit higher on the corporate food chain. He’s not subject to a board of directors, customer service complaints or the HR department. He resides well above the fray, practically in the clouds. 

The question we get most often is about the available room for contraband. Since we removed the extra compartment for guilt and remorse, you can now comfortably fit Emeril Lagasse’s 36-piece stainless steel cutlery set along with an individually numbered, "ES" monogrammed wood knife block. However, we’d like to think you have a bigger imagination than that. That’s because this purse holds more than cutlery. It holds ideas, offenses, and outrages, too. You could always stuff a book in there, but reading should always be at the bottom of your to-do list.

That’s why your bag has more pockets than ever before. You need space to store any and all impure thoughts that pop up on the journey. There’s even a flap for delusions of grandeur and a specialty blasphemy pouch. We’ll throw in a gilded zipper to hem in all that repressed sexual energy. We don’t want to know what’s in there, and neither do you.

Free expression is a Western convention, but free accessories are our priority. So If you act now, you can get a second purse for 50% off. Just remember to use the promo code: BOGOD*

One day carrying this bag is equal to a thousand years holding anything from Kate Spade. That’s why we’re offering our “Holy Wear” warranty. Return anytime in the next millennia and get a free replacement, no questions asked.

The Messenger of God Bag, where fatwa meets function. Make it your jihad to get one today. Don't be a martyr and sleep on this deal. This is the purse for the pious, the sac for the spiritual. Fanatics first come, first served. For the extremist who loves extreme saving. Limited time offer, only while lies last.

*Buy One Get One Discounted

Putinesca Recipe

Before getting started, one thing you won’t need are morals. They’re no good here. Nor will you have any use for shirts. Or aprons, or chef hats. You will need a winter hat. Even with climate change, Russia only has about a day and half of summer each August. Otherwise, it’s snow and goulash, just not always in that order. But for this recipe, the fewer layers the better. 

However, to make your dish, you will need help. Lots of help from all over the world. From corners and crevices, not to mention crevasses and crannies. No nooks though. 

You need a pinch of patsies and a sprinkling of toadies. A helping of lackeys and a dusting of flunkies. A hint of bootlickers and a zesting of boobs. Sycophants to taste. You need an apologist marinade and a doormat seasoning. A pound of pawns and a teaspoon of tools. A cup of yes-men, a quart of gopher boys, and a gallon of fall guys. You need a morsel of minions and a blend of pushovers. And a stew of suckers, stooges, saps, and chumps. And you can’t skimp on the idiots or morons. They make up most of it, filling in every gap. 

To make “putinesca” you need all sorts of friends and allies. Figure that out and you can have anything you please. Dessert or sovereign nations, depending on your appetite. Because you can’t do it alone. 

How the Songsage Gets Made

As a powerful producer (think Phil Spector with better hair and a gentler attitude) in the music biz (I’m allowed to say “biz”), lots of people ask me what it takes to make a big hit. While it’s not an exact science, there are a few lessons I’ve learned along the way. 

First thing you need is a star. You surround this star with smart people and lock them in a room for a few weeks straight until they produce a song. It sounds like solitary confinement in prison, except, it’s not solitary and they get to order as much sushi as they can stomach. I haven’t been to San Quentin in a while, but something tells me the unagi is not up to snuff. 

Now that you’ve got your star and assembled your team, you need a good song. There are lots of good songs that no one has ever heard of. In the old days, you could take those and spruce them up to appeal to a wider audience. But with the Internet, we can’t do that anymore. 

The singer has very little to do with the product. They are like the person giving away free ham in the supermarket aisle. You wouldn’t confuse them for the CEO, now would you? They are just our public face. 

My job isn’t too glamorous. But what I love about art is the collaboration process. Now, collaboration has a long a storied history for creative types. It gave us Vichy. When a song is finished it’s never really finished. A song is a living organism. Sometimes we do things to distract people from the lyrics. Think boa scarves, wild hair, or the easy access of hallucinogens. 

The most important aspect of any song is the role the listener has. This goes way beyond holding glow sticks or supporting the traveling mosh pitter surfing the crowd for public acceptance. Most of the songs you think you know were altered by incensed listeners taking offense. Like I always say, “if they listen, we listen.” It’s a simple as that. Did you know that “Like A Rolling Stone” was originally “Like a Walking Stone,” but disabled war veterans objected to the mindless portrayal by the Bard of Duluth. Dylan figured that anyone can roll, with our without the use of their legs. Why did we cave? 

Because, despite the familiarity with heavy artillery, their ears still worked. 

Hit Peace

After checking my most recent text messages from unreliable sources, it appears my suspicions are correct – a highly prestigious news outlet will be publishing a hit piece on me later this afternoon. Why me? You’d have to ask them. But apparently, smart, wise, and otherwise unstable writers are all the rage right now.

Before you read it, there are a few things I should clear up. One ancedote, at the top of the article, references how I once stopped a big meeting protesting the existence of potato salad. This is far from the truth. What I said, and I stand by, is that dishes like potato, chicken, and tuna salad are not salads in the modern sense. Mustard greens are a natural thing from the earth, while mayo greens are not. Perhaps in the Eisenhower years, when the threat of the bomb loomed over every meal, filling a tray with assorted condiments and a few sprigs of parsley could still constitute a salad. In a world like that, where tomorrow was clouded by pluming mushrooms, I can understand it. But not today, when we know so much more about greens. And I didn’t stop a meeting – I called one to express my dismay over bi-weekly “salad days” offering no expectation of verdancy.

In another tortured section of the piece, the author claims I once threw a lawn chair out of a 7^th story window. First of all, it was a desk chair. Why would a lawn chair be in an office? I don’t work at a vacation resort. If the author will twist the truth in this way, what won’t they do? 

The author repeats a bit of gossip, stemming from my use of the phrase “shape up or ship out.” Apparently, an intern who caught this piece of verbal shrapnel, quit the industry upon overhearing this. As it turns out, I use this phrase whenever I come across subpar packaging by the folks in the mail room. It’s our little inside joke. The only other time I said it was during Fleet Week. But that’s another story entirely. 

You might be under the impression that a hit piece is full of lies and untruths. Not so. A hit piece is a collection of personal items that the subject doesn’t like or want to hear. 

So please read with this in mind. What are the odds I’m right about everything? About the same odds that the author of this piece is lying about everything. While I’m a little worried some people might be swayed by the piece, I have found some solace in the fact that few people read anymore. 

Don't Mind if I Do

Just the other day, I met this amazing guy in my home of all places. At first, I wondered if he was lost or I left the door open again. However, any concerns soon dissipated when he began talking about himself. What a smart cookie. Much more Milano than Chips Ahoy. As he rattled off details about his backstory, I quickly realized how much the two of us had in common.

Having grown up in New Jersey during the heyday of MTV’s Jersey Shore, I could tell he was mildly ashamed of his home state. I knew he needed more than a compliment. Telling him what a great guy he was wouldn’t cut it. So I handed him a large wad of cash. I’m not completely sure how much I gave him, since it was pre-rolled and stuffed into my file cabinet labeled “Italian Wedding fund.” 

He took the money without hestitation. I told him to spend it on something fun. That's when his eyes brightened like a fresh stone fruit. 

Here’s the deal. Do you know how hard it is to walk into someone’s home unannounced in the middle of the night and not have them call the police? It’s very hard. I still can’t believe I didn’t do it. Most of us take it for granted that when a stranger enters our front door, they will be knocked down by a series of security gadgets in place to deter future visitors. Having disabled my alarm system for the privilege of conversation is truly something to behold. 

It was getting late, so I decided to show my new friend the door. That’s when he disappeared. I started to worry. Maybe he was gorging himself on my cache of peaches – or worse – plums. I checked everywhere for him. Looking around corners and under couches. He took the money and ran, or so it seemed. 

Before accepting the mystery of my visitor’s disappearance, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. It was dark and I was tired. You understand? Turns out I had been talking to the mirror all along. I was the visitor. Good thing I didn’t call the cops. They wouldn’t understand. 

Dead Air

 

There are plenty of situations in every day life that call for prolonged silence. Although there’s some appeal in talking to someone that can’t talk back, like those on a movie screen, there’s very little purpose to it. Barring some paranormal experience, they are incapable or responding to your barbs and script revisions. Theater actors on the other hand must grapple with your plot questions and casual asides. As any parent will tell you, ignoring someone is still a response. 

Comedians feed off the audience, but like typical despots, they desire a one way street of adulation. And at times, they literally feed off the audience, when certain members trade heckles for fresh fruit. Budding broadcasters are taught to avoid dead air at all costs. To some, stammering is better than silence. You have to fill the void lest the people behind the glass lose their minds. Dead air gives listeners a reason to switch stations or the batteries in their transistor radio.   

But dead air is a fiction. There’s always something to hear. Be it static

interference, wayward insects buzzing through the studio, or

the drunken ululations of over-served fans.

 

It’s fun to trample over someone during a big play in the end zone or

the outfield stands. It feels lazy to let the crowd take over at

important juncture in the game. But they are what makes the

game alive. An awkward pause becomes a pregnant

pause after about nine seconds.  

 

It’s a funny thing. The best broadcaster of the last fifty years always knew when not to talk. The same can’t be said for most of his peers. 

Dead air is the most alive air there is. 

 

RIP

What's Up

It’s a curious phrase that doesn’t conjure up images of altitude sick mountaineers, unstrapping their boots, unsheathing their ice axes, and loosening up any leftover gear for a little impromptu summit sunbathing. What some people call the “death zone,” high above the clouds where brain damage prospers, I call a liberating environment of unadulterated freedom. A person can easily be trapped by a high IQ. Why else would we call them “brain cells” if not for their obvious connection to the prison industrial complex? 

But for me, no fly-by-night sherpa with a hefty pack, the question of what is up bothers me. Always has. It’s not to be confused with who is up, which in a city of millions and millions, is usually someone. In the small hours, the wildest among us find the time to pry their eyes open. The eternal neon of certain neighborhoods helps. So does a steady stream of pharmaceuticals.

I suppose I’m supposed to say, “nothing much.” That’s what’s up. Though logic says that the answer could be my hair or the floating locks of an animal caught up in the many thousands of BTUs pulsing through my home. This depends on the humidity and one’s relative follicle turgidity (RFTs). The ceiling could be up, unless its cracks weren’t repaired properly, thus lowering them to floor level.

Trees? Yeah, they could be up, too, unless it’s storming. Then limbs are raining along with heavy precipitation. Tall buildings can be up unless it’s demolition time in the big metropolis. Planes can be up as long as they aren’t landing. Birds are up unless the ground is scattered with seed.  

The list goes on and on. Balloons and bald eagles, clouds, heaven itself, and sometimes a lost hang glider. 

All in all, all this talk about has gotten me feeling pretty down. Which I guess is what’s up. 

Salad Forks & Ad Dorks

Big news, people, big news. This office has been voted, I almost can’t believe I’m saying this: The Most Pretentious Workplace by Slow Company. It wasn’t always this way. There were times when our faux earnestness when unnoticed by industry trade publications. No longer. Despite this honor, there are lots of new hires who ask me what makes an office pretentious. It’s not always as simple an answer as you might think.

But pretention is in the details, the little things. I make sure everyone puts both accents on the word “résumé.” Or, their, “ray-zoom-ay,” as I like to say. There are pretentious people, friends within advertising, who think it’s all about attitude. They are wrong. Being pretentious is actually quite simple. At least for me and the proof is in the pudding. 

I run this agency like a Michelin-rated French restaurant with all the trimmings, or should I say, drippings. That doesn’t mean we call each other “chef” or wear white aprons covered in entrails. Not that this hasn't been the result of many late night work sessions. But it does mean we have bouillabaisse - not paella - on tap in the kitchen. Has a mussel shell or two been known to clog up the stew line? Yes, but this is how the creative sausage gets make. It means that when we’re stumped by an idea we put it a sous vide bag and leave it there overnight. Without fail, something new and funky will be waiting for us in the morning. 

Unless the agency dog gets to it first. 

We ARE Family

 

Sorry, but at this company, we are family. Willie Stargell is an honorary member of the C-Suite with a benefits and stock options. Maybe you’ve never stapled a relative’s hands together as a fun goof and a wry commentary on our collective slog towards technological obsolescence. While online bullying is on the rise, who doesn’t long for the days of a classic swirly? Is it harder to perform with the prevelance of HR departments and the rise of space-saving urinals? Naturally, but public restrooms are where this all started, many years ago, in the gym locker rooms of yore. You can either love carbonation in all its newly seltzered forms or hate having your head shoved into a flushing toilet. But you can’t do both. 

How many members of this family does it take to screw in a light bulb? The correct answer is infinite, since we have a crack janitorial staff employed to do just that. They aren’t considered family. Did you invite your gardener to Thanksgiving dinner? Let me guess, you didn’t have a gardener. I bet you are under the misapprehension that you possess a green thumb. In a way, you’re right. But I’m guessing the undercooked fish is the culprit for your verdant plumage and another trip to the bathroom.  

In this family, we talk behind each other’s backs all the time. We don’t have assigned seats, but neither did you growing up. We o days without speaking, sometimes even weeks. Kind of like a family. When we do communicate, we do so only out of financial necessity. Everyone here has mouths to feed and bills to pay. 

So when I fire you after forgetting to empty the pencil sharpener one too many times, you should take it personally. Because it is personal. But I still expect a Christmas card every year. 

The Bill is Due

 

When I heard the news that Bill Russell died at the age of 88, I wasn’t sure how to react. Having been schooled in the intracicies of social media mourning, I knew I had to find a picture of me and the Celtic great – and fast. To stand out among the sea of “close friends” and “dear friends” and “big fans” my photo neede to be spectacular. Like me on a milk crate lording over the basketball legend in a mock dunk. Or teaching him about the three-point shot with a diagram and everything.

But it was harder to find than I initially had thought. 

You see, I looked everywhere for it and turned up nothing. The fact that I never met Bill Rusell is probably the reason it wasn’t located in my vast celebrity archive, though I can’t be certain. I just know that the way to grieve in public, especially when the newly departed is famous requires proof you both once shared the same oxygen. You were on equal terms and equaler footing. For this exercise, as little social distancing as possible, the better. 

Nothing says “we knew each other on a intimate level” like the glassy-eyed stare and stiff pose of a public photograph. The arm half-cocked over the shoulder, the inability to pin down where exactly to look and a smile as stitled as a jaded circus performer. These are the telltales of death in the digital age. 

Because with them gone, it’s up to you now to take the reins.

Now there is the option to do nothing in public and simply extend private condolences – if that’s something you are even able to do. But without a valid email or a functioning telephone number, the social montage is the next best thing. 

The alternative to this type of outpourning is a sober, diginified remberance, with statistics and anecdotes about the great man. For someone like Russell there are many. You could say, for instance, that he was the greatest winner in the history of American team sports. That no other athlete will ever come close to approaching his records. He was a Civil Rights icon at a time when it was of the utmost importance.  

You could do that. Since he wasn't on your level in life, why not share a photo of him stooping over in death?