Fickleball

 

I’m looking for a place to play my newest passion, which you might rightfully call my newest preoccupation: Fickleball (though the name could change if we gain a lucrative sponsorship). While I have only been into the sport for roughly one week, what I lack in experience I make up for in revolutionary fervor. 

I don’t know much about the game’s history, as a relative newcomer, but I can tell you that driving a bulldozer is way easier than you might imagine. In the last two days, I have helped raze two tennis courts, three playgrounds, and a baseball field to make room for the Fickleball. That's not even counting all the youth soccer matches I disrupted. People listen to you when you have a bullhorn, and it makes the relocation process far smoother. 

Unlike most games, with the possible exception of baseball, Fickleball has no agreed upon dimensions. However, even baseball has its limits for the outfield fence. Not Fickleball. Like a conquistador in his glistening prime, we’re always accruing territory, drinking wine, and looking for gold. Frankly, the game has been a genuine fountain of youth for many participants. We also don't discriminate on other species. Yesterday, my squad shellacked an opposing team made up of feral cats and several wandering squirrels. 

The league I’m a part of is in the process of purchasing a bankrupt township in northern Michigan that we plan to turn into a single, contiguous field. There are a few holdouts who don’t want to sell their trailers, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my week amongst Fickleballers, it’s that everyone has a price. 

I never knew how much I enjoyed evangelizing. Other sports are pastimes, recreations, diversions. Not Fickleball. The survival of western civilization depends on its adoption and expansion. We need this game to replace religion, politics, and every other sport. So we’re starting with fields and arenas, but not stopping there. Churches, schools, and random cultural institutions can easily be transformed into indoor field houses or player-centric lounges. 

I don’t know how much longer I can play Fickleball. The rules are complex and fairly stupid. The people who play it are annoying and fairly obnoxious. You don’t need much equipment, but you do need at least two million in assets. As one teammate is fond of saying, “liquidity is for going on the lam and I haven't packed my suitcase yet.” He may be right. These days, how could you not consider cash a marginalized group? 

And even though we’re amateurs, I had to sign a lifetime contract to play in a pickup game. The captain of the team said it was to weed out non-believers. Makes sense to me.

I was going to play in a contest this afternoon but I just spotted a shiny buffalo nickel circa 1919. Might spend the weekend polishing it instead.

L’unrésistance

I’d like to call this meeting of the French Unresistance to order. After asking for some constructive feedback on how to best serve you all, I returned from the front (yard) last night to find our newly installed suggestion box overflowing with little bits of paper. The box was out of whack, though I feel the same way sometimes, partially damaged and slightly off-kilter. Oh, right. The notes themselves were helpful and uniformly stained with expensive red wine.

Etienne, is there anything I forgot?

From what I can tell, many of you want to see the leadership reconsider collaboration as a virtue. Who are we to go about this alone? So isn’t that we’re doing right now? More on that later. 

A few of you objected to the word “fraternité” for obvious reasons. While it follows libérté and egalité, and has roots in the French Revolution, the image for many is not the wobbling, waddling, well-fed Danton, but the popped collars and annoying catchphrases of collegiate Greek life. 

We’re going to stop referring to certain members as heroes, since that makes the rest of you feel awfully bad. Maurice was working on a song about our struggle, but he shouldn’t be able to write the lyrics alone. 

Instead of fighting back, we’ve decided to bend to public pressure and capitulate here and now. Acquiescence can be quite agreeable if you’re accepting of it. 

Based on your responses, surrendering now seems like the most prudent decision. With that in mind, there are some people outside who’d like to meet everyone. Put on these blindfolds and do as they say. Résistance is futile. 

Merci.

Late Capitalization

Capital letters used to mean Something. But what has emerged since the rise of Cyber communication is Nothing short of keyboard Anarchy. In the past, Uppercase letters were employed for extra emphasis, with adopters abiding by a Strict set of Rules. Today, things are quite Different.

What we Capitalize and what we Don’t has very little connection to reality or consistency. In the Old days, we capitalized our names, our cities and our Latin plant names. Now, any Portion of A sentence may rise to the top in a foolish fit of Artificial posturing. We are a Case insensitive culture, choosing chaos over Clarity.  

Caps lock, as feared as any key on any Keyboard, is now the standard operating Position for online Exchanges. Some equate its use with yelling. But Yelling would be preferable, since a howl has a degree of variance with its competing inflection points. Caps lock is one note, and not a very good One at that. Simple songs are fine, while bashing your head into a piano for a unsavory shock of ivory noise is not exactly Music. 

Some people will Blame our Previous president for his rather Unusual grasp of capitalization. While He certainly didn’t help, the rot goes far deeper than that. Look at any Menu or any Email. Go through any text message or Scan any Advertisement. Nothing is as it should be. I believe an E.E. Cummings type backlash is coming to our checkered communiqués. An unlettered revolution is in our future, where the lowercase finally seizes the moral high ground. Case Warfare is on the horizon, mark my words…just do it with a Red Pen and white out. 

No longer will we be living in a Dictatorship of Proper nouns. How could we when nothing is truly proper? One more reason why people prefer Podcasts and Audiobooks to actually Reading.  

Luckily, I have a solution, borne out of the blinding esoterica of stultifying typography. What we need is a burgeoning middle case. The fact is that case inequality has never been worse. What about something that lies between the lower and the upper, a mediator, a peacekeeper, and a man of letters, but the Dag Hammarrskjöld of letters. Our sentences cannot hold up with this much tension in the zero sum game of binary capitalization. Can you blame people for resorting to the all emoji conversations as a way to circumvent the current Mayhem? 

i sure Can't.

Layoff, layon

 

With so many companies going through layoffs, we decided to do something a little different at ours. It didn’t take long to figure out either. We’re proud to announce that for the fourth quarter this year, we will, for the first time ever, have a series of layons. And before you ask, yes, it rhymes with “crayon.”

We all know what a layoff is, don’t we? We should. It’s when someone you’ve never met takes you into a small room you’ve never entered and says your position is no longer needed. You’re a redudancy. To which you should always reply, “redundancy?” Then you get a cardboard box or a milk crate to stuff your belongings, which shouldn’t amount to much since the office went open years before.

Layons are slightly different. It’s when your boss just “lays it on you.” It could be about something disturing their home life or a rare food allergy they’ve developed since Cannes, but layons are all about listening. A few clients suggested we do it in more straightforward way and have an immediate superior lay on top of you in a non-sexual manner for a mutually agreed upon amount of time. But it felt too literal and too fraught considering the shape and size of our office, not to mention the shape and size of our employees. Plus, we would have to run it by HR, which is usually the test of any great idea.  

Layons are forums to let others put their insecurities and stresses at your feet. All you have to do is listen and nod, nod and listen. Layoffs cause trouble, whereas layons are all about trouble. We are in a culture that gives underlings free rein to complain, but what about the higher ups? It’s hard to find someone to listen to you about the pain of owning a boat or knowing which elite prep school to send your dumbest child. These session will last approximatley three to four hours. Your actual work will need to completed on your own time. This is too important for morale and we can’t ask your boss to schlep all the way out to your tiny apartment on nights or weekends. So this has to be done in the office.

They pay you, so the least you could do is listen while they regale you with a litany of psychological issues. It's either that or another round of layoffs. Up to you.

Gatekeeping gatekeeping

I receive suggestions all the time about gates from people who don’t even have gates. Yet they’re always there to make a recommendation. It’s a troubling development, to be sure. Because you can’t have just anyone building a gate. To the laykeeper, a gate is a hinged component of any otherwise impenetrable fence. It allows for free and easy access to those with the key, the combination, or the sheer force of will to enter. 

The problem with amateur gatekeepers is their collective ignorance of gatekeeping. Knowing moats were used in Medieval England because your childhood Lego set included one is quite different from having dug actual trenches for a wet and wild installation.  

Before you build a gate, you need to first understand the history of gates. I’m sorry to point fingers, but these are the same people who spout off about “barb wire.” When Barb Wire is a middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo handing out trays of delicious jello snacks to a group of ravenous and hyperactive six year olds. Barbed wire, on the other hand, is what created the modern cattle industry as we know it. Ultimately, it’s about control, gatekeeping that is. But did it ever to occur to these Johnny-gate-latelys that perhaps the bovines wanted to keep us out, too? 

Only a person with an uncommon approach to egress can truly appreciate the necessity and efficacy of gates. But what’s a gate if it isn’t kept up? I'll tell you. It falls into disrepair, develops rust, and eventually comes off the hinges. While it’s not a pretty sight, I’ve had the grave misfortune of witnessing my fair share of shameful gates. 

A gate isn’t only to keep people out, it’s to keep people in, too. It’s why the invisible fence, for all its press and canine acolytes, never caught on. We want to see our wares. Hadrian’s Wall wasn’t solely a wall, it had gates, lots of them. Same goes for the Great Wall of China as well as those outlining the yards of several of my more affluent neighbors. 

Gatekeeping is not for amateurs. It’s for experts. Those people who have devoted their lives to the reverance and preservation of short, rather ineffectual boundaries. Climbing over a gate is considered by many to be a rite of passage, or at least the easiest way to rip a new pair of blue jeans. 

So yeah, go to Home Depot, buy some supplies and build a shoddy, tawdry, soon-to-be rickety gate. It won't change who you are or what you're here to do. 

 

Leave gatekeeping to the gatekeepers. 

Any Questions?

 

That concludes the lecture portion of tonight’s program. Without further adieu and against our better judgment, we’re opening the floor to questions. Please try to keep it brief. Yes, you down in front with the ugly hat and what appears to be a sixty-four ounce soft drink.  

I have a two-part question in the form of a statement. So I’ve actually spent a great deal of time in the Middle East, visiting, vacationing, requisitioning, and I can tell you that there is a fundamental 

difference between desert sand and beach sand. Politicians and military personnel tend to focus on other parts of the debate. It’s confounding to me. That doesn’t mean you can’t picnic in either place.

Naturally. Okay, thanks for that. You over there in the wide brimmed baseball hat with long expletive written out in all capital letters. 

First of all, I just want to say thank you for tonight’s program. It has been rather illuminating in ways I didn’t anticipate. If there was one thing I would recommend is the addition of cushions. These plastic chairs are okay for a church function, but not a lecture series. Glad you like the hat, too. I had a feeling you’d get a kick out of it. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to wear hats indoors unless you’re deeply religious, but I felt tonight was an exception the Big Guy would understand. 

Thanks for the compliments as well as the feedback. Anyone else? You, holding the pet…? I'm not quite sure.

Marmot. It's a marmot. His name is Jacob but you can call him Marmie or Bon Mot. Before you question why he’s here, this isn’t your average marmot. He’s more well-read than most of the philistines in this room. Big audiobook guy. 

Right. Thank you. Ma’am, yes, you wildly waving the golf club above the heads of your neighbors. Fore? 

I’m not Scottish and this isn’t a golf club. It’s a traditional Irish shillelagh that I bought at great personal expense during my last trip to the Emerald Isle. It in the personal possession of Brendan Behan’s at the time of his death. I bought it along with his unfinished final book, “Barstool Boy.” Tonight was billed as a “Great Debate.” It seemed more like two men drinking tall glasses of water while making quips about serious matters of the day. I don’t think I noticed a single point of disagreement all night.

How about you with cleaning your monocle?

I consider myself an intellectual. I attended an ivy league university and own several tweed jackets. I smoked a pipe once or twice, too. 

Okay, it was more of an interview, but I can see how you might have thought otherwise. We have time for one more question. Sir, how about you? Yes, you pointing at me in a menacing manner. 

Will be there snacks at the book signing afterwards? This talk was during my normal dinnertime. I expected food and drink. I hope it’s not something you have to pay for. I am really hungry. 

Make a Killing

 

For many in the Big Apple, lanterflies are latest obsession, much in the same way waiting in line for cronuts or despising De Blasio once were. And while invasive species are something people tell me I should, as a fruit lover, care about, I don’t. What’s concerning is the bloodlust I never knew lay dormant within many of my neighbors.

The other day, I left my office and saw a young woman gleefully slaughter a swarm of pests with her yoga mat. A generally docile colleague ran across four lanes of traffic to stomp a group of pests congregating on the sidewalk. When I ask them, they respond, “I was told to kill” or “The city gave its ordes.” Both fair and accurate, but is no one here questioning the carnage left in our colorful wake? 

For one thing, the flies are rather pretty. Aren't they? Prettier than most insects who avoid our total societal condemnation. What I see is that many people are just looking for excuses to kill. All they need is the order. 

Quiet Something

“Quiet quitting doesn't actually involve quitting. Instead, it has been deemed a response to hustle culture and burnout; employees are "quitting" going above and beyond and declining to do tasks they are not being paid for.”

-NPR

What’s gone relatively unnoticed until now is that “quiet quitting” is hardly unique.

There’s quiet showering, which doesn’t actually involve showering, but rather, sitting on the edge of the toilet seat as a shower warms up. It’s been described by those in-the-know as a response to hyper-cleanliness and the fetishizing of hygiene. 

There’s quiet sleeping, which doesn’t actually involve sleeping, but the mere closing of one’s eyes as a silent protest against the tyranny of circadian rhythms.  

There’s quiet eating, which doesn’t actually involve eating, but instead, the strategic shifting of one's plated foodstuffs. Diners are finally quitting the segregation of courses and brainless adherence to the rigid parameters of a standard restaurant menu. Some have taken to bringing an equine feed bag with them to Michelin star restaurants as a signal to the chef that the era of epicurean excess is coming to an end. 

There’s quiet driving, which doesn’t actually involve driving, but parking. As a way of objecting to the notion of alternate side street cleaning regulations, many drivers are simply staying put. Suddenly, gas prices aren’t nearly as important. 

 

There’s quiet spelunking, which doesn’t actually involve spelunking, but remaining safely above ground, sucking in deep breath after deep breath. Many are embracing “air” instead of the weird obsession their peers have with tight spaces and uncomfortable crevices. 

There’s quiet contrapposto, which doesn’t actually involve leaning, but sitting down. It’s mostly a response to the idea, helped popularize by the likes of Michelangelo, that it should be default position for a relaxing individual.

There’s quiet mugging, which doesn’t actually involve mugging. Instead, it’s been called an understandable response to the inherent risks associated with a life of crime, where would-be assailants help strangers in the hopes of getting a little something in return. Say jewelry or a crisp sawbuck.

And of course, there’s quiet writing, which doesn’t actually involve writing, but a focus on talking about writing. The over emphasis of the written word has left bon vivants and living room storytellers with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Would society even promote someone like Homer today? Not without a big presence on social.

Chess Fever

 

 

As Governor, many people have accused me of using people as pawns. I can’t see how a person could make such a claim. Nearly every night I can get away from my executive duties and out of my executive limo, I’m seated in one our many dilapidated parks on broken pillars of jagged concrete playing chess against a coterie of unhinged lunatics and otherwise misunderstood geniuses. In doing so, I have never once taken a person – citizen or otherwise – onto the board. First of all, chessboards are far too small for such a display. If the board was the size of a regulation Twister mat, maybe it’d be a different story. 

But it’s not. In my timed matches with the Sunshine State’s esteemed pajama brigade, I may have landed on a solution for reducing bureaucratic excess. It’s a simple one, inspired by my fiercest critics.

The time has come to treat pawns as people, not the other way around. It’s quite brilliant when you barely think about it. Imagine the savings for the state when I start filling government positions with pawns. Unlike most people, they won’t need ergonomic desk chairs or a daily lunch stipend. I may pay them, but I certainly don’t have to (I checked with my attorney first). These unappreciated players on every chessboard deserve to work as public servants, or, better yet, my servants. 

I realize that not every pawn is the same. Some are wood, others are marble, but unless they originate from a novelty size chess set, they are small. 1000 pawns could do the job of a single tax clerk and I wouldn’t even have to find them a bigger office.  

 

People tend to question the slightest things. Pawns, on the other hand, epitomize the “happy to be there” crowd. They don’t get in the way, elated to finally be off the board. Although, walking with them on the sidewalk can be a clinic in undiagnosed OCD. The hope is that over time, they shed their rigid conception of movement. Despite their European roots, if pawns can assimilate, it would be a win for immigration advocates everywhere. 

 

Pawns are stoic by nature. They don’t demand the pomp of Queens and Kings. You’d think more people would understand their appeal given their mandated function as the maiden piece. Like God, they are, what Thomas Aquinas called, “first movers.” It’s another thing we share. God asked me to run for Governor, not a collection of lobbyists frothing from the quid pro quo or the rabid animal caught in my conference room.

 

So what if I use pawns as people? They have similar shapes. This isn’t like I’m filling my cabinet with bingo cards or dice. Then again, that’s not such a bad idea. I'm hearing from my powerful fish monger constituency, a huge, briny portion of my base, that using people as prawns might solve "some" of our sustainability issues. To be continued. 

Chore Thing

 

Dear Guest,

We hope you had a splendid final day (at The Cottage, not on earth). It was our immense pleasure and privilege to have you. Not to mention a significant financial gain. We like to think of this place as a two-way street, even though we’re nestled at the bottom of a long dead-end. Or, what the French might call a “cul-de-sac.” We’re eco-conscious, obviously. And staying with us is like joining a new religion, especially since we are a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt organization. To whom much is given, much is expected (beyond the cleaning fee). However, our actual mantra is rather simple: We get back what you put in. So before you shove off, here’s a short list of things we’d very much appreciate you taking care of. It would make our lives a whole lot easier.

Strip the sheets. 

Load the dishwasher.

Bless this house.

Water the plants.

Mow the lawn.

Bake a cake (anything but flourless chocolate).

Wax the floors.

Clean the rugs.

Paint the exterior a pastel of your choosing.

Repair the garage door.

Defrost the freezer.

Pay the protection money to the local mafioso. There’s petty cash inside a vase near the master bedroom. Use your discretion regarding the amount. 

Bail our son Balthazar out of jail.

Pick up our other son Matthias from grade school. He should be easy to find. He looks around forty and drives a BMW.

Wash the cars, and not just the BMWs. 

Help our other son Nebuchadnezzar write his best man speech. He’ll find you, not the other way around.

Change the filters on the AC units. 

Look under the sofa for my gold pocket watch. I believe that’s the last place I saw it. Hefty reward should you locate it. Might even offset the bail money. 

Smell the milk. This means a deep whiff, not some quick sniff. The date is fine, but you can never be too sure when it comes to dairy.  

Pay our property taxes. Still want to be a homeowner? 

While we’re at it, how about taking care of the mortgage, too?

Go next door and see if they could use any help around the house. The owners are darlings and were always there for us when we needed them. It’s the least you could do.

Fill the bird feeder.

Trim the hedges.

Read a selection from our vast library. Might I suggest anything by Mark Twain. We have his collected works. 

Treat our Roomba like a member of the family. We'd hate to find out you ignored them the whole stay, writing them off as just another robot vacuum.

Despite the presence of a Roomba, we expect you to do most of the vacuuming. 

Check the chlorine level in the pool. Swim a few laps, if you like. Anything but elementary backstroke. 

Buy bacon (we're out). No nitrites, please. 

Scrub the toilets.

Windex the security cameras. We can’t have those fogged up or dirty by the time the next guests arrive. Speaking of which, would you mind sticking around for a few extra hours to greet them? They might need help finding the place, something I know you can relate to. Maybe fix them a drink. The liquor cabinet isn’t locked. You know how to make a martini, right? 

Take home an autographed copy of my book on hosting, You Know How to Make a Martini, Right? Foreword by Nick Nolte. There should be a stack in the garage. 

I could really use a massage. 

Hope none of this isn’t too much to ask. The Cottage isn't just an AirBnb, it's a cult, too. And thanks to performing these series, you can consider yourself a member in good standing. Congratulations and see you soon.

Mother Earth is on the payroll

I never wanted to be a billionaire. But as The Good Lord^* says, you can’t always get what you want. I just wanted a comfortable cabin with the steady drip of potable water and a wood burning stove to warm up my feet on a cold day. Not too warm though, I’m an ethical vegan and despite that, I can’t be on the menu, especially now. After years of hiking through the vast North American wilderness, not even Quentin Tarantino himself would request an audience with my weather-beaten tootsies.

But then my friends, family, and millions of strangers starting asking me to make them windbreakers and other outdoor apparel. 

I tried to do more for Mother Earth. I had a whole line of leaf coats, but when they changed colors after a big summer sale, rich New Yorkers wouldn’t stop taking photos of my loyal customers. Leaf peeping is infinitely easier when you don’t have to drive to Maine. I found that out the hard way.

For a while now, I have tried to help saving the planet in small ways. I took a page out of Kris Kringle’s book, several actually. The first was hiring a wider range of employees. In this case, squirrels and others. While they lack the opposable thumbs and flare of polar elves, their constant garment gnawing proved helpful when designing durable products. Like Santa, I have also begun making a list of good people and bad people. I’m not sure what I plan to do with this list, but I have a few ideas that I’m not foolish enough to put on the record here. 

There were lots of options for us. Like closing up and shop and creating a nature sanctuary. But what about all those nice coats? Finding sources of renewable energy is one thing, but have you see our new line of waterproof visors? 

With this maneuver, Mother Earth, despite all we’ve put her through, is now comfortably in my debt. I might never ask her for a favor. But say I want to build a vacation home, what then? Put it this way, I won’t be asking any help from a local politician.  

If there’s any hope for the future, my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren yet unborn, we must find a way to avoid the federal capital gains tax. It’s the least I can do. Trust me, I checked with several accountants beforehand. We can’t afford not to act. However, thanks to a few clever financial moves, I can. 

^*Mick Jagger

Why I Can’t Be President

 

There are too many reasons that I can’t be president and none of them are fair. How can a person of my stature be asked to live in our nation’s capital for a minimum of four years? The short answer is I can’t. That shows an extreme prejudice. 

Many politicians talk about draining the swamp in Washington, but few if any mean it literally. That’s where I part company with others. I’m not a “swamp thing,” conditioned to a life of abject humidity, subsisting on flies and muck. My first order of business would be to actually drain the swamp, and not in a metaphorical sense.

This country has a real issue with highly-intelligent, wildly competent people. My lack of national electoral success shows that I’m living proof in their collective ire.

For those who say I don’t want the job of president, I’d like to remind them of the concept of false prophets. The fact that I loathe the gig means I would be perfect for it. 

I am not into podiums and all the standing that the executive branch requires. The whole reason I took up the cello in grade school and not violin was for the seat. And not the bench like piano players are used to, but a legitimate chair.

I do appreciate that the White House seems to be one of the few offices left in America that has not adopted an open plan. But how much longer can that possibly last? I’m sure we approaching the time when the load bearing walls of the oval office will be replaced with long, windy corridors so the POTUS is on the same plane as the latest batch of interns and speechwriters. It seems the resto f the country has gone this way. Why wouldn’t the highest office in the land open things up? 

So yes, there are numerous reasons I can’t be president. But is that reason enough I shouldn’t be? 

S’long Snow Days

 

Apparently, New York City is getting rid of snow days once and for all. And many parents are up in frost-bitten arms about it. Me? I’m warming up to the news. If children want to indulge in a white-out weekday of non-stop sledding and snowball fights, they should do what adults do – lie. Coming up with a believable excuse is a part of growing up. Playing hooky is not something sanctioned by wealthy school administrators, laying by the fires inside their scenic chalets. Not only that, but snow days demonstrate an indefensible bias in favor of Old Man Winter. What else explains the lack of wind and rain days?

Weird AI

 

There are fewer and fewer things that humans do better than technology. This inclues, but isn’t limited to, the holy trinity of washing dishes, gambling, and writing parody songs. With the advent of Weird AI that last example is finally hitting its creative stride. There’s no longer a need for any curly-haired accordion playing polka lovers to take up space on stage. We’re far better off letting a computer do it.

Down at the lab, a crack team of researchers always struggled with Weird Al’s musical output. His songs, for whatever reason, seemed a little off. While we admired the man, listening to his music was akin to riding around in a horse drawn carriage at the dawn twentieth century. We sensed there was a better way. 

You’re going to marvel at the improvements Weird AI has made over the genuine article. We’re still working out the kinks, of course, but the results at this early stage are nothing short of inspiring. Too many jokes go unexplained, sitting out there for the audience to misunderstand. Weird Al has practically made a career off it. Weird AI is off and running. Even overheating sometimes. 

Take the song “Like A Surgeon.” It’s on the right track, but to the team as well as to the technology, there was still something missing. Weird AI went to work and changed it to “Like a Neurosurgeon,” which immediately painted a clearer, more specific picture. You don’t have to wonder what kind of doctor the singer is playing in the accompanying music video. Though Weird Al got tons of recognition from “Eat It,” Weird AI felt that “Beet It” was more in keeping with the original Michael Jackson tune. Plus, there was the added bonus of encouraging the consumption of root vegetables, too ofter overlooked in the annals of popular music. Let's remember, Dylan chose to sing about a rolling stone, not a rolling rutabaga. 

“White & Nerdy,” hasn’t held up over the years either. So Weird AI went in and changed it to “White & On the Spectrum,” capturing the broad swath of nerdom. Weird AI’s goal was to be weird. In fact, it decided to send an email to Mr. Yankovic himself suggesting he change his moniker to Funny Al instead. 

Whatever we humans can do, artificial intelligence software alongside a huge team of PhD candidates can do marginally better. 

Maybe.

Let Me Be Frank

 

When the plastic straw bans came, I said nothing. There weren’t any riots or raging infernos. There were no protests or marches. There were no rhythmic chants like, “Hey, ho, these biodegradable straws have got to go.” No one overturned cars or toppled dumpsters. There was none of that. Most switched quickly and quietly, surrendering their beloved utensils without a peep.

But some enterprising citizens faced this oppression courageously. At Yankee Stadium a few weeks ago, the whole world saw the results in a frank display of individual industriousness. There, a lone gentleman drank his beer through a hot dog. This was something even greater than the simple slurping of excess sauce collecting in one’s pasta bowl with a strand of leftover bucatini. 

The hot dog straw is the latest example of good old-fashioned American ingenuity. Part of me wishes to see more bans on things in the hopes it spurs innovation. The old saw about the perils of prohibition may not be as true as we once thought. You hear people talk about the days of bathtub gin as if that was such a bad thing. Remember when bathtubs were just used for bathing? I'm sure glad I don’t. 

Who needs a smarter smartphone when there’s so much territory to explore in the field of tubed meat? Why build a better rocket when the case for sausage casing is this strong? The answer is that we’re only beginning to scratch the surface of what hot dogs can do.

Given the disturbing state of infrastructure in this country, perhaps it’s time we thought long and hard about replacing some of our decaying tunnels with several elongated concoctions from Nathan’s Famous. Finally, a construction project that’s 100% kosher. 

Queen for twenty-five thousand, seven hundred eighty-two Days

 

Would you want to be Queen for twenty-five thousand, seven hundred eighty-two days? Think carefully about this, because it’s not like the old days when things were quite different for those in charge. Sitting on the throne back then meant that when you wanted heads to roll, heads rolled. Vacation spots weren’t selected by travel agents, but by standing armies waiting at your beck and call. There was no “de” in front of colonization either. And the feudal system wasn’t a futile system yet. There aren’t many armadas left to vanquish in 2022. But you can still waterski in many parts of the commonwealth. 

Still want to do it? There’s a lot of responsibility when it comes to being a figurehead. Crowns carry a lot of weight. Plus, they’re heavy. The clothes a monarch wears are quite loud, in the technicolor dream coat sense. If you become Queen, no more fanny packs and cargo shorts. Sorry, I didn’t make the rules. Not sure who did though.

It’s a job of sorts, but you don’t really get any days off. There’s not a traditional 401k or IRA, though the latter acronym might be worth considering in a completely different context. But there are jewels. 

Queens can’t go to brunch with their girlfriends in the East Village. Not without a police escort and a few days notice to clear the area. While you can’t horse around too much, horseplay of a different color is perfectly acceptable. One other thing. You can't really be political, which in this day and age, is like telling someone they can't do yoga or watch Netflix.

Honestly, you probably don’t even want to be Queen for one day. Too bad it’s not always up to you. It's up to your Nazi-sympathizing ne'er-do-well of an Uncle. Good thing some people are destined to make the most of their lot in life.

Double Threats

 

There are people, most of them baseball nerds, who seem to think that Shohei Ohtani is the only multi-talented person walking the earth. He’s a pitcher and a hitter and there’s nary an article written about him that doesn’t trumpet his dual abilities. 

The troubling thing is that he’s a special guy, but he’s far from alone. You don’t have to look far. I remember reading that Russell Crowe was in a band. He’s not the only actor to sing. Or the only singer to act. So there you go, right here, you have an oscar-winner willing to stand in the beer soaked stages. I heard Ethan Hawke writes novels in his spare time. Just like Stacey Abrams. Harrison Ford enjoys landing small aircrafts in interesting places. Even Stalin wrote poetry when he had a break from the politburo. Kim Jong-Il was a totalitarian dictator and a world-class cineaste. Talk about a double threat. It certainly didn’t make things easy on film critics. 

I may be a writer, but few people realize that I also happen to be a great dancer. And that’s without any formal training.  

You see? Ohtani isn’t even that special since both of his supposed skills are within the same game. He’s still a baseball player. How about picking up the French horn or some watercolors? Then I’d be impressed. 

Vibes-Based Avionics

I’ve been a pilot for a major US airline for years now. What most people don’t realize is that I don’t actually have a pilot license and have a rudimentary understanding of the scientific principles that has allowed mankind to ascend into the clouds. However, that hasn’t stopped me from steering countless jets coast-to-coast, across the pond, and elsewhere.

That’s because the FAA no longer requires the old ways of flying. As long as the alternative is positive and empowering, there’s nothing they can do about it. 

When I see something on radar, I ask my co-pilot, “what does it feel like?” This is an important point of departure for us. Pretty much all other airlines will ask their pilots and crew to consult their instruments. Not us. 

I always tell friends that I’ve never had the pleasure of spotting a U.F.O. They usually seem pretty surprised and disappointed, since my background ought to give me a leg up. But then I explain that I’ve seen numerous flying objects other pilots might deem unidentifiable. 

Before takeoff, I never consult weather report and no one has ever referred to me as “Doppler Boy.” I go with my gut, which depends on what’s for dinner as well as my astrological sign. I used to light more candles in the cockpit in the old days. Too bad that’s no longer permitted. 

I don’t always get to the assigned destination on time, though I always arrive at a destination at a time. Don’t forget: Flying a plane makes you a pilot. That goes for hijackers and trained zoo animals. When I get in the air, the most important thing is not the weather, the traffic, but the vibes. 

Gorbachef

 

Somewhere on the outskirts of a decaying dictatorship exists a rather notorious diner, The People’s Diner, run by the infamous Gorbachef. But people out here don’t come for the food, they come for the people. Here’s how the end of the establishment played out in the fall of 1989.

“Excuse me, chev, but the sauce on burner 6 is starting to melt down. What should I do?”

“Do nothing. For every action, there is an equal and opposite inaction.” 

“Thanks, chev. Will do. Or I guess, won’t do is more like it. Can I still borrow your spoon though?”

“You don’t need a spoon to not stir, do you?”

“I guess I don’t.”

“Thanks, chev.” 

Gorbachef walked through the kitchen, checking on each of his underlings. He returned to his station but couldn’t find the only utensil he held dear.

“Chevs, where’s my sickle? Has someone seen my sickle?”

“We sold it last week to the utility guy. They were threatening to shut off the power.” 

“Thanks, chevs. Why are our fountain drinks in plastic bags and where is my stockpile of imported West German straws?”

“We live in a glassless society and our connection revolted. He said something about solidarity and refused to replace the broken beer steins.” 

“And you expect people to drink out of plastic bags, chev?”

“Our comrades did it during the Great War.”

“Thanks, chev. When are we opening tonight?”

“Nyet for a few hours. Anyone hungry?”

“Extremely.”

Gorbachef sat at the head of the table. It was time for the family meal, where they would all gather together for a little get-together before the huddled diners. 

“Why is there nothing on my, chev?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention. We’re out of food, so I decided to mix things up a little. This is what you’d call the famine meal.”

“Right. Thanks, chev. How’s dessert coming?”

“You mean the Berliner Wall? A doughy fortification we used to insulate the attic last winter?”

“Yes, chev, that dessert got a little moldy and the health apparatchik told me we had to tear down that wall…of baked goods. My hands were tied. Quit literally. There was ample twine in the supply closet.”

“The good news is that without any food, there won’t be any more unexpected purges.”

“That’s certainly one way to look at it, chev. At least there’s a bread line outside, which mean it’s almost time to open. Are we good to go?”

“Looks like we’re pretty low on gas.”

“Thanks, chev.”