Playing Dress Up

Despite what Halloween evangelists will tell you, the purpose of a good costume isn’t to stand out, it’s to fit in. Don’t believe me? Then ask any wanted fugitive or master of espionage what are their thoughts on the matter; that’s if you can find them. D.B. Cooper didn’t parachute into the parking lot of Party City looking for a pair of novelty Groucho glasses after his successful skyjacking. That’s because, Mr. Cooper, or whatever his real name was, knew instinctively that your goal should be to move through crowds unnoticed. The last thing you want are clear identifiers, like a giant red wig, enormous plastic cigar, or clown shoes. So Ronald McDonald on his day off. 

Whether it’s collective psychosis brought on by the holiday’s dangerous connection with candy gorging or a nationwide disassociation from reality, one thing is clear, Halloween is a day most people forget how to dress. The rest of the time we’re playing our parts  to a tee. Who knew that when watching a big time college football game, most people in the stands yearned to be the mascot, not the star quarterback? You don’t have a big head unless it’s putting direct pressure on your upper vertebrae. 

Sugar rushes aside, what’s wild is that we take our cues from celebrities, the last people on earth we should be listening to on the subject. Why? Well, for one thing, they make a living on craving attention. And if they’re actors, all they do is play parts. Put it this way. Halloween is one role they get without having to audition.  

Many of us deride door-to-door salesmen and Jehovah’s Witnesses for their constant home intrusions. Yet somehow, it’s okay to knock on stranger’s front doors, demanding sweet compensation. This is one step away from a robbery. Because once again, we have it backwards. It’s on the trick-or-treater to provide gifts to the homeowner, not the other way around. That's simply being a polite guest.

If the bible has taught us anything it’s that you should never show up to a shindig empty-handed. They were three “wise” men for a reason. Actually, that wouldn’t be such a bad costume. That's if I knew where to find myrrh on short notice. 

The Hygenie

 

Larry wasn't expecting to find anything inside an old bottle of dish soap laying by the side of the road, except maybe a little extra soap. But there he was, in his spotless glory. You see, the Hygenie had been waiting for someone to rub the bottle for years. But when most people see garbage, they keep walking. They don’t even pick it up as a courtesy. As it turns out, this particular twentysomething was on his way to the laundromat. Only he didn’t bring along enough detergent for ensuing multiplicity of loads. 

Yes, you’re not supposed to use dish soap on your clothes, but when backed into a stained corner, you do whatever you have to. There wasn’t any soap in the bottle, just the Hygenie.

“I will grant you three washes,” said the Hygenie, “but there are a few ground rules. You can’t ask for more than three washes. I can’t wash you by hand, it’s a little too intimate for me, and I can’t do anything about red wine stains. Understand?”

Now he didn’t want to waste his washes. But he owned a lot of dirty things so it was hard to decide at first. 

“Wash my car,” said Larry. 

“Your wash is my command,” said the Hygenie. He nodded and his used Land Rover sparkled in an instant. He felt like it wasn’t even this clean the day it rolled off the assembly line. The Hygenie cleaned everything. Inside the glove compartment, under the seats, the dash. There wasn’t a crumb or a piece of lint to find. It didn’t smell like a new car though. Even magical beings have their limitations.

His hair was greasy and he hadn’t showered in days. But the Hygenie said no touching so that was out. He picked up a few plums and tomatoes from the market that needed a deep cleaning.

“Wash my produce,” said Larry.

The Hygenie went to work. He was careful not to puncture the delicate stone fruit. But he did the trick and when Larry tried the first one he was satisfied. Now he had one wash left. He still had to do his laundry. But his whole life was a filthy mess. Then he had an idea.

 

“So I was thinking about hiring a cleaning service, but if you’re willing to work for room and board. Food's included. Do you eat?"

The chance at freedom was enticing. Like a sea creature he'd moved from different bottles over the years. Mrs. Meyers was the best, but Dawn was the latest. He had to think it over. Whatever you think about a soap bottle, it was his home. 

“Okay. But on one condition. No baths.”

It was agreed that baths would not be under the Hygenie’s purview. And thus a beautiful partnership was born. Larry grew up and left behind his immaturity and squalid living conditions with the help of a thousand year old soapy spirit. Because if you can’t be hygienic on your own, find a compulsively fastidious genie who can. 

Old Chestnut about an Old Chess Nut

 

Have you heard the one about the chess player who started to believe he was an actual King? It didn’t start like that though. He was an old man who hated checkers and backgammon. His delusions were progressive. First, like many of us, he saw himself as a pawn, trudging along in a pointless existence. Then he found God, and in his newfound religious zeal, went ahead and started calling himself the Bishop. Opponents mostly tolerated his antics. But what could they do? He was the best. 

He'd rant and rave, walk diagonally wherever he saw tiled floors. Bathrooms were maddening for anyone else who happened to be relieving themselves at the same time. He couldn’t just tip the attendant, wash his hands and get out – mint or no mint. He saw himself as a player in a divine human tragicomedy. That didn’t last long though. His faith flagged and he began to act more and more chivalrously, especially around potential paramours. Jousting the exes of would-be flames. He was a knight now, and this is what knights did. 

Good thing he could never figure out what a “rook” was exactly so he skipped that one and went straight for the royal couple. He didn’t want to be the king at first. During matches he’d take up much of his time railing against the fact that there was no “prince” on the board. Princes are hard to come by. Just ask Nicholas II or Henry VIII. 

That’s when he became king. At least in his own mind. He worn a crown, albeit one he bought from a Halloween costume store. But none of his competitors could tell the difference between cubic zirconium and diamonds. He made people introduce him as “your highness” and kiss his hands. The same clammy hands that wouldn’t stop caressing his pieces. 

It went on like this for years. Some people would speak up, but most were shouted down. It got in their heads. They lost and they kept losing. He started wearing capes and rented thrones to sit in during matches. He never explained why a king would be playing chess in a high school gymnasium in the middle of Ohio. But that didn’t matter. Until it did.

One day the Old Chess Nut lost a match and his opponent screamed, “the king is dead.” The man took his crown and broke it, which considering it was mostly plastic, wasn't too difficult. The whole room reverberated with his howls. It hadn’t occurred to him that kings were deposed, sometimes in quite violent fashion. He was lucky then, to still have his head. How could he continue playing chess after that? 

Last I heard he was working on a form of renegade chess where two of the pawns were princes who traverse the board two spaces at a time in any direction. And why not? Princes are usually more limber than kings. Unless they’re hemophiliacs. 

Being Anti-Semantic

“I am not a fan of dog people,” said the anti-semantite. He never elaborated because he never elaborated on anything. Many in the room wondered if the target of his ire were dog owners, people whose lives revolved around the walking, feeding, and playing with canines. That was what many assumed. That all the time he waited in line at Balenciaga behind customers with small dogs inside expensive purses had sent him in a spiral against the beasts. 

But others knew better without him having to explain. They assumed he was referring to people who behaved like dogs. The sort of human beings who scratched and licked themselves in private places in public places. Folks who barked orders at underlings and behaved like mannerless lunatics. 

There was an even smaller portion of the room who figured he was referring to secret government experiments that sought to breed man and dog. If dogs were man’s best friend, why couldn’t they be his life partner too? At least that’s who the theory went. These dynamic dog people would have all the same love for tennis balls and fire hydrants, but walk on their hind legs and do your taxes. They could speak the language, though most nuances were still lost on them. The anti-semantite might’ve despised this group because you can’t keep a half man half dog inside a gilded cage. There’s no amount of gold leaf that makes that okay. These scientific marvels should be sitting on your board of directors, not on a rug in front of your fireplace. 

Then again, there was a tiny cohort in the room who believed what he was talking about was nothing of the kind. But a subtler subset of the acronym attuned, believed that dog meant “Department of Oil and Gas,” with its people unapologetically driving the planet to environmental ruin. Anything is possible, after it was noted that the anti-semantite drove a Tesla. 

Whatever he meant by “dog people,” he’s definitely an idiot, and not the Dostoyevsky kind either. Though you could always say that’s just semantics. 

Resign of the Times

 

I’ve never understood why quitting is seen as the act of an arch coward. When in reality it takes far more courage to leave a place on the early side, than to wait until they drag you out of the party using a rented “Jaws of Life.” I’m sure it’s the type of contraption readily available at your nearest Home Depot. Anyone can get pulled over by the cops for driving recklessly, while only exceptional people pull themselves over, slam themselves on the hood of a car, and write themselves a hefty ticket. 

Talking to yourself is all well and good, but talking back to yourself is where things start to get interesting. 

There are many people out there doing a bad job, but sticking out because society tells them they aren’t allowed to get off the ride. It’s not true. 

Many years ago, in the prime of high school fencing career, I noticed a freshman having a particularly unhappy time on the team. You’d think it would be impossible to dislike sanctioned schoolyard swordplay, but some people simply aren’t cut out for it. As a keen empath, I found the young lady and told her that she ought to consider hanging up her blades and calling it quits. Why pursue something, a game no less, that wasn’t remotely enjoyable? 

Same goes for elected officials. Being president or prime minister should be, first and foremost, fun. That’s the point, really. To have a great time and make lots of memories. Put your feet up on your desk and not worry about anyone coming in to say “excuse me, but you can’t put your feet there.” It’s why I respect people who give up easily. 

Impostor theory is only a theory. But in practice, lots of us are bona fide impostors. The thing is, you'll only know that if we quit. 

Making Excuses

 

Whoever said we don’t make anything in this country anymore obviously never visited the Excuse Factory somewhere between Elkhart Indian and Bangor, Maine. But you can’t really blame them, can you? We’re opening up facilities up and down the eastern seaboard, with plans to expand to the Midwest by early next year. Don’t take our word for it though, we have plenty of material ready in case none of that pans out. 

While anyone can come up with an excuse or two, it takes a team of trained professionals to craft ones that are built to last. The ones we create at the Factory are designed to sustain a barrage of counterarguments and senseless hole-poking by tedious skeptics. 

We’ve certainly turned plenty of critics around by inviting them into our factory for a guided tour. Watching something as precise and delicate as an excuse being made from scratch gives even the most cynical person a window into a life of total freedom and self-determination. 

What we do here is streamline the excuse making process so everyone who enlists our help is buoyed by an arsenal of justifications they never would have come up with on their own. A satisfied customer recently missed a work related golf outing. By himself, he might have explained his absence was due to “feeling a little under the weather,” or the “sudden arrival of a long lost relative.” What we do at the Excuse Factory is get specific. That’s why we kidnapped his dog and held it hostage until the last tee was cleaned up, the last divot repaired. A regular excuse company would have merely told him to “use the old ‘my dog was kidnapped’ by a central European crime syndicate.” That wasn’t good enough for us. It helped our customer, so he wasn’t even lying when he wrote a teary email to colleagues about his lost retriever. Dog and man are reunited and we can safely report, only a tiny bit traumatized. 

A highly-touted major league baseball team, whose promise was equaled only by its payroll, called us up after a disappointing postseason. They wanted what we call “the works.” That meant weather excuses, astrological excuses, anything that got them off the hook for poor performance. Fans don’t want accountability, they want reasons to believe. If your excuse doesn't work, you can always blame us. 

You can do no wrong (if you hire us). Our only concern is if we get edged out by automation. But if that happens, you can imagine the long list of reasons we’ll give for our demise. Whatever happens though, one thing it won't be is our fault. 

The Greatest Story Never Told

Boy did I have a great story for you guys. We’re talking Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Clancy all rolled into one. This was a book for the ages. It would’ve put the Bible to shame. Although to be fair, the Bible is one book that routinely puts itself to shame. So bad example. Too bad for humanity I accidentally deleted it off my desktop and set each hard copy on fire. 

It had everything. It had people with two last names (Cleveland Johnson) and people with two first names (Stephen Dan). It had a character who believed that every dining room table can change the world. He called it his “table rasa” theory and argued that the clearing of dirty dishes is akin to a spirtual cleanse. I never got around to naming him.

There were plenty of female characters, so no need to worry. The plot was extremely diverse. There was an action sequence on the deck of a ship, another one inside a private helicopter, and a final one in a state park off season. Characters ate a lot. People eat in movies but in books it’s not as common. You could barely turn the page without one character commenting on the fluffiness of a bagel, the sublimity of garlic, or the viscosity of chowder. In fact, the 37^th chapter is entitled, “The Viscosity of Chowder.” 

In this book, I had people do things you never see in a book. They read books. In the book, people sat down and read for pages. It wasn’t descriptive either. It was, “Franklin read his periodical for hours. 

I saved my work but to keep it from prying eyes I cleverly labeled the manuscript, “Not Important – Please Delete.” I guess that sort of backfired for me this time. It’s worked wonders in the past as a last line of defense against literary operatives on the prowl. 

Now I know why Homer never wrote anything down. That way he never had to worry about misplacing pure gold. That and he was blind. 

Too bad I can’t remember the rest.

Lack of Focus Groups

Before we get started, I want to thank everyone for taking time out of their busy day to sit in a stuffy room for four to five hours assisting us with marketing research. It's an essential part of the process that we can't live without. You going to watch a few videos, fill out a forms, and talk openly about what you've seen and heard.

When will our checks clear?

Last day of the month.

What's this?

That's a projector. We're not going to need it. Everything is digital.

Pretty cool, though. I remember these. Got any slides laying around?

People, people, try not to touch anything. There's a night school that uses this room after us.

It's unlocked. Nice.

Don't go in there. That's private. It says, "private." Everyone get back to your seats. Please, I'm begging you. 

The window opens. I repeat, the window opens. We could use a little fresh air in here. So stuffy.

Stay inside. That's a major liability to have you out on the ledge.

Follow me. I can hoist people up.

Where are you going? That's not safe. We have a lot of work to do and my bosses are paying you.

Oh, look, a bird. Quick, someone catch it. Watch out ----!

I knew I should've given them Adderall. I guess I learned something. 

Read it again, Sam

As time goes by, I find myself wishing I employed a live-in stenographer. There are many multitasking mornings that I can’t make time to take notes. Making coffee and drinking coffee. Grinding coffee and smelling coffee. Pouring coffee and steeping coffee. And that’s just involving coffee. I have a large container of teas as well. 

What I need is someone to accompany me throughout the day, recording my best and worst quotes. Intellectual detours and random digressions. Then I can review at night while I clean the coffee maker and prepare for the next day. 

My stenographer, let’s call him Sam, should be there at my beck and call. The former is essential. It’s standard for many note takers to focus on the call, but the beck? That’s far too often ignored by the most inveterate typists. 

In this changing climate, I don’t want anything untoward ending up in cyberspace i.e. some idiot’s blog. That’s why “Sam” will use a vintage Olivetti and shred anything I deem shreddable. The last thing I need to see my incoherent ramblings end up coming out of the mouth of a TikTokker with a few million followers.

I’ve tried taking notes. I really have. But my handwriting has taken a turn and I never learned how to use a typewriter. 

Soupy Tales

A couple of activists tossed a can of tomato soup at a Van Gogh painting. This is proof that the arc of history doesn't always bend towards progress. The pair were almost onto something. But as everyone knows, you're supposed to throw a tomato at the artist, not a soup can at the art. Like a game of telephone, it was a matter of generational miscommunication.

I try not to judge strangers too harshly. But in the case of these angry critics, I have to draw the line at matching clothing. You should never wear the same shirt as your friend, unless you both work at an Applebee's. But at least then, your embroidered name tag will mark a clear distinction. However, the fruit in the restaurant's logo is an apple, not a tomato. 

Thinking the same is one thing, but dressing the same? And at their age? That's totally unacceptable. You need your own revolutionary style, comrade. Maybe a Nehru jacket and a Mao suit. 

What I appreciate about the dimwitted duo is their choice in soup. They knew enough to steer clear of clear liquids. Because activism, like soup, is all about substance. And you won't get anywhere with a salty bouillon cube. 

The thing is, oil paintings are soft targets for the oil averse. Why not attack pizza parlors and pork stores lined with bottles of extra virgin olive oil? I'll tell you why. They're afraid of a certain Italian-American subculture. 

Caught in the crossfire is Van Gogh himself. This is man who took global dependency on oil seriously. He went farther than most to cut out his personal contribution. What do think ear wax is?  

Carrots and Corduroy

 

The following is an excerpt from my fortcoming memoir, Some Things I Did, in which I recount in painstaking detail the most inconsequential and boring moments from a life full of them. It’s not a celebration of success, nor is it a meditation on failure. Rather, it is a simple accounting of some stuff that occurred not too long ago. I will publish more in the future. Something we can all look forward to.

From an early age, Bugs Bunny was a hero of mine. He taught me the value of repetition and the power of a memorable catch phrase (a memorable catch phrase). Initially I wondered if “what’s up doc?” was a commentary on the United States healthcare system, or merely a reflection of his choice in friends. Being a celebrity, he was no doubt on a board or two, nurturing more than one expanding endowment. But even more than that, Bugs taught me how to eat. Long before the raw food craze of the early 21^st century, there he was, an independent rabbit, surrounded by candy, cigarettes, and TV dinners, chomping away on a far healthier choice: wild carrots. This was my example. 

 

Oh, it must’ve been 2014 or so. A crisp March day. The sort of day you need shoes, but not gloves. You want sunglasses, but not ski goggles. Perfect for the seasonally bereft. 

In kindergarten, a classmate told me about the many benefits of carrots, including how it could practically give you X-ray vision. His attempt to demonstrate this began with a maraca. The boy explained how there were beads inside, ones no one else but him could see.

While he showed off his eyes, I must've rolled mine. What would be the first of many in the following three decades.

I’m not one to measure food. Although, I do have a yardstick hanging in my kitchen to swat at pests and pretend to conduct the New York philharmonic. I’ve always thought a conductor’s baton to be rather ineffectual in size and scope. Perhaps my background as a high school fencer of minor acclaim affects my view of other sword-like objects. 

You don’t expect to love corduroy the same way our culture promotes flannel and wool. Despite my distance from a tenure track professorship, I began wearing corduroy blazers. I never wanted to teach a graduate level philosophy course. I just wanted to look like I did. 

So on this early spring morning, staring into a nearly empty fridge, I donned my natty, ratty, tattered blazer, and took out the healthiest thing I could find. In this case it was a medium sized carrot. From my research, I knew I had to peel it first. Though Bugs never did such a thing. He went in fresh and unvarnished, probably ingesting more than his fair share of dirt in the process. But a cartoon character, however iconic, is not a nutritionist. 

There I was, walking down Broadway, one of Astoria’s main throughfares, eating a carrot. That’s until I reached the end of it; not of the street, but of the carrot. Mind you, this was long before city-wide composting. So I had nowhere to deposit this stump, besides the overflowing trashcans and open sewers. I looked everywhere for rabbits, but saw only rats and pigeons. Then I did the most sensible thing I could think of.

I ate it. 

All Points Bulletin

Technological progress has left many of us confused and distraught, incapable of adapting to the constant changes. It seems like only yesterday that my assistant was bragging about our office’s new fax machine. Or that the horsepower of my morning commute was measured on hoof of an actual horse. Nevertheless, there is another piece of Americana destined for the trash heap after the digital revolution claims yet another innocent victim. 

I’m talking of course about bulletin boards. The naïve and lazy welcome anything that steers them clear of an accidental thumbtack pricking. Personally, I have always enjoyed the risk. Maybe it’s why the presence of dangerously sharp paper cutters in every classroom at my elementary school was not seen as a hazard, but as a way to teach students to watch their extremities. 

The thing about bulletin boards is they are not just used by people wishing to promote their weekend dance troupe or a bake sale. Bulletin boards, at their best, are rather illustrative. Pinning up photographs and using yarn to connect the dots gives the impression of having a handle on any situation. 

Make no mistake about it: everyone loves bulletin boards. Criminal profilers swear by them, often tacking large maps during an ongoing investigation. But this isn’t simply something good guys can get behind. Bad guys love them, too. Cutting out magazines and circling heads with a red grease pencil is practically mandatory if you’re starting up a criminal enterprise. Conspiracy theories remain theories without bulletin boards. They help the theorist see their work in three dimensions. So it won’t be the same if all this juicy data is kept on an iPad. Without the moment when the cops walk through the door and see their high school yearbook photo pinned into cork is sure to make society significantly poorer.

Bad people and good people aside, there’s another group of bulletin boosters we can’t ignore. Crazy people. Every would-be genius knows that to show off their beautiful mind, they need several boards for “calculations” and “breakthroughs.” This can’t go digital. It can’t. There is something romantic about a borderline personality frothing at the mouth while digging for the perfect tack. And there's nothing romantic about doing it on the "The Cloud" or via a YouTube algorithm.

Think of what will we’ll lose. I haven’t even mentioned what I’m going to do with bowl of 10,000 thumbstacks in my living room. I shudder at the thought. Bulletin boards make bad ideas look great. Everything looks cooler in a semi-collage. Please, will you think of the children?

Class War

  

When I think of class war I don’t picture pitchforks and full length portraits of Karl Marx. There are no picket lines or overwritten placards. No one has a bullhorn. I think of the constant thump of a gym class dodgeball inching ever closer to my face. I see spinning protractors flying through the air like Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore’s helicopter assault. Bouncing off open lockers to the tune of Wagner. 

I imagine the smashing of beakers by a disgruntled Tennis pro. History, a subject so encompassing, it’s a wonder the same people don’t also teach a course on Life. 

In college, classes get too specific. You lose the comfort of generalities often ound in institutions of lower learning. Why take Introduction to Advanced Multivariable Post-Calculus when you can just take Math with a capital M? A class is like a good name. Unless you are actual royalty, it shouldn’t be more than three words.

Then again, that’s just me.

Not on my watch

 

Time, though artificial, is a very real preoccupation for many of us. You can convince yourself it’s not real, but such a proposition is much harder when face-to-face with a Patek Phillipe dealer, staring into his metal briefcase packed with vintage timepieces. A middle-aged Swissman who has left his chalet simply to speak with you in person. He’s made time for you, something you once believed was as fake as the crabmeat in your California roll. He didn’t even have a chance to twist his mustache into form and would've preferred spending the afternoon on the slopes with a nice Riesling. 

Time’s fradulence is not something many of us question. That’s unless we’re considering buying a one hundred thousand dollar watch while on European holiday. 

I don’t want funky do-dads on my watch. No touchscreens or WiFi. I don’t need connectivity or anything related to “The Cloud.” I want people who are in my presence for seconds to ballpark how much I paid for it. Which means I need gold, diamonds, and other rare gems that make it clear this wasn’t obtained on the blanket of a nomadic street salesman.

Because people who love expensive watches have too much time on their hands. 

Just Don't Do It

 

When an advertisinge icon passes away, it’s can be dislocating for everyone even peripherally connected to the dearly departed. You can’t quite find the words, even though you’re in the communication business. You don’t know what to say, but you know you have to say something, lest people think you’re some marginal figure. 

Here’s what you do. You find a picture of yourself and the late leader. You tell a story about how they changed your life. But here’s the thing, the story should be about how great you are, not them. People are already quite familiar with their genius, but may not realize what an innovator you are. 

It’s why you have to tell them. The story should play into your strengths, while getting the deceased to tacitly vouch for your abilities. Dead men tell no lies, nor do they disagree.  

Use words like love. While this may seem like a eulogy, it’s more like a job application. You need your peers to put you on the same level. This is your chance. You never know what recruiter will notice. 

Turning the Page

You’re probably wondering why my debut novel, Dancing Down Under Part 2, failed to catch on with the public at-large. I’m not confused one bit, since I know the real reason people skipped it in favor of lesser forms of entertainment.

It wasn’t the size of it. 1200 pages is the same length as the Bible and most of you have no issue committing that text to memory. 

Nor was it was the complicated plot points. Some reviewers didn’t understand why the protagonist was named Salvator in Chapter 1, Samuel in Chapter 2, and Jumping John throughout. Look, I studied literature at a very high level. Being confused is part of what makes a great book. You’re not supposed to understand everything. 

Had people judged it by its cover, then the book would be on the bestseller list right now. 

There was hardly any outcry that none of the narrative took place in Australia. “Down Under” implied an office building sub-basement, or hell. 

The lack of dancing wasn’t an issue. This is a book, not a movie. 

While some of my initial readers found the words “Part 2” dangerous and dishonest, I said that it worked for Georgie Lucas, so why not me? 

The preponderance of typos due to my inability to find a good editor only added to the story’s earthiness. This was written by a fallible human being and not some robot Shakespeare. 

The real reason people ignored the stack of books sitting in front of one of Port Authority’s many public restrooms is personal. The stupid people didn’t buy books. Smart people did, but how many of are there? Fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty in the whole country. That’s just not enough to sustain a career based on peerless artistry and pure originality.