Unhappy medium

 

Many of us wish we had a crystal ball. But the truth is, for those people actually in possession of them, life is anything but a ball. Sure, they know what to expect, but that offers little solace when things don’t go their way.

What is a medium after all? It’s akin to middle management. Some are impressed by the ability to contact those in the afterlife, but it’s never on their own behalf. It’s always at the behest of someone else. They’re like old fashioned telephone operators, sitting in tiny rooms with a flashing, beeping switchboard, inches from their face. They are customer service reps, acting as a go between here and there. 

But what does do for them and their own lives? Crystal balls are a pain to lug around, and you should see the looks the TSA gives when one rolls through the X-ray machine. 

Are there perks? Of course. Celebrities are always calling, on the landline and through other means. But telepathy provides no rest for the weary. You can’t ignore the call or let it go to voicemail. Putting yourself on “vibrate” means something different entirely. You end up bombarded, inundated by requests and demands from seekers. 

Too bad there’s no future in it. 

Ahem to that

 

Look, I realize that this party is dwindling in numbers, with most guests either passed out on a variety of different surfaces or a variety of different substances. However, I thought you should know that I’m leaving, too. While I had my eye on the marble countertop, some unconscious reveler had his face on it already. He beat me to the slab. I heard that the bathroom tile would have been a nice substitute, but the doors have been locked for hours. You might want to call the paramedics. As an animal lover, I could’ve chosen to step inside one of your dog’s spacious crates (who, like Saddam Hussein before him, sleeps in a different location every evening), but I thought better of it. I’ve never liked cages, no matter how gilded they are. 

The problem is, if a person says goodbye and no one’s awake to hear it (or sober enough to remember it), did it really happen? I’ve been wondering the same thing, straddling the doorframe for the last few hours, preparing my exit. The public gave George Washington their undivided attention during his farewell address. Don’t I deserve a similar level of respect? 

I never even wanted to attend this party, but felt it was a good place to make connections. You can’t ignore the many doors that open after a little networking. But that was before I noticed the bathroom was locked. 

I can’t be here anymore. I can’t have people think I’d be associated with an event like this. I mean, it’s nearly December and all the ice in the mixed drinks have melted. That didn’t used to happen. And I can't be around this many empty plates and lukewarm appetizers any longer. 

Like a good wedding or a better alibi, I could really use a witness. Only I’m not sure who will come to before sunup. 

I’ll leave you with a bit of philosophy from my second favorite Tom (after Chapin, of course). St.  Thomas Aquinas argued that once a law is announced, everybody in society must follow it, whether they heard it or not. Ignorance is no excuse. The fact that I’ve tried to promulgate my departure means you have to acknowledge it, preferably to paid subscribers.  

Journalism from A to Z

 

Apocalypse

I’m not religious, per se, but having a rudimentary understanding of the Book of Revelation helps when putting current events in a broader, biblical context.  

 

Boring

What readers should feel when consuming the news. 

 

Clicks

The answer to every version of “why was this published?”

 

Duh

The proper response to a big story. 

 

Evidence

What’s that? 

 

Free

What most newspapers ought to cost.  

 

Gotcha!

Journalism.

 

Housebreaking

What most newspapers ought to be used for. 

 

Ideas

Good ones aren’t necessary. 

 

Jargon

No article is complete without a healthy amount of. 

 

Kabuki

Type of theater favored by most journos. 

 

Lawyers

Thank God for them. 

 

Malpractice

Not just for doctors.

 

Narrative

Making sense of reality.

 

Obvious

The subject of most editorials.

 

Pretentious

How to stay ahead of the audience. 

 

Quit

The world would be improved if many did. 

 

Repeat

There’s no such thing as saying the same thing too many times. 

 

Sensationalism

The tone.

 

Tact

It’s unheard of. 

 

UFOs

The stories that get pushed aside in favor of nonsense. 

 

Vacant

The minds of most columnists.

 

Wit

Mostly absent.

 

X-Rated

Yeah right.

 

Yack

What regular people want to do after watching TV. 

 

Zombie

The equivalent charisma and uncanny resemblance of most cable news hosts. 

The Dick Caveat Show

Before we get started, there a few things you should know. In the event of a fire, your seat cushion is extremely flammable. There was a sketch last week which demanded we flood the entire studio with gasoline. I can’t remember the reason, but Exxon gave us a lot of money, so we did we what we had to. You can probably still smell it. That’s why there’s no smoking in the studio, despite my nostalgia for the nineteen fifties. 

I know that most of you were told your ticket was free of charge. While this is technically correct, since tonight’s show is overnight and ends early tomorrow, we'll need to collect an occupancy tax. Of course, this doesn’t mean you need to sleep, but you certainly can. And based on our recent ratings book, you will. One of the producers is passing a collection plate, which I pilfered from the Lutheran church around the corner. They have gone cashless and weren’t using it anymore. I know it’s a sin, but there was no place to confess, not being a Catholic church and all. What goes into this plate is not the same as the tax. Think of it like a tip. Based on how much is there, I might have a fancy dinner tomorrow. We’ll see how much of the crew gets to tag along.

For a variety of complicated and, frankly, boring reasons, tonight’s program will not be broadcast anywhere. Not over the air, not on streaming; nor is it being recorded for posterity. But there is a man named Barry in the green room with a long string and a couple soup cans doing his best to share it with the world. So you can’t wave at your family and friends watching at home. Feel free to wave as long as you believe in the power of prayer. 

Many of you are here because of the celebrity guest. Well, there’s something you should know about that. I can tell many of you were expecting Taylor Swift. However, this is a lesson in close reading. If you notice on your ticket stub, it says, “Tailor Swift.” That’s a mister Aubrey Swift, "tailor to the stars since 1972™", with a modest shop right over on Sunset. It’s never too early to start wearing expensive Italian suits. 

The applause sign is broken, so we’re going to have to come to an understanding. Whenever I say anything remotely intelligent, I need you to respond in kind. 

One last thing. I’m not Dick Cavett. I’m a well-paid impersonator. Mr. Cavett is comfortably ensconced in his palatial home on the eastern tip of Long Island. I’d say he expresses his sincere regrets at not being here tonight, but the two of us have never actually spoken. 

With all that out of the way, enjoy the show.  

Runoff

 

 

Ask any farmer and they will tell you that runoff used to be a much simpler problem to contain. Sure, it happened after it rained or a big thaw. It was old-fashioned pollution of the sort our grandfathers understood. It’s what destroyed the New York harbor’s veritable bivalve paradise, where scooping up oysters from the river was a time-honored midmeal pastime. Not happy with the restaurant’s oyster offerings? Then go find your own mollusk, free of charge. 

Things are different now. Runoff isn’t just a stormy byproduct of a sudden weather event. It happens when two imbeciles talk too much. We can’t act like this is something that only affects farmers, as much as we wish it were the case. Whenever there’s a buildup of nonsense and stupidity, this is what you get. Trouble is, there’s no simple way to get rid of it.

This is the runoff we deserve. My only recommendation is to wear tall boots, thick socks, and ear plugs. The beauty of having a brain injury is two-fold. For one thing, you don't know you're a moron. And you aren't ashamed for being a moron. You're only interested in votes (and paying off impregnated women).

Castropub

 

A “Castropub” is not the same as a gastropub, though you’d be forgiven for thinking so. However, being forgiven still means you can be sent to the gulag after an expeditious show trial. Our cadre of investors noticed an uptick in “red sensibilities,” as we’re deeming the communistic resurgence among the younger generations. So we decided to do something about it. 

Prices are more fixed than a fancy French restaurant. No forks, spoons, or knives here. Just miniature hammers and sickles. You’ll find the former incredibly useful when we lock the diners inside. It’s standard dining procedure to surrender your passport to the Maître D’. You aren’t considered done with the meal until everyone is. Dining is a communal experience, and this is all about the collective’s overall satiation. 

There is only the illusion of choice here. But we know what’s best for you, since you clearly don’t. You ended up here, didn’t you? We offer plenty of clothes since our dress code is rather strict (Soviet chic). 

You’re free to read (the literacy rate of our diners is approximately 100%), however the only permissible reading material is the menu itself. nothing that isn’t specifically mentioned on the menu. There are no specials.

The colors of the décor, as well as the dishes, are appropriately drab. Like we always say, “the soup should match the drapes.” In our case, it’s a deep military green. When the food you just consumed inevitably rebels, the color barely changes. In fact, we are so committed to revolution that we believe in the right of your food to self-determination. We believe that the only rival to a fiery political tract is a digestive tract.

Don’t worry about tipping, given that we’ve frozen your bank accounts and seized your assets. You’ll find that many of your personal groceries will end up in the kitchen. 

Diners of the world unite.

Chappelles and Oranges

I have a wonderful, one-of-a-kind sense of humor. When people meet me and discover what I find funny, it’s akin to uncovering a rare jewel. Not something they come across every day. And like a jewel, it’s worth a ton of money. I’m in the process of turning my unique sense of humor into an NFT. A little early Christmas present to myself. 

I can get behind mockery and ridicule of every stripe. Especially when it’s tinged with intelligence and a dollop of mean-spiritedness. 

The thing is, despite my world-class sense of humor, I tend to take things personally. But only those things that I deem unfunny. It’s not like I take funny things the wrong way. That would be offensive. I can tell when a joke isn’t a joke but rather, a statement. Sadly, not everyone has that ability. 

There are some things you can’t ever make light of. What are those things? Good question. Whatever I say. Some people laugh or don’t laugh. I laugh or contact nearby defamation league for financial and moral assistance.

Have I mentioned that I’m a putz?

His name isn’t Jeff Sunday

Some jobs aren’t meant for the masses. Take professional football coach. This is a job that requires a lot of work and a lot of money. You need to be familiar with the shape and weight of a clipboard. You need to be comfortable to wear over-the-ear headphones. However, what you need is outnumbered by what you don’t.

Like a blazer. Gone are the days of Hank Stram wearing a natty sport coat racing up and down the sidelines yelling big words. You don’t need a sense of time. While football is a game strictly governed by a clock, few coaches ever find the time to appreciate its finer points. Many struggle with time outs as well as managing the game in a coherent manner. There is one guy who likes to cut off hooded sweatshirts who seems to have a better understanding of time. But his moral compass, not his clock, is the one that’s broken. And more than twice a day. 

 

It’s offensive to suggest that someone without the experience of sleeping under their desk or yelling obscenities at dehydrated rookies can perform the duties of a coach. What about all the people who’ve had a whistle around the neck for decades? Or those who like to clap and call people exclusively by their last names?  

You can’t let just anyone run a football team. They need to understand how to mark up a whiteboard with the scribblings of a seasoned tic tac toer. 

You can’t get some random person off the street to run a football team. Not if you want to prove to fans at home that they can do the job. Football is more complicated than war, and a good deal more dangerous. 

When ex-players inevitably run into trouble coaching, they can always do the next best thing: run for office. 

Hey, you always know

For some reason, when lottery discussions come up, people start talking about lightning strikes. It’s the way we relate to the odds. It’s always about getting struck by lightning. I can’t explain it.  

There are a few obvious differences between the two. For one thing, very few people outside of the tinfoil chapeau contingent seek out lightning strikes. This band of conspiracy fueled wackos, believe that electricity from above can neutralize the 5G coursing through their veins, as well as create an affordable alternative to the unwieldy number of streaming platforms we’ve all grown accustomed to paying for. Wouldn’t it be better to have a single, unified network in your head? With channels available to surf across, in search of better entertainment? Seems like a dream world, to me. But to this scurrying coterie of paranoiacs, it isn’t too far-fetched. So every downpour, they climb atop ladders with seven irons and pitching wedges, steadying themselves for a sudden spark of inspiration. 

For the rest of us, there’s none of that. People want to win the lottery. Or they think they want to win the lottery.

Lunatics understand on a fundamental level that the real power ball is when you hold up a shiny metal petanque ball during a crackling rainstorm. 1 in 292 million? Odds of success are much better than that. Even crazy people know the lottery is crazy.

Poking holes in doughnut logic

The other day I was staring slack-jawed at a tray of doughnut holes. You know, the tiny confection made with the precision of a regular doughnut. As I gazed into the sugary sweetness, I had an epiphany. The sort of “aha moment” that comes along once a decade, at most.

I thought, in my salivating state, “doughnut holes aren’t holes, they’re balls. Doughnut balls."

I’m right, aren’t I? A hole isn’t a thing you can truly fathom, at least not on a plate. Even a quote unquote doughnut ring with the surface area of a rubber band is something different entirely. Holes are not something you see. If open manholes were akin to doughnut holes, there’d be no danger of falling into them for lackadaisical pedestrians. 

There’s an old saying among jaded astrophysicists that the safest place in the universe is at the center of a black hole. It’s where no one can touch you. It puts the eye of a hurricane to shame. How you get there fully intact is another story for another time. 

But nobody, and I mean nobody, seeks refuge inside a doughnut hole. There’s no place to go. 

Two Choices

“Ready to order?” 

“That’s a good question. Whaddya have?”

 

“Chicken and beef.”

 

“Chicken and beef or chicken or beef?”

 

“Or. You gotta choose one.”

 

“I was hoping for a little more variety, ya know?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Fish, for one thing. Or a vegetarian option.”

 

“A lot of vegetarians eat chicken.”

 

“Do they?”

 

“That’s what they tell me.”

 

“I was in the mood for some baked sturgeon or a fried eggplant.”

 

“We don’t have that here. This is a simple place. You’re looking you have two choices. Lots of places around here have one dish and that’s it.”

 

“So you’re telling me it could be even worse?”

 

“If that’s how you choose to interpret it, so be it.”

 

“What you recommend?”

 

“You have to get the chicken. The beef is bad.”

 

“Bad? As in spoiled?”

 

“No, it’s delicious, just morally repugnant. Many of the worst people on earth ate beef.”

 

“And they didn’t eat chicken?”

 

“That’s my understanding.”

 

“I don’t think I’m hungry tonight. Maybe I’ll come back when you expand the menu.”  

Vote with your feet

I first learned about “civic duty” during high school. Back then, it was defined as the obligation of every citizen to drive a moderately priced Japanese sedan instead of something a bit more ostentatious. Like say, a Honda Civic. There were no Teslas in those days. In recent years, it’s taken on a totally new meaning. It’s about our role as citizens in a representative democracy, I think. 

One thing you hear about a lot is to “vote with your feet.” I tried it last year during the mayoral election and you would've thought I committed some new type of voter fraud (stop the heel). The volunteers were sickened by the display. Yes, I had to remove my shoes and socks. My feet are a little clumsy when covered. What did they expect? We can’t all have the dexterity of a concert podiatrist. 

What bothered me is their reaction. I did a handstand and put the chained pen between big toe and index toe (if that’s what we’re calling it). You would’ve thought these poor people had never seen a Tarantino movie. But feet are very much in the news now. I mean, coverage of the New York City marathon over the weekend was inescapable. I’m guessing none of the runners were jogging on their hands. 

That said, I have a few learnings from last election cycle. It helps if you don’t cut your toenails for a few weeks prior. You’ll find it much easier to grip writing implements. However, just because you’re foregoing one aspect of hygiene, doesn’t mean you should abandon all forms of cleanliness. Soak your feet in a warm bucket of soap water. It’s a nice gesture to everyone involved, especially when you start untying your shoelaces in public. Depending on the weather in your area, you might want to wear sandals. It makes for a more efficient process. While writing with your feet is OK, reading with them is not. So be sure to give the ballot a once over in case your bubbles are a bit too bulbous for the voting machines. 

Voter fraud is when you get a pedicure with significant fake nail extensions. The question there would be: who’s voting? If it’s not your actual nail touching the pen, then whose is it? I vote in a school gymnasium, which is the site of incredible feats. 

So hit the polls. But first, give your feet a nice scrub. 

The Gog of War

Someone like me is always looking for breadcrumbs (actual breadcrumbs, since I hear they are the secret to making a sturdy meatball). But also, figurative ones that lead to a greater understanding of the world around us. Little clues that show how far we’ve come or how far we still have to go.

As a sports fan, the only thing I care about more than salaries are celebrations. I’m not as interested in the games anymore. What I enjoy is seeing a rookie accountant struggle to find room for all the zeroes leaping off his form. What’s really fun is seeing a team in pure ecstasy after a championship. 

In the old days, there was risk involved. Some called it reasonable, others not so much. Either way, it was accepted that after the final victory of the season, one player on the team would play the role of destruction emcee. A quasi-Keith Moon type figure helping to orchestrate the festivities in a righteous manner. Because you can’t party halfway. 

This could mean taking doors off the hinges, throwing television sets out of hotel rooms, and yes, uncorking bottles of champagne like a military salute. The thinking went something like this: you have the whole off season to recover, so what’s the problem? 

I used to wonder what it meant to be cool. Was it wearing a leather jacket on a hot summer night? Emulating Miles Davis at the height of his fame? Or was it tossing an olive from a martini directly into your mouth without the slightest bit of trouble? The truth has been staring in the face for some time now.

The embodiment of cool in the 21^st century is a multi-millionaire athlete wearing a pair of protective goggles during a champagne-fueled championship celebration. That says everything you need to know about where we are as a society. You wouldn’t want a little bubbly to ruin the fun. The reason why people during prohibition gravitated towards bathtub gin was simple: it was in a bathtub. Champagne showers leave too much to chance. 

Unbridled joy should come with a seatbelt and bicycle helmet. Safety first, party later. 

Basket case

When you’re great at one thing, you’re usually great at other things. History is littered with people who liked to dabble in a thing or two beyond their focus. Did you know what Mozart was a fine gardener? Or that Euclid could throw a tight spiral? Or that Jane Austen was an incredible whistler? But these days, people want you to stay in your “lane.” If you’re good at one thing, just do that until you can’t do it anymore.

This is an idiotic analogy, since at some point, everyone has to change lanes, either to exit or to pass an exceedingly slow-moving vehicle. No one stays in one lane forever unless you’ve had a clear mental break or want to see what happens when you're out of gas. 

Athletes usually bear the brunt of this demand from the public. But look, if you’re good at dribbling a basketball, or shooting into an empty net, why shouldn’t I listen to what you have to say about geopolitics? The fact that you can palm an orange rubber ball with one hand puts you on the same footing as the likes of Richard Holbrooke. Spinning the ball on your finger like a classroom globe is all you need to have a better understanding of internecine conflicts. Able to thread it through your legs while racing up and down the court? Great. Then you’re one step away from a groundbreaking dissertation on complex economic theory. 

If you can grasp a basketball, you can easily grasp every facet of world history. It’s that simple. 

Blue Check, Please

 

There’s a lot of outrage surrounding Elon Musk’s plan to charge for verified Twitter accounts. However, I believe that the best things in life come a price. When they’re free, someone, after an inevitable debacle, invariably says, “you get what you pay for.” 

No one gives you lobster for free, unless you illegally rip a tangled trap out of the sea. But do you really want the Fish and Game warden breathing down your neck simply for the privilege of having a criminally complimentary, quite buttery crustacean dinner? I don’t need that. “Market Price,” you say? Whatever that means, fine, I’ll pay it. 

Free cars require a generous friend or hot-wiring wherewithal.

Will we no longer know who to trust? Naturally. I’ve come to use the mysterious Twitter verification process to vet role models and potential mentors. Now, I don’t have a Twitter account, I don’t want a Twitter account, and like everyone else, I don’t need a Twitter account. But it’s sure nice to know what 8 dollars gets you a shiny blue check mark. Because these days, that won’t even get you a sandwich. 

A Man’s Gotta Have a QR Code

 

Some of you out there complain every time a restaurant has a QR code where its menu used to be. I won’t argue that this has altered the dining experience wholly for the better, but it has changed the way I see the world. I am dreaming of QR codes, seeing them where they don’t belong and can never be. My hope is that this is the beginning of a beautiful, clickable revolution.

I wish elementary school teachers gave out grades using a unique QR code plastered on each student’s locker, or, better yet, their foreheads.  

I wish every ad was a QR code, so you didn’t have to see any of them to while riding public transportation. 

Pets should have them on their backs in the same place you usually squirt tick repellent. There might be some discounts under all that fur. 

I want QR codes on shower drains, on lily pads, inside elevator shafts, within abandoned subway tunnels, on bald heads, under bed spreads, on birdhouses, atop telephone poles, and at the center of the earth. 

Honestly, I think we’re not too far from strippers positioning one right above their navel. I might be wrong, but I’m guessing they already have bustling Venmo accounts. Thankfully, the days of taking out two hundred dollars in singles from an ATM are a thing of the past. 

Look, I know what you’re thinking. What about my friend who has a Charlton Heston like grip on his flip phone? What is he supposed to do in these situations?  Simple: adapt. A QR code is like any other set of beliefs. Think of it as a modern version of Bushido, the guiding tenets of the honorable samurai. Only instead of moral principles, it helps you figure out the soup specials and how much extra adding caramelized onions to your burger will cost. 

Crickets *crickets*

Many people far smarter than I are promoting crickets as a replacement for burgers, dogs, and any other popular meat snack. Besides the practical issues of making a bunch of crickets look like a bone-in ribeye, I have my own personal objections. You want to eat crickets? Fine. Eat ‘em. But this is bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than swarms of biblical pests coming to a supermarket near both of us.

For years crickets have done our dirty work, piping up at any awkward silence to fill the aural void. So what happens if we eat them all?

I’ll tell you what happens, and it ain’t pretty. When your friend makes a crude joke or your neighbor asks an impolite question, there will be nothing standing in their way. No impediment to make them think twice before bringing the mood down. 

Crickets, with their trademark chirping, acted as a bulwark against uncomfortable situations. Everyone going in knew that if they said or did something stupid, a few leaping insects would chime in, destroying their credibility and confidence. It was an unspoken, though hardly inaudible, aspect of the social contract. Awkwardness was met not with derision, but with crickets. They were the ones who gave us the wherewithal to ignore a terrible comedian, moronic politician, or bantering musician incapable of simply singing their songs. Crickets were there to show us the way, to do it first, to let us know it was okay to judge.

That could all change if we start eating them. The danger that no one wants to raise is that this new food group could usher in a Dark Age of Awkwardness. You have no idea how much work crickets were doing to prevent that. And this is how we repay them? They better taste good, because when one day someone brings a sweet cricket pie to your Thanksgiving dinner, there won’t be any crickets left to stop them.