Russell Re-Brand

I used to be a decent actor, an okay comedian, and an exceptional addict. But I’m a changed man. I went from making jokes to making mantras. From globetrotting to podcast pontificating. Because now, I’m a self-styled guru who makes his living sitting on the floor in linen, silk, or nothing at all.

I own lots of pillows, scented candles and doors are a thing of the past. I’ve opted for beaded entrances only. I’m a conspiracy monger, artisanal cheese monger, you name it, I’m here to hawk it. 

It’s been a smart career move. I am lucky I wasn’t born during the heyday of Monty Python or Billy Connolly. Peter Sellers, I am not. I went from making some people laugh to making more people cry. It's just emotions.

You’re not supposed to take me seriously, but I sure do. Enough for the both of us. Don’t you worry. When you're a celebrity you can be half as smart and twice as rich. That equation has sure worked out well for me. While I couldn't get into any decent college, but I could start one quite easily. 

What’s amazing is that during this transformation it never occurred to me to shave.

 

Shohei Ohtani Is Better Than…

 

Much has been written in the last week since Shohei Ohtani struck out Mike Trout in some sort of exhibition called the “World Baseball Classic.” Many have decided that Mr. Ohtani is now comfortably ahead of Mr. George Herman “Babe” Ruth as the greatest player of all time. Despite having played only 5 seasons and leading the league in two categories (triples and the prestigious caught stealing), it’s time we put him in the pantheon. Induct him now into Cooperstown – why wait? But since he’s already put away his baseball competition on ice, why not go a step further? I would say the man can hold his own against anyone who’s ever lived. 

I can’t recall Albert Einstein throwing a baseball over 100 MPH despite hedging with his theory of relativity.

Mozart never hit a 400-foot home run. Beethoven lacked opposite field power. And Bach wasn’t known for his plate coverage. 

I’m pretty sure Galileo couldn’t speak Japanese.

Is there a record of Euclid wearing a fitted cap? I doubt it. 

When did Jesus throw a wicked curveball? 

There’s nothing I can find about Napoleon beating out an infield hit. 

Many compare him to unicorns, as if the comparison is fair to the mythical beasts. But where are all the unicorns batting cleanup? And don’t tell me their horn is a bat. I’d like to see them try and bunt with that thing. Good luck.

While he’s better than people, like any hero, he happens to be better than places and things as well.

The printing press was a nice addition to civilization, but it couldn’t paint the corners, could it?

Everyone raves about Tulum as a vacation destination, yet I haven’t heard anything about the holiday getaway ever lacing a homer into the upper deck. 

So if you’re getting married and you’re looking for a best man, I think he’s playing for the Angels. Though maybe “playing” isn’t the accurate verb. More like perfecting. 

Nothing to Marvel at

Everyone from Marty Scorsese to Marty the Dry Cleaner complain about the preponderance of superheroes in cinema. It’s all we see, or, if we’re lucky, don’t see. I never paid much attention to it before. We are definitely in a barrel scraping epoch, with Batman giving way to the likes of Ant Man. I happen to have a list of upcoming films from our spandex wearing marvels. What’s on the docket will surely shock you.  

Moss Man

Raised in the forest by squirrels, Moss Man possesses an unmatched ability to camouflage as well as the power to talk to rocks. 

 

Mold Man

Raised by a couple of married cheese mongers in the Loire Valley, Mold Man is never one to settle for cheddar at an elegant soiree. When he thinks upper crust, his thoughts go to one place: crostini. 

 

Plunger Boy

No clog is safe when this young garcon twirls his tool. He’s here to make swirlies a thing of the past. 

 

Mrs. Coffee

Not to be confused with Mr. Coffee, this Jane of java never leaves the house without a strong pot of Joe. Lack of caffeine is her kryptonite. To her, the Boston Tea Partiers didn’t go far enough in their dismissal and disposal of Britain’s favorite beverage.   

 

Aunt Man

Just a guy living with his aunt. 

 

Pack Man

Capable of stuffing your entire wardrobe into a single suitcase.

 

Paper Boy

He can tell subtle differences between card stocks by smell alone. 

 

Bat Man

Half a wise guy who’s always right around the corner if you skip town after gambling losses with his ledger and a Louisville slugger. 

 

Super Man

He can change a lightbulb and deal directly with your landlord when the animosity reaches its natural boiling point.   

 

Coming to a theater near you. 

 

Double Talk

I can’t stand brunch.

Brunch is the one time I get to catch up with my dearest friends on a pancake-filled, wine-fueled weekend. 

 

I’m a victim.

I am in the highest tax bracket there is. 

 

There’s nothing better than a short stay at the beach.

The problem with coastal areas is varied. I don’t know what I hate more, the pests, the people, or the weather. I’d rather stay home and stare at the wall. 

 

I exercise four times a week in my neighborhood gym.

The secret to my trim physique is my diet. I’ve been drinking paint thinner for years and guess what? It works. 

 

Like someone you know, I am all-knowing and all seeing.

I can’t parallel park without a rear camera. 

 

There’s no point to owning a day bed. Only invalids, infants, and mental patients sleep during the day.

At this point of my life, I find myself passing out in the middle of the afternoon (and in the middle of a pile of miscellaneous filth) several times a week. 

 

I was once a known bowtie enthusiast.

But I never tied them myself. There was this lovely production assistant who would let me choose from a assortment of clip-ons. 

 

There’s no relationship more important than the one you have with your audience.

I have zero respect for the people who watch my show. A close second are those who still consider me a close, personal friend. 

 

I have integrity.

I never *had* integrity.

 

I appreciate “real” comedy.

I’m not funny. 

 

NB: To misquote the Bard and paraphrase the Freud, “sometimes a name isn’t just a name.” This is one of those times. 

 

Chat Your Life

 

I can’t figure out why everyone is using artificial intelligence either for work, helping to line the pockets of well-fed employers, or for fun, helping to amuse and distract ourselves from the harsh reality that too many articles of clothing lack usable pockets. 

AI is for life. Wondering how to love your child? Talk to the bot. Can’t think of a present for your elderly grandparent? Talk to the bot. Can’t decide on dinner? You guessed it, talk to the bot. In life, we have choices and for most of us, choice is a terrible thing. Outsource it, but instead of picking a foreign country where people speak in unfamiliar accents, we can do it on any device. 

You don’t want to choose the table settings for your wedding, the exterior color on your home or the name of your dog when a perfectly willing and able chatbot is ready and waiting. To put it another way: this service won't be free forever. 

Cow tipping

 

In the muddy and manure-filled pastures of rural Wisconsin, groups of sweaty inebriates partake in the timeless tradition of “cow tipping.” Only it’s not what you think it is. Cow tipping is what’s expected in our disturbed economy where after every act a palm is ready for a quick greasing. Bovines are no different. I’ve heard those on the subcontinent have enjoyed material gains for centuries. 

Cow tipping is not knocking over a somnolescent farm animal. It’s writing a check, handing out some extra cash, tapping to pay up to an additional thirty percent. Cow tipping is giving cows their due. It’s thanking them for years (and gallons) of Parmalat, crème covered coffee cups, and even their beefy compatriots giving us meal after meal burger bliss. We tip waiters, valets, cashiers, but never the source of our pleasure. In this case, the black and white beasts giving so much joy to our lives.

They accept Apple Pay and Zell. Most of them have Venmo by now.  The math isn’t simple because we’ve gone so long without tipping. It’ll be a long time before we’re back in the black. And chickens are next. 

Hysterical Reenactments

When most of us think of reenactments and the reenactors committed to the old method, we see musket smoke, smell hard tack, and hear the faint chords of the Battle Hymn resonating in the distance. But there’s more to the life of a reenactor than nostalgia for a nation divided in two.

Actors get all the awards and accolades from a slobbering press corps. But all they are doing is make believe. Pretend. Taking a script and going with it. A reenactor must color within the lines. Now they usually don’t have to learn any lines, and most camera angles are a little askew to maintain the illusion of reality for the audience. 

Reenactors are usually playing infamous individuals, portraying them in a worse light. Quite literally, when you consider the sun-bleached lighting within the typical reenactment. Daniel Day-Lewis has the benefit of a team of makeup artists and craft service tents. Not these people, devoted to living a bygone existence when no one is watching – not even the Academy. That’s commitment. That’s method. That’s madness. 

So where are their awards? 

Puff The Magic Piece

 

I had to meet a Famous-Person-Who-Is-Totally-Beyond-Criticism at their palatial home which was, naturally by the sea. They asked me to be bring a bottle of sealing wax to repair their vintage, partially decaying sailboat. I gladly obliged, seeing as it was, like the bridge toll, something I could easily expense. They began the interview by watering their plants, telling me, “one day, plants will water us.” The syntax reminded me of a young Yakov Smirnoff making me long for the simplicity of the Cold War. Remember when biggest mystery was what was on Gorbachev’s head? They told me about their latest album, upcoming gallery show, recent memoir, coffee filter sponsorship, and a line of fashionable dog collars for an unnamed Italian clothing company. I nodded in agreement; seeing as agreement was all I was instructed to do. By the end of the day, my neck ached so much for all that nodding. I wanted to bow, but it was easier to sink into their couch. 

 

I figured the couch was Italian, somehow connected to the coffee partnership, but they corrected my error: it was Croatian. I had never sat in a Croatian couch before. Then again, I once took a nap in a Serbian chaise lounge, which is a part of a double dispute: one of borders and one of seating. When does a chaise lounge become a day bed or a full-on sectional? You can sleep on anything, and anywhere. I knew if I didn’t have some caffeine, I’d be out like a eco-friendly light, slowly dimming until a quick flickering and then dark. 

 

They were off caffeine entirely. I had to satisfy my urges on homemade kombucha. At first, I wanted to retch, until I was informed the cost. That made me want to rethink my recent investments.

 

They told me about being an artist and how hard it was living in the public eye. My mind began wandering at this point, which is normal when speaking to celebrities. I pictured the public eye as an actual eye with schmutz in it. Whether it would be better to blink out to remove the grime or use one of those emergency eye washes found in every science lab from New York to Los Alamos. They explained how money isn’t everything, but how everything you want costs money. I agreed. Although I was getting money for this interview and I didn’t want it. 

 

I mentioned how many people consider them groundbreaking, revolutionary, insanely popular and yet, despite this, quite marginalized. They nodded and said that fame and success is a horseshoe. I’d heard this theory before only about politics. But they were saying how the most famous people are a hair from ranting on a subway platform in a soiled Armani suit. When said like that, I couldn’t help but agree. 

 

Their live-in chef made me a tuna salad and even removed the mercury from it by hand. I didn’t even know such a thing was possible. 

 

Before leaving, I asked if they had any job openings. How I was good with animals and quite handy. They seemed to have heard this before, ignoring me until I found the exit. I was a journalist, now I do PR. It’s easier, pays better, and there’s no shortage of coffee. 

Lame Show

 

On tonight’s episode of “The Tedious British Game Show,” our crack panel of middling talents interrupt the host – me, as I futilely attempt to explain the rules – with predictably phallic references, uninspired puns, and meandering personal anecdotes from bafflingly successful careers. Is everyone ready? Terrific, let’s meet our panel.

 

The only man from Yorkshire who loathes pudding, please put two to four fingers together and welcome Jack Alistair MacPassion. 

 

JASP: Thank you, thank you. I’m honored to be here. Either that or my agent said he’d quit if I extended my vacation one more week. 

 

To his right is the lovely maiden from all the way up in Edinburgh. But you won’t see her in a kilt. Prunella Vapidity.

 

PV: I have nothing to say that hasn’t already been said. 

 

On the other side of this faux oaken desk is a man known for not knowing much of anything. Jacques St. Blanc.

 

JSB: Huh? 

 

You probably have never heard of her, but she’s huge in Denmark. Her highness, D’Arcy D’Alliance.

 

DD: What a thing to say. I’m on a diet. 

 

The first category is called “Bad Shakespeare.” 

 

JSB: Who?

 

DD: Tubi or not Tubi, that is the question…about streaming services.

 

PV: We few, we lucky few, we brand of rich brothers fighting for their father’s fortune.” 

 

JASP: Out damned Spot, outside and find a bush or hydrant. You drank a ton of water with your kibbles.  

 

That’s all for thou tonight. Stay tuned for someone with bad teeth trying to pronounce the longest words in Welsh while a goat whistles “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Cheerio. 

Caulk the caulk

 

 

With a premium placed on walking the walk, walking the talk, talking the talk, and talking the walk, there’s very little time to address much else. As long as we’re rhyming, why not caulk the caulk? I realize caulking is reserved for cracks in your bathroom tile, huge gaps in your molding, and anything else in the home left unfulfilled. 

What I’m talking about is slightly different from the craftsman’s favorite task. It’s one thing to caulk a place in need of it and something else to caulk the caulk. I imagine it’s a lot like the glorious day when a gluttonous diner invented the double cheeseburger in a moment of epiphany and zeal. Or writing a sitcom subplot featuring identical twins with gusto, verve and mediocrity. It’s a way of doing something extra and embracing the superfluity of certain moments. Is it necessary? When you get down to it, what is? 

Not everyone is meant to caulk the caulk. Are you? 

Counting Beans

 

I do something extremely important for a living. I don’t make anything per se, at least not in the traditional sense. However, if you take my job out of the equation many things you love will never be the same.  You might be wondering what that is. Hold your applause until the next paragraph.

I count beans. You probably think that a classically trained French chef can do without such a position in their kitchen. But it’s not so. Whether lima, cannellini, or dare I say, white ones, cassoulet is nothing without a quantitative analysis. 

Many so-called “bougie foodies” have never stopped one time to count the number of frijoles floating in their Sunday chili. They rarely differentiate kidneys from pintos or, dare I say, black ones. It’s essential when making three-bean chili, as I am wont to do, to make dinner perfectly equitable, thereby avoiding any apparent bean disparities. 

In theory, this may sound easy, but in culinary practice, it’s surprisingly difficult. Not only must the simmering pot contain equal numbers of bean types, but so should each bowl, each spoonful, each bite, and each digested morsel. Without that level of dinnertime vigilance there’s no telling what might happen. 

My hope is that this way of thinking moves to other dishes. An everything bagel that’s fair and balanced. A lemon and poppy muffin with equal representation. Until then, I have some beans to count. Dining will never be the same.