Degrees of Difficulty

 

There’s this idea circulating that college diplomas aren’t worth the expensive paper they’re printed on. For reasons, which are just tedious enough to recount now, I have two degrees due to an unforeseen, minor ink staining thankfully rectified by my splotchy alma mater.

 

For the first couple years after graduation, where you went to college is a frequent topic of inane conversation. A stranger may ask if you know one former member of your gigantic student body.  

 

Then there’s a period in your late twenties and early thirties, when gainfully employed, most college grads realize no one cares about their degree. No one cares where they went, what they studied, or whether their quad was mathematically quadrilateral, or their green was truly verdant. 

 

Unless you went to Harvard. If you go to a place like Harvard, then it’s always top-of-mind. Sentences begin with the purposefully opaque, “When I was in Cambridge…” You sign off retirement emails with your class year. You hum the fight song on crowded buses. You refer to a prospective colleague as “a real Harvard man.” People that go to Harvard peak early. It’s like summitting Everest in your youth and spending the remainder of your days at sea level. Nothing compares to the air from your glorious salad days. 

 

There’s a reason why John Belushi wore a sweatshirt that simply said, “college” on it. How do we know it wasn’t Harvard? He would’ve said so. Because going to Harvard is a lot like jogging, it’s worthless unless you tell everyone you meet.   

Whine connoisseur

“What’s your most affordable, best tasting whine?”

That depends on what type of whine you’re looking for.

“I want something that’s perfect for a night in complaining with old friends?”

In that case, you have some options to consider.

“This isn’t simply a time to commiserate with co-workers, full of gossip and self-censorship.”

 

In other words, it’s a free-wheeling evening of existential crises and major regrets.

“Exactly. We need a whine that allows for the night to extend into the morning.” 

 

Great whines stay with you. I’ve been it since practically the womb. Most of us have, even if we pretend otherwise.

 

“Ideally, it should feel like a religious experience.”

 

I think I know just the bottle for you. Hang on a second.

 

“So what’s it gonna be?”

 

Take a look.

 

“I don’t get it.” 

 

Oh, you will.

 

“But it’s a plastic jug of water.”

 

I had some other options in contention, but your religious remarks sealed it.

 

“And why is that?”

 

If that really is the case, you should be able to turn water into whine.

 

“This is outrageous. I've been duped by a true charlatan. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

 

I’m sure I will, but it looks like you’re well on your way. Enjoy the whine.

 

“Go to hell.”  

A pleasure doing business with you. 

Bureaucracy

 

Some people enter their closet without so much as a nod to red tape. I am not one of those people. My bureau holds my clothes, yes, but it isn’t easily accessible by the untrained dresser. I have drawers within drawers, socks within socks, shirts under shirts, shirts over shirts and so on and so forth. 

 

My bureau is an impenetrable piece of furniture. On average, it takes me days to get dressed. I send in an application, requesting certain items, and when not expedited, can take several months to approve. The good news is that I never go out into public without wearing something that’s been adequately vetted. 

 

My chest of drawers is not simply a collection of what I wear, it’s everything else too. It’s a spacious antique with what I like to call bureaucrats, working tirelessly to make sure everything is properly classified.

 

When I get dressed in the morning, I want the process to be the equivalent of renewing my passport. That way, I have time to think and reconsider certain things while the powers that be make their final decision.

 

The only issue in my life is that there is no similar safeguard in place elsewhere in the home. Bureaucrats rule the closet and bedroom but are rarely found outside those two safe spaces. The kitchen is somewhere that could benefit from a tiered fridgecratic apparatus. You shouldn’t be able to open the fridge and eat whatever you want. What else explains the obesity problem in this country? 

The Emperor Has No (Good) Clothes

 

When it comes to politicians of every persuasion, there is this minor problem of how they look. They don’t dress with any sense of style. Suits and ties are worn pretty much nowhere else outside of government and maybe a few corporate environments. It’s one thing for them all to think the same – that’s to be expected. But why do they have to dress the same?

 

They aren’t even nice suits. People went wild when Obama wore a tan suit, but he was onto something. Where’s Tom Wolfe when you need him? I know he’s literally dead, but his flare for the sartorially stunning might be worth considering. Then again, how about we scrap suits entirely in favor of something a bit more interesting?

 

I’ve thought long and hard about just how elected officials everywhere dress, and I have an idea that would solve our little problem with term limits. It would incentivize a different cast of characters.  

 

Nudity. 

 

Make it mandatory and then you’d see some new names on the docket. You really think Strom Thurmond would’ve hung onto to his seat for dear life had he know there was a naked requirement? For many, sitting in the congressional cafeteria without so much as a fig leaf is enough to stay in the private sector. 

 

Some might say, “nobody wants to see this.” I agree, however, don’t you think the ratings for C-SPAN would go up with a newfound commitment to showing more skin? Who knows, they might even start to focus on their job instead of what's in their closet.

 

Because whatever we’re doing isn’t working. 

Take 2: The Case Against Travel, only funny

 

When making a case against anything, especially something like travel, it’s important to avoid the typical pitfalls found in the posturing of an associate philosophy professor. Staying put, as it's known, is wise and safe. Unless you’re inside a burning building. Then again, if the fire department does their job, it’s only a matter of time before a smoke-filled rescue. 

 

My problem with traveling is a matter of tourist behavior. It’s everything else. The clothes people wear on vacation – from floppy hats to fanny packs – represent a violation of good fashion sense. Instead of dressing for an occasion, they dress for comfort. The airport, with its preponderance of yoga pants and track suits has become a sweatier locker room, full of casual nomads leaving few contours of their bodies to the imagination. 

 

When I say, “traveling is bad,” I am not limiting it to human activity either. I’ve had enough with the privilege of birds and their annoying migratory patterns. You like Florida so much, then stay there. If being hit with avian defecation is good luck, tell that to my designer jeans, encrusted in seagull excrement. Seriously, they are sentient and deserving of respect. My pants that is.

 

I don’t like the life cycle of salmon, returning home to spawn. Go out young fish and see the world. The shifting of tectonic plates is another example of traveling gone awry. What capriciousness is found in the earth’s crust. Why can't our restless planet simply sit still? Earthquakes are a form of offensive travel that no one asked for. 

 

The sedentary have the right idea, sinking into their couch cushions while binging on reality TV. They are save, unless the roof caves in. 

 

Space travel is weird and pointless. It’s an expensive joyride around the block, just without good food and drink. 

 

And what doomed the dinosaurs again? Oh yeah, it was a traveling asteroid, a rock skipping through the galaxy until it broke something. This is no different from neighborhood school children pelting an abandoned factory until someone shatters a window. How'd that turn out? 

Off Keynote Address

 

I’m here to answer the question of “what is advertising” before the ice in your drink melts. It won’t be easy, since it’s quite balmy in here. But I’ll do my best.

Advertising is blank. Not fill in the blank, not blankety blank, but literally blank blank. Tabula rasa, vacant, an empty vessel, whatever you choose to call it, this is our industry. However, the idea of blankness inspires me. Let me first tell a story from my childhood. Now, some of you young people won’t remember this, but in the old days, before streaming, televisions used to flicker with static in the wee hours of the morning. You could fit it on the in-between channels, out where programs didn’t dare exist. I would sit and stare at the white noise. It calmed me after a long day of heavy ideating; still does. You might say, it was a truly sensory experience. I’d turn the volume way up and sit with my nose up against the screen to feel the static burn against my adolescent whiskers. Fuzz for fuzz. These were supposedly the channels that didn’t work. But they were my channels all the same. My hopes and dreams came alive better than any sporting event or dance competition. Through the oscillating, trickling snow, I was able to see clearer than ever before, into the wobbly future. 

I’m not here to raise my glass to the crazy ones, since there are no crazy ones anymore, just those who are off their meds. So go forth and stare into your smartphones hoping for an answer. You won’t find it by looking to the stars, those constellations have already been mapped.

I don't fret about the future, because the future is merely the eventual past. 

No Cannes Do

You might not realize this, but I’m currently, comfortably stowed away in the cargo compartment of an aircraft, bound for Cannes. Besides the jostling and constant whirring from the turbines, it’s pretty quiet down here. I might actually get some work done. That’s important since I have a whole lecture series I’m promoting. I may be a little jetlagged once we touch down in the south of France – but that’s nothing a bottle of Campari and a plate of oysters can’t repair. This is what my day looks like.

Travel Your Way: Why pay for business class when stowing away in the cargo compartment of an aircraft is the newest travel hack for the creative mind?

 

Dr. Brandlove or: How I learned to stop worrying and love fake work

What now? 157 uses for your dusty box of number two pencils besides writing

Oui, oui, mon ami! How to make people think you’re fluent in another language, like say, French, without having to learn a thing

Dumb as a Brick? What construction can teach you about creativity and how to build a successful business by first listening to what the building materials themselves have to say*

Dirt martinis and piping hot beer: how the climate will change your bar menu 

From Agency Dog to Agency CEO: an inspiring rags to biscuits story

Leveraging without a Fulcrum: essential euphemisms to help navigate an evolving world

Reply Some: email etiquette and the case for delay

Impostor Practice: how to embrace your inner-fraud and get others off the scent

Off to a Good Start: jump to conclusions whenever it’s convenient

Keep Your Principles Fluid: what hypocrisy can teach you about moving up the ladder

Sorry, Mr. Cusack: "say nothing" of substance and still maintain a rapt audience

It's not about money: The exact amount of money you need to make to believe this.

Where's the party? the real reason you're here

*If your home or office isn’t made of brick, then perhaps that’s a place to begin.

Rave Pan

Every so often, a show comes along that shows you want it means to be a show. For the next several seconds, “The People” is just that show. Smartly, its producers haven’t waited for critics to praise it, instead they’ve sent out long-winded press released detailing precisely what makes it great, giving the public bullet points when convincing others to consume it. Why show when you can tell people like it is? 

Sitting down in my basement home theater, strapped to an antique movie seat is an experience fewer and fewer audiences appreciate. Watching TV isn’t meant to be pleasurable. It should be somewhere between hard work and a head cold. 

“The People” is not technically speaking a great series. Lines are flubbed, boom mics enter the frame, and gaffer’s tape covering an array of cords is seen in nearly every scene. But this isn’t a big deal. “The People” shows us our humanity. It’s a counterpoint to the rugged individualism at the core of our rotten culture. This is probably why the showrunners didn’t name it “The Person.” It’s not a great show or even a good show. What it is, is an important show. Where else can you see a gypsy mechanic speak an obscure Romanian dialect without subtitles for twenty minutes at a time? Every episode put a different character front and runner, sometime to the point of debilitating boredom. This is art in the twenty-first century. 

Most shows are lazy and predictable. The last thing entertainment should be is entertaining. It should be a call to action, a call to arms, a one-way conversation with someone much smarter than you. Or at least, louder than you. Shouting someone down gets your point across, even if you don’t have one. I don’t want to get caught up in plots and storylines, since those too often distract from the impact. 

“The People” may just be one of the worst shows ever made, but that’s immaterial to its ultimate legacy in the pantheon of broadcast television. It’s here to put other people in their place. You won’t laugh, you won’t cry, and if you tell anyone you don’t like it, your life will be ruined. There are two types of people in the world, those who like “The People” and bad people. Which one are you? 

Nailing Down The Exits

When you’re leaving a job, whether that’s in a windowless room within a soulless skyscraper or the Oval Office, you’re supposed to take whatever isn’t nailed down. You have some time to do this. From the moment you know you are going elsewhere, until handing security your ID badge, it’s basically a free-for-all. 

Office supplies are a given. Reams of paper – less lucrative in the hyper-digital age. But cords, power strips, and the miscellaneous dongle land into a grab bag of handy items. 

Furniture is a little trickier. First off, you need wide hallways and a freight elevator. That’s not even counting the box truck parked out front, waiting for a bigger and bigger load. 

A nice memento would be a wall-mounted defibrillator or an emergency hatchet kept under glass. That takes some work and watch out for the sprinklers. What you want is time. Time to grab a bolt cutter, drill, and any other tools that help liberating items. Because that’s what this is about: freedom. If people don’t belong on leashes or nailed to things (just ask Jesus) why would a beautiful, teak mid-century modern desk?

This is why you put in two weeks notice. That’s how much time it takes to clean out the place. That said, there’s nothing wrong with pilfering when you start a job, it’ll make any work on the backend significantly easier. 

It’s why people ask if you “nailed that job interview?” Personally, I prefer screwing a job interview, since those are easier to remove. But hey, different tools for different tools. 

You Must Be the Other Guy

 

Everyone knows the big boys, the former governors, presidents,

congresspeople and the independently wealthy, currently 

running for our nation’s highest office. But the cast of 

characters is much wider than years past. Here’s a quick

rundown of the others seeking the presidency. The supporting

characters who could end up in a starring role by November of 

next year. 

Russell “Rusty” Charlatagne is a good ol’ boy from the deep

backwoods of Louisiana. He’s read three books in his life. The

Bible, three times. 

 

Mary Recklace once ran for local comptroller and later ran over

her ex-husband with a pickup truck. He lived, she won. 

 

Bart Lidder hopes he can resonate with the public at-large by 

repeatedly banging his head against a municipal dumpster. 

 

T. Anthony Duntz loves graft, corruption, and racketeering.

 

Shira Dopes is pushing to alter the United States Constitution to 

include an array of progressive awomendments.  

 

Si Templeton is not particularly religious, unless you count 

believing he himself is God Incarnate.   

 

The Johnson Twins may have figured out how to bring bicameral legislation to the executive branch. Individually, they aren’t that smart, but together, they exceed the average president by a hair.

Jack Joseph President legally changed his name to “President” in time to collect signatures. We no longer have to wonder if this candidate is “presidential.” 

Rufus is 7 (35 in dog years), this golden retriever is ready to lead the free world, as long as there aren’t any fire trucks in the vicinity. Wouldn't be the first president to lick himself though. 

Labor Onions

 

Any unfamiliar with standard labor negotiations, tense and often acrimonious, are mystified that onions go on strike. But they do. They see how they’re treated by the careless and thoughtless among us. 

 

Onions have many varieties, but they are far behind the garlic in terms of cultural relevance. Claims of healing as well as spiritual power are part of garlic’s successful public relations campaign. Everyone knows that should you come face-to-face with a vampire, garlic is what you’ll need. 

 

Explains why onions lay low from time to time. They go rotten and watch see how long we can survive on powder alone.

 

They wonder if the same technology used to grow meat in a lab will one day be used to grow them. And onions fret, hoping to show garlic lovers everywhere what they’d miss if they stopped showing up to work.  

 

On the bright side, you won’t smell them when they’re gone. 

Nervous Tech

Does technology terrify you? Are you worried about the implications of artificial intelligence? Do you go around saying almost verbatim that the industrial revolution was disaster for the human race? Are you nervous about social media? Does the scene in Office Space where they break computers with baseball bats stir something deep in your soul (and maybe your loins)? Are you concerned about what this means for the job landscape? Have no fear because I have a plan for you to persevere in such uncertain times. 

Don’t let new inventions stand in your way. Instead, leave the city if you live in one. Escape the burbs, should you reside there. Flee the country, for even that’s too crowded. What you need is a reset, an isolated place, where no one can get to you.

How does Montana sound? Go deep into the wilderness, far from a strong internet connection and off the beaten path where WiFi is spotty. You need a phone, a computer, or a comb. You won’t be shaving. You shouldn't need a calculator, since you're so good at math. 

The place to sleep is simply that: a place to sleep. You cannot be near tech billionaires with their cathedral ceilings and palatial decks. No jacuzzi. This should be a modest abode, with a tiny footprint. Let’s say you, for whatever reason, end up spending some time in a supermax prison. For you, unlike others, that wouldn’t be considered downsizing.  

You’re going to be on your own. No friends, no associates, no running water. 

Remind you of anyone? 

Smoke Doesn’t Make You Cool

 

There’s a little tearing, a little crying, and more than a little yelling at the clouds. Because smoke tends to cloud your better judgment. The reason I don’t smoke, aside from the negative heath effects, is that I’m cool enough without it. It’s not that smoking is cool, it’s that people who smoke think they’re cool. They’re covered by a thin veneer of ash. 

This is why young men join the fire department in the first place. It’s a way to be noticed, to stand out. Are there other occupations where after a hard day’s work you have a distinct aroma? Indubitably. But few kids are clamoring to be fishmongers when they grow up.   

People who smoke every day know that their addiction isn’t cool. They were disabused of that years ago after too many morning coffee fits and the inability to endure long flights without shaking. But newbies are still in that phase of coolness, where they feel smoke gives them newfound authority. A little smoke and everyone’s suddenly an expert in forest management, climatology, meteorology, and charcoal grills. A few wheezes and they’re at the ready with a ten thousand word think piece on gas stoves. 

Let’s get one thing straight. A couple days of smoke doesn’t make you the Fonz. 

Safe and Saud

 

Now that professional golf has been subsumed by the infinitely wealthy Saudi royal family, many are left wondering: what’s next? People are worried about the domino effect this power play will have on other storied institutions. Personally, I couldn’t care less about golf changing hands. This is the game of country club elitists and plaid pantsed weirdos. Those who toss tiny blades of grass in the air in a serious display of weather assessment. What other sport lets you take an assistant around with you? What else is a caddy than a well-paid concierge? I prefer my sports to have athletes only within the field of play. The point is this: let them have golf. Their country is one big sand trap anyway, so why not give it a little more green? 

 

But I wouldn’t be too worried until the desert desperadoes begin picking off things Americans truly care about. Penthouse apartments on Park Avenue? Better take ‘em while the Russian oligarchs assets are still frozen. I’m don’t care about soccer or cricket. 

 

Let’s say the House of Saud starts to make inroads in the small, yet impactful world of Italian delis. Or worse – bagel shops. What if they go after dive bars, trading in wood panels for smooth linoleum? How about the underground world of neighborhood bocce ball, dice, or backroom billiards? 

 

The Saudis can have pro golf. When they take retiree shuffleboard is when I’ll start to worry. 

Oh Boycott

 

One of the great powers of the public its ability to boycott. On a whim or for more political motivations, it’s another tool in the populace’s limited toolbox. It’s generally a great way to push some corporate entity back in line. That’s not my method of boycotting. 

 

I’m an individualist. And as an individualist, I deal with individuals, not a company’s superstructure.

 

Basically, my rationale for boycotting has little to do with something said during a national ad campaign, but rather the interactions had during checkout. 

 

I refuse to step into a nearby grocery store because of the incompetence, not of employees, but of certain repeat customers. The self-checkout line exists in another dimension, where neither time, nor space play an important role. You can charge whatever you want, but my time is worth something.

 

Over the years, I’ve boycotted bodegas after they wanted me to pay for a spilled Gatorade that feel out of the fridge when I opened the door. The accusation, along with my stained shoes, was enough to send me to the metaphorical picket line. 

 

Get my order wrong once, shame on you. Get my order wrong dozens of times without apology, shame on me. That’s what happened at a notorious Hudson Valley market, known for its peculiar blend of arrogance and incompetence. 

 

I willingly boycott plenty of establishments due to petty squabbles, personal slights, minor misunderstandings, and other random things that in the moment seem much, much larger. I don’t go on social media (unless you count this site) and complain. I don’t grab a sign, a sharpie, an acoustic guitar, or a megaphone. 

 

I just take my business elsewhere. Until they too inevitably betray my trust and generosity. 

All Men are Curated Equal

 

The last thing comedians do these days is write jokes. They start podcasts, visit podcasts, talk about podcasts, and in some rare cases, get the incredible opportunity to curate an exhibit at a major art museum. Qualifications? Who needs ‘em? Hannah Gadsby is one such performer, defying the boundaries of what it means to be funny. What most people don’t know is that her Picasso show, cleverly titled, “Pablo-matic” is merely the beginning of a new career picking off sacred cows and rare geniuses with a pun and a lecture. What’s next for the humoress

from down under? I’ll tell you. 

I hear she’s working on a new book called, William Mistakespeare, why the Bard is bad.

Then she’s writing an epic poem called, “B.S. Eliot” on the issues swirling around T.S. 

She’s working on a symphony entitled, “The Vicious Song Cycle of Richard Bagner,” about sacking the composer and removing his works from civilized society. 

Here’s hoping one day she will work on an elaborate Tweet thread about me and call it, O. Fensive. What an honor that would be. 

Canceling Cancelling

 

The American fascination with British culture has gone too far and it needs to stop. We have to move on from the tea bags, as well as their low-rent TV shows. Putting ugly people on television is not some act of charity. It’s moronic. And then there’s obsession with the king and his minions. None of it is worse than the Island’s pollution of our language. They have done enough to make the ghost of Noah Webster shudder. But it’s worse than extra us or an s in place of a powerful z. You see, here in America, the cancel culture capital of the world, canceling should have one L – not two. The second L stands for London or something. I want it gone. If cancel has one L, why should cancelation be any different? 

Geometry of Life

 

As I boy, I often found refuge in the open window of a middle school math class. This was where I could focus my attention while the teacher went off on a fitting tangent. Most adults look fondly on their geometry days, before calculus and other high-level courses.  

I, naturally, do not. 

Am I glad I learned many shapes I can incorporate in my daily life? Possibly. But the number of times I use parallelogram, trapezoid, or rhombus are nothing compared to the sleepless nights staring at the ceiling wondering why anyone ever came up with the term, “nonconcave.” Initially it vexed me that they were seemingly incapable of simply saying “convex.” But then I thought a bit more about it and realized that there’s a liberating opacity to a word like nonconcave. It’s a way of getting at something in a less harsh, still accurate way. 

You’re not stupid anymore, you’re nonsmart. No one is fat, just nonskinny. Starting to get the picture? You don’t have enemies, but nonfriends. You’re not poor, only nonrich. It’s nonhard to understand.