Lego Trip

 

As a boy I was the rare child who played with Legos. Most children my age found other uses for the little Danish blocks. Perhaps because a Danish ought to be edible, many preferred to eat them, while others enjoyed shoving them up their nostrils. 

 

Now for those unusual kids like me who built things, few did it with my understanding of history. They followed the directions. I did not. My connection to Legos was an unsubtle commentary on gentrification, architecture, and urban sprawl. I didn’t need to read The Power Broker because I had already built plenty of castle moats to fully appreciate the importance of boundaries. Plastic supremacy was something most children took for granted. Not I, understanding the short shrift given to wooden blocks. Remember when toy soldiers were made of lead? That sure raises the stakes for playtime.  

 

I came to learn about destruction and the strange joy in razing beautiful structures. Playing is a fraught word to use when discussing what I did with Legos. The trouble with play is that it implies fun. I never had fun in this context. I was too busy trying to become a better citizen, embracing my role in man altering a once pristine landscape. 

 

Kids shouldn’t play with toys, they use toys to practice becoming better activists. Whether a Lego brick, a plastic dinosaur, or a Barbie.  

With A Little Help From Man’s Best Friend

 

Many humans need animals to assist them throughout the day. But it’s not just blind or crazy people anymore bringing a working pet into a place of business. The truth is, the rest of us could sure use a little help. 

 

Unemotional Support Dog

Like it’s opposite, this particular beast is meant to roust you into clarity, ignoring your concerns, dismissing your fears, and not really being there. 

 

Spiritual Support Dog

Not all dogs are religious. The Catholic Church still won’t let dogs become priests.

 

Paranormal Support Dog

Goblins under your bed? Ghosts in your closet? Throw this pup a bone.

 

Financial Support Dog

Making a living isn’t easy. Sometimes you’re not the breadwinner and neither is your significant other. In such a situation, you better hope your dog is. 

 

Artificial Support Dog

You think it can’t happen? 

 

Athletic Support Dog

This should not be confused with an Athletic Supporter Dog, a canine used in place of a padded jock strap. These pooches are often better sports than most of your peers. 

Looking Fly

 

 

Going to the airport used to be a time to grab the iron from the closet and a spiffy new suit. Not anymore. Today, looking like a jet setting schlub is the platonic ideal of air travel. Why look good when you can feel comfortable? 

 

To me, the airport is a measly extension of my living space. I am living there, and it is space. I spread out, dress in loose-fitting pajamas. I wear a robe and carry a ceramic coffee mug with me to the gate. I even wear yoga pants without feeling the urge to do yoga. 

 

Some people think by carrying a neck pillow they have cracked the code. They haven’t. I tug along a rollaway bed. It’s not always easy getting through security, but it always pays off during a delay. Plus, no one seems to care what “group” I’m in during the boarding process. Is buying a bed every time I travel expensive? What do you think? However, if you spend more time at the airport than your home, you might be able to cut out rent altogether. I don’t wait in long cab lines after landing. I find my bed and take a quick nap. 

 

The big question is does this put me on some sort of list. I haven’t seen it. 

 

Everyone should accommodate you when you’re traveling. They are lucky to have you. At least that’s how I see it.  

Migratory Patterns

After a combination of healthy deliberation, tedious meditation, and the occasional grilled crustacean, my wife and I decided it was time to leave Queens. Apparently, many New Yorkers agree, packing up their lives for the gator-infested swamplands of the alleged Sunshine state, famous for rain and rodents. We have rats, they have cartoon mice. So we headed south with the birds – pigeons, not geese. And not to Florida, but to Brooklyn. Where else?

Fare Fight

 

In the early seventies, the actor Klaus Kinski performed a one man show as Jesus. He’d yell and scream at the audience, giving the Lord a level of intensity not usually found in the scripture. For those in the audience, it was a harrowing experience that changed the course of their emerging religiosity. Interested Berliners had to buy a ticket to witness such a spectacle.

 

Which brings me to the news that New York City will soon be increasing the transit fare. Many are up in arms, legs, and other unmentionable extremities. Not me. You see, I don’t go to the theater all that much. But I do ride the subway nearly every day. For a relative pittance, I can see variations on the Kinski theme. Lunatics pontificating, nutcases gesticulating, and wackaloons simply doing their thing. It’s theater of the absurd in the purest sense. This isn’t a parade of Julliard trained thespians embodying the tortured souls of a crazy person. This a crazy person monologuing, occasionally dialoguing with the public. No Improv troupe in the country can compare to the maniac’s version of “yes yes yes yes yes yes and.” 

 

Considering how expensive it is to see a Broadway show, the subway is a great deal. The entertainment is so enticing that many are willing to jump the turnstiles to appreciate it. Enjoy show. Just don’t ever turn your back, close your eyes, space out, or sit down without carefully examining the seat. 

What the Duck

 

When sending a message to a friend or enemy, many people are sent into a fit of rage when a certain expletive autocorrects to duck, ducking, or ducked. Instead of cursing the Gods about this supposed era, perhaps it’s worthwhile to interrogate what the smartphone is straying to tell us. Duck isn’t the only word with perfect profane rhyming. Yet, no one complains about the annoyance of dump trucks, tummy tucks, or sawbucks.

 

What if all this ducking wasn’t a mistake at all and just our way of reembracing our softer side? Ducks exist in myth and memory, in cartoon strips, on television screens, and sprawled across dinner plates. They’re daffy, sitting, and Donald.  

 

Why swear when you can fondly recall the relentless wing flapping of an iconic mallard? Now, I could be mistaken. This could all be just another canard. 

What’s up, docu-series?

Please watch my totally objective docu-series, where I let the filmmakers work their magic as I, the subject, hovered above them during the entire process. Did I wield editorial control? Some might say, not enough since a few unflattering moments somehow got through. There was the time I sent back my hot dog because the cheese wasn’t gently melted. I said gently melted and it was at one with the frank, achieving rare meat-cheese symbiosis. I didn’t want that. I wanted a hint of color, a tinge of heat. Nothing curling or pulverized. I kept this moment in the doc you show my human side. They see enough of the robot side. 

I want the public to see the real me. Not the authentic me or the behind closed doors me. Not the true me or the in front of windows me. But the carefully crafted real me, who wears layers of thick makeup, showers six to eight times a day to stay fresh, and never ever uses profanity near a recording device. 

I wanted this docuseries to portray the person I want to be. In other words, the person people think I am. I watched as they cut together pieces of my life and career, telling them where they were going wrong. Who knows me better than me? Not them. Not you. It’s why in some cases I had to remind them who was paying for this entire enterprise. They understood and quickly got with the program. 

Some people say, why didn’t I just write an autobiography? Because no one reads anymore. What about an audiobook? No one listens anymore. I want a documentary people can watch while scrolling on their phones and still take away the high points of me. 

It’s not that different from Rembrandt painting those portraits of moneyed Dutchmen. You think they were all that good looking? Rem knew who his benefactor was. Lucky for them, there was no photographer at the time. 

Making Money

Money may not buy you happiness, but it’s good for pretty much everything else. However, obtaining money is routinely a slog. Some out there aren’t so confident in their ability to do so. I’m here to give you a shortcut that anyone, anywhere can follow. 

No, it doesn’t start with a college or even high school degree. You don’t need an internship, an apprenticeship, or any other type of ship. You won’t need a job either. Full-time, part-time, whatever-time, it’s not important. You really want money? You crave it? You want it pouring out of your wallet? 

Consider counterfeiting. Now, I realize this is a criminal act, but if you place it within the honorable history of civil disobedience, it’s not so bad. Putting yourself in the same category as King and Gandhi is a great way to ignore the obvious felonies you’re racking up with each passing day. You can’t argue this point though: the best way to make money is to make money. You’re your own boss. Do you need a nice copier? Sure. Do you need start-up capital? Without question. Does having spare clothespins make your life easier? I’m guessing yes. 

Printing money is something every country does and we act as if that isn’t an artificial act. The only difference is they have the manpower and the veneer of respectability. Whether you’re making gin in your tub or buying it from a liquor store, it’s still alcohol. Why should money be any different?   

It’s not that counterfeiting isn’t possible in the digital post-cash age. It’s that it is hardly as romantic. Adding zeroes to your account through a clever computer glitch doesn’t have the same cache as admiring the green wrinkles on Ben Franklin’s face. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything.

The Whiter House

 

 

I have refrained from commenting on the cocaine found in the White House. Since I didn’t have anything else planned to write, now seems like a good time to finally address this most pressing issue. It seems to me that most pundits are missing the obvious. 

 

There are lots of ways politicians can seem out of touch. But it’s 2023 and someone in the White House had cocaine. Not opioids, not cannabis, not even fentanyl. You’d be forgiven for thinking we’re living amid the sweaty days of disco. Hell, I’d be okay with the early nineties, as the tech bubble was enlarging to a precariously fragile size.

 

We have other things to ingest and inject. The White House should be leading from a position of authority, not harking back to what was trendy forty years ago. The only explanation I’ll accept is a lost time traveler got bored during the 4^th of July festivities. Anything else says more about us as a country and a culture than most are willing to admit. 

Though it is called the White House for a reason. 

You can call me AI

 

A man walks into work,
He says, "What am I redundant, now?”
What am I redundant now?
The rest of my job is pointless 
I need a job opportunity
I want a contract extension
Don't want to end up a facsimile
In a facsimile courtyard
Bean counter, Bean counter
Dopes in the skylight
Far away from well-lit HR
Mr. Boardroomy, Boardroomy
Get these dolts away from me
You know, I don't find this stuff interesting anymore

If you'll be my unpaid intern
I can be your long lost boss
I can call you Intern
And Intern, don’t call me, email me using AI

A man walks into work,
He says, "Why am I short on intelligence?
Got a short little mind for intelligence
And, whoa, my thoughts are so dim
Where's my assistant and other assistant?
What if I lie here?
Who'll be my in-house counsel
Now that my in-house counsel has a conflict of interest?
He snuck back into the corner office
With some humanoid looking robot
All to prolong, to prolong
There were text dings and inbox pings
There were forwards and replies,

If you'll be my proofreader
I can be your long lost pen pal,
I can call you Typo
And Typo, when you catch one, you catch one using AI

A man walks down the hallway
It’s a hallway on a strange floor,
Maybe it's carpeted,
Maybe it's got water damage
It doesn't have real wood panels,
He is a dilletante, 
He is surrounded by yes men, yes men
Automatons in the marketplace
Asylums and institutions,
He paces around, around
He sees angles in the architecture
Not always at right angles,
He says, "Ahem and Gesundheit.” 

If you'll be my body double

I can be your long lost friend,

I can call Security

And Security, when you call me, you can escort me down the freight elevator using AI,

But if you use a sans serif font AI looks just like the name “Al.”

Existential Bread

 

More and more bakers experience it than they used to. More and more bakers loaf around the kitchen, searching for meaning in every jar. Originally, the only conflict was between the baker and the bread. Now it’s the baker and all breads. Sweet breads they may have written off, cheap breads they avoid for nutritional reasons. Bread is an art form that when done right, hardly spends any time under glass.  

 

These lost bakers can barely slice it without sobbing. They don’t wash their hands, letting the flour cake into their fingernails.

 

Some have totally changed their outlook on who consumes their output. Why should you care that some rich fool paid for your brioche, when it’ll get moldy eventually? Someone always consumes it; it’s just not always who you want it to be. What’s difference? Whether it’s an epicurean or bacterium, the bread is out of your hands. 

 

Bread is a basic form of sustenance. Some wayward souls make gluten-free bread when gluten was always the point. There’s no recipe for success. No secret ingredient that no one’s every found. 

 

It’s a strange thing, this crisis among bakers. Some have found celebrity status due to the popularity of reality shows. They would knead more and more, rolling endlessly, always finding another bubble to press on the Sisyphean Road to perfection. Turns out, it wasn’t about kneading, it was about needing. Because every baker, no matter how brilliant, never seems to have enough dough. Even when feeling stale, we could all use a little grace, if not a full on challelujah. 

Frenchify This

It’s Bastille Day, so that means frenchifying things. Perhaps you’re wondering how does one “frenchify” and what are these “things.” If so, you’re not alone. Frenchification can take many forms, but most people think it’s merely the presence of a beret and baguette. While a good start, it’s not enough, especially on such a hallowed day. 

You don’t need to approach fluency to frenchify something. Order an “ooobear” instead of an uber and everyone around you while begin whistling la Marseillaise. In fact, you could just sing La Star Spangled Banner in a heavy accent. A good accent always trumps a native speaker. The goal is for me (the American) to understand what you’re saying. 

Drink coffee out of tiny cups, smoke hand rolled cigarettes, people watch in the most ostentatious manner. Curve your lip and shake your head – not your hands. Remember: the goal is to frenchify not accidentally italicize.

The last, best way to celebrate this holiday is to storm. This should be interpreted metaphorically, since prisons today are far more secure than they were in the 18^th century. That was back when all you needed to get inside was either a key or a ladder. Find a locksmith or a tall friend and you’re in business. Not so now in the age of the supermax. Go out and locate places that are prison-like. It could a home, an office, or your own soul. These prisons are simpler to access and don’t get you put on any watch lists. The last thing you want on July 14^th is to end up in prison, especially if the irony is lost on your captors. 

Real Congestion Pricing

 

New York City is attempting to adopt one trendy version of congestion pricing. In it, car drivers will bail out the wildly mismanaged subway system. Seems like a fair incentive for a rotting piece of urban infrastructure. Most people don’t want to ride the subway out of fear for personal safety or snobby aversion to the smell of sewage and excrement. I haven’t even mentioned the fare, which goes up no matter what. But we’ll see if it goes forward. Because they are missing an obvious form of congestion pricing, right under their nose. 

Did we learn nothing from the pandemic? It sure seems that way. 

Sniffling in public, involuntary nasal whistling, or rubbing your nose of any kind under my plan is going to cost you a few bucks. You can install an E-Z pass type sensor onto your person to get a substantial discount, but there’s no escaping the charge. Whatever the fare is, you double it for one of these moves. Coughing is worse. The sound coupled with the duration will dictate the total expense owed. If there’s audible phlegm or muttered obscenities, you gotta pay up. The difference here is that you don’t pay the Metropolitan Transit Authority. 

You do a reverse panhandle, going around the car and paying every person a small fine for your behavior. The conductor is safe and sound in his little box, unlike the exposed straphangers enduring your sneezing fit. Speaking of sneezing, the person who sneezes as well as anyone who says “God Bless you” must pay. The latter person is part of the problem, tacitly approving of such public displays of bodily fluid. 

This way, you might get people to stay home when feeling under the weather.  

Stereo Types

 

 

You can learn a lot of about a person from their chosen brand of stereo equipment.

 

Altec Lansing

Normally quiet. A little too quiet if you ask me. The sort of people who can barely hear themselves think, let alone anyone else. 

 

Bose

Mostly, they keep to themselves. Long before public and private figures feared cancellation, these folks were championing the idea of cancelling noise. What a concept. You could just turn the volume down to zero, but why opt for a simple solution when a more complex one is staring you in the face? 

 

JBL

The kind of person who tends to insist on doing things ASAP without the ensuing SNAFU. PDQ and no FUBAR. Someone with an encyclopedic knowledge of military jargon absent any of the baggage from a certain industrial complex. 

 

JVC

What can be said about another acronym staring with J? The difference between JBL and JVC people is like separating Germans from Austrians. I’m sure someone with a PhD can do it, but to most of us back on earth, they are one and same. Sausage, beer, something about Mozart and World War II. What were we talking about again? 

 

Klipsch

Born to spiel, prone to kvetch, ready to schlep, receptive to shtick, wise to schmooze, aware of schmutz, allergic to schlock. 

 

Nakamichi

They never listen. Not to you, anyway. 

 

Pioneer

Possessing a rare spirt found in murderous explorers from a different time. But instead of the fountain of youth, they gravitate to fountains of nostalgia. These are people willing to travel to the ends of the earth for the best sound. A rainforest, a cavern, an untouched natural resource. Any place that says, “you know what would be nice here? No, not potable water, but a new stereo.”

 

Sony

A group believing that there’s no problem in the world – war, hunger, environmental cataclysms – that can’t be solved with an extra subwoofer and lots of bass. 

Nicolas Cage Match

 

No one likes when their parents argue. It’s worse when the two parties in question aren’t family, but billionaires. I thought money was supposed to buy happiness, or something. It seems that it works to fuel more resentment among the upper crust. 

I don’t think it’s fair for Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg to go head-to-head. What they need is an objective intermediary. A third party that can take both of them on if necessary. Unless you skipped the title, you should know that I’m talking about Nicolas Cage. Who better than a man who’s acting chops stretch from the sublime to the deranged? He’s mastered the full spectrum of the human condition in good, bad, great, terrible, and beautifully insane performances. This is not someone who can be accused of always “playing a version of himself.”  

What I want is Nicolas Cage in the middle of the ring, wearing a flowing cape, a top hat, and a whip. He’s there to keep things aboveboard and, when the time comes, intervene. Cage Matches can’t hold a candle to Nicolas Cage Matches. They are basically the same, but with one big difference: Nicolas Cage is there doing his Nicolas Cage thing. He’s able to upstage anyone. This is a man who chewing scenery means chewing scenery. His diet doesn’t consist of radishes, rutabagas, or other miscellaneous root vegetables. He finds ruffage in stage curtains and set designs. He’ll do anything for a role. So why not his country? 

If anyone can spare us the spectacle of two overpaid imbeciles, it’s Nic Cage. 

Ben & Jerry’s Newest Flavors

 

CCP [Chocolate Chip Party]

Dyed red for effect. 

 

Dough Trials

To celebrate Stalin’s unique conception of jurisprudence, this lovely flavor captures the pomp and circumstance of each notorious show trial while adding the unforgettable taste of cookie dough. 

 

The Secret Peach

When Khrushchev gave his “secret speech” on some of Stalin’s faults, it left a bad taste in the mouths of many loyal party members. The same won’t be true for this flavor given its reliance on fresh fruit. 

 

The Former Yogurtslavia

Finally, a dessert even Tito could love. 

 

Bananas Castro

Made from fresh rotten bananas hoarded during The Special Period by elites. Best enjoyed with jungle-ready machetes. 

 

Politberry

Is it a blueberry? Maybe. A raspberry? Possibly. A strawberry? Unlikely. Not that it matters. This is a flavor that takes years to finish. The pint is mostly cardboard, but if you’re get to it in time, you’ll be thankful for a watery, lukewarm delicacy. 

 

Deglaze the Police

You won’t be able to maintain the blue wall of silence after just one bite. 

Dumb Raisin

Learn about world history without needing any knowledge of world history.

Lost the Thread

 

It can feel pretty good to tug on a loose thread. Like picking a scab, only there’s no potential for scar. At least not in the way you conceive of it. You feel that your clothing is imperfect and in need of a quick, homemade tailoring. So you tug on it, hoping to solve the problem. But instead, you create a bigger one, helplessly watching as the thread winds its way around your finger. That’s until you have a giant thread splint obscuring your primary digit. 

 

You’re reminded of an amateur magician performing for a group of children, pulling an endless array of rainbow scarves from his sleeve. The difference, of course, is the magic man was doing so for purposes of entertainment. Buying time until the birthday cake sugar crash left the tikes incapacitated. You’re no magician. You don’t like rabbits. You don’t wear hats. And the purpose of wands has always confused you. You pulled your thread to appease a twisted sense of symmetry. 

 

It's all lost now. The thread is loose getting looser. You had your reasons, believing, foolishly in hindsight, that an action such as this would help you momentarily forget your troubles. But your life begins to unravel along with the yarn.

 

You’re not a cat. Not yet anyway. Which means, yarn is of no use to you. You’re not a sailor, you’re not a whaler, you’re not capable of spinning a good yarn for a rapt and captive audience. Your sense of style is amiss. 

 

Your problems are multiplying because this was the day you choose to walk out in public wearing a plush body suit. A one-piece for the sake of time and efficiency. Not the weather. You believe that perspiration builds character and increasing it is a matter of principle. You’re not religious, but you start praying that the thread is nearly done. It’s not even close to finished. 

 

When you finally finish, you’re standing on the sidewalk, stark naked, except for pristine leather work boots, beside a giant pile of thread. The sad remains of your once proud body suit. Or was it a body sock? What is the difference between body suits and body socks? I guess it's just another thing you'll never know. You should’ve let the thread stay loose. Because now it’s lost. And there’s no going back. 

Jumping the sharks

It’s summer and that means news of shark attacks are ascendant. I take issue with how these interactions are positioned, namely, as attacks on innocent bathers wading in shallow surf. Are shark attacks possible? Possibly. There are stories you here every now and again, popping up during a slow news cycle. But I am a hard marker. A shark attack can only occur in places outside of the ocean. Because the ocean is their habitat, not ours. 

If a shark walks into a bar and assaults a patron, that’s not the start of a joke, but it is clear evidence of a shark attack. Most so-called shark attacks are home invasions – only we’re the invaders. While stand-your-ground laws exist on land, there’s no reason why the same logic shouldn’t be applied at sea. You don’t see sharks entering office buildings or schools for extracurricular activities. They know where they belong. Turns out, it’s not always where we belong.  

Now say, a shark rings your doorbell and bites you on the femur once welcomed into your home. Then you’d have cause to be annoyed, even angry. But until then, swim with care.  

No contest

 

With Joey Chestnut winning his 16^th Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating contest (in some quarters it’s known as a voluntary IQ test) in Coney Island, consuming sixty-two hot dogs, it’s fair to wonder what else could have been done with that many tubed meat sticks. 

Feed them to sixty-two different hot dogs, hungry pooches panting due to the excessive heat. 

Petition to have the hot dogs encased in the Greenwich England, at the Public Standards of Length, creating a new unit of measurement: the chestnut. 

Install kosher wind chimes on your deck or enclosed porch, that flap against each other during the slightest summer breeze.

Create thirty-one edible num-chuks.  

Flotation device for use at municipal pools, busy estuaries, and decent sized puddles. 

Build a garden trellis for use in a botanical wonderland. 

Honestly, you can do anything you want with sixty-two hot dogs but eat them.