Garbage of New York

 Politicians are clamoring to change one aspect tied to New York’s core: garbage disposal. By switching from bags to bins, we may no longer have a sidewalk full of scraps of God knows what. In other words, the very soul of the city is being stripped away, piece by piece. No one remembers the trash bags at Disney World either. Here’s a memorial of sorts to what we'll miss.  

“Some of my relatives ended up in grill chimneys or housebreaking a puppy. I’m still here, hoping to educate the populace. My kids tell me I’m obsolete. Everything is digital. I sure hope not. What will happen to all those paper boys? You can only fit so many laptops in a bicycle’s small basket.” 

“People walk all over me. I get it. I’m not good part. But when they're out partying later and looking to add some citrus to their cocktail, who do you think they call?”

 

“Words matter. I don’t consider my life a “waste” no matter what people say.”

 

“Stop treating me like a criminal. I’ve never hurt a soul.” 

 

“I could use some auto-tuning.” 

"You could say I have a foot fetish. Not that I had any choice in the matter."

“I knew this car stereo. We talked every day. You might have called him my best friend. He would reminisce about the 80s and how things were different back then. Gritty and exciting. One day, I woke up with a cold chill of fresh air and he was nowhere to be found.”

Ummmmmmmmbrella

 

Human beings aren’t perfect by any means. We don’t always say please and thank you. We’re not accustomed to shaking hands with strangers, no matter the social pressure. But we’ve done some remarkable things. We’ve been to the moon, deep into the ocean, and figured out a way to get toilet paper to rise in ply with each passing year. Which brings me to umbrellas.

Umbrellas are mankind’s Achilles heel. They fold up at the slightest hint of wind. They make users look like fools. Silly makeup, floppy shoes, and a shiny red nose are hardly as clownish as the sight of a businessman fighting through drizzle while his umbrella collapses in on itself like a dying star. 

The truth is, we don’t need umbrellas. We have raincoats, rainhats, and ponchos. Even a garbage bag does a better job than an umbrella. Everyone should get soaked two to three times a year. It’s not like an umbrella prevents any of this. Then there are the industrial size umbrellas making their way across town like a menace. Sure, they don’t break like the typical one. But they do cause strife since adoptees can’t see a foot in front of themselves, hoping the image of the gigantic umbrella clears the way. 

When it rains, either you get wet, or you go inside. Those are your options. There’s no baseball umbrella, no bocce umbrella, no tennis umbrella. Only a golf umbrella. Another strike, ideally of the lightning variety, against the stupid Scottish game.

Patriot Acting

Have you ever done stand-up comedy?

No.

Ever worked in a dingy club where everyone in the audience was drunk?

No.

Have you ever put your career in another man's hands, asked him to put his career in yours? Ya know, like Abbott and Costello. 

No.

We make up stories. We make up stories or people don't laugh. It's that simple. 

I just have one more question. Did any of the things you talk about in your act ever happen? 

You want anecdotes? 

I want the emotional truth.

You can’t handle the emotional truth.

Madam, we live in a world that has stages, and those stages get walked across by people with nothing funny to say. Who's gonna do it? You? Jimmy Fallon? I have a greater responsibility to the audience than you can possibly fathom to fabricate a series of events that make me appear like a hero. You weep for Louis CK, and you curse the other comedians. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know -- that Louis CK’s demise, while pointless, probably saved laughs; and my career, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves laughs.

You don't want the emotional truth because deep down in places with a two-drink minimum, you want me on that stage -- you need me on that stage.

I use phrases like "true story" and "this actually happened to me.” I use these phrases as the backbone of a life spent crafting meaningful jokes that rely on the prospect of authenticity to prove an underlying point about politics or society. You use them as if I’m being serious. 

I have neither the time, I’m getting the light now, nor the inclination to explain myself to a woman who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very humor that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.

I would rather that you just said "hilarious" and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a marble notebook and get on stage yourself. 

The Woodwork

 

It’s often said that people come out of the woodwork to reveal their true motives and opinions. No doubt a worrying development for the sensitive soul. But what if the subject in question is the woodwork itself. What then? 

Do they go into the woodwork for a closer look, examining the grains and grooves with an electron microscope? You might hear a few chortles about lacquer or remarks about inadequate sanding. Are they there to comment on potential splinters or points of asymmetry? Would they be within their rights to make a stink about detail and artistry? This is the woodwork I care about. The actual woodwork. 

Because should I ever seen grown men and women crawling between cracks in the cabinetry, I will only muster enough strength to applaud. Were they there the whole time, lurking and lounging? Why not ring the bell and walk in the front door like everyone else? I suppose there is something inherently dramatic tied to the leaping from a bedroom armoire to an unsuspecting sleeper. 

Perhaps, Jesus, a carpenter, was most worried not how he’d be accepted by the community but what people would say about his woodwork. 

Unweathered from reality

When you have nothing left to say, you can always talk about the weather. It’s too hot, it’s too cold, it’s never just right. The point is to always complain, never to compliment. Beautiful days are of no use to the weather conversationalist. Commiserating over rain, sleet, heat, or the long march to climate apocalypse is a bonding technique. 

The weather is something you can talk about with a bona fide mental patient. A dear friend. An estranged relative. A random passerby. A third-world dictator. A criminal. A colleague. There’s something uniquely special about finding common ground about the weather in a temperature-controlled environment, away from the elements. Like say, an elevator. You don’t want to talk about politics, religion, or even sports. But weather is a timeless subject. When at a loss for what to say, pepper in words like "forecast," "doppler" and blank of the "century." 

Then again, it is what killed the dinosaurs. Not complaining so much as the blacked out sun and withered plant life. But I'm sure a good attitude couldn't have made things any worse.  

Catchphrase Copywriting

 

Writer’s block should be no block for the industrious copywriter. Unlike other forms of writing that involve actual thinking, copywriting has a foolproof failsafe. Like a culture that has no written language, customs and stories are passed down from generation to generation; cherished artifacts of the past. Luckily, for struggling copywriters, it is written down, again and again. Long before Ai or ChatGPT, copywriters have been handing down the tools and tricks of the trade to worthy wordsmiths. Because copywriting isn’t about writing, it’s about copying. It’s a craft like no other (remember that line).

 

This is the THING you’ve been waiting for.

 

The THING of tomorrow, today. 

 

The future of THINGS has arrived. 

 

Hello, THING. Goodbye, everything else. 

 

Not all THINGS are created equal. 

 

A THING that goes beyond. 

 

A THING that goes farther. 

 

The one THING that'll change everything. 

 

Same THING, different stuff.

 

Learn more about this THING. 

 

This is the first THING for the rest of your life.

 

Innovative. Revolutionary. THING. 

 

Here’s to the THING.

 

The THING is the answer.

 

A THING ahead other curve. 

 

A THING like no other. 

 

Not your father’s THING. 

 

Don’t worry. This THING is just the beginning…

Dressing Down

The Ancients weren’t right about everything. But they were right about togas. Togas should be part of a national dress code, mandatory for anyone serving in local, state, or federal government. For those of who think this is just about a preoccupation with the Roman Empire and its slow, steady fall from grace, think again. Remember John Belushi?  

I didn’t even realize there was a dress code for members of congress. I always assumed most of them couldn’t dress themselves, opting for the assistance of pages and interns. 

Think of the airflow. The breathability. The strange blending of casual yet formal attire is a must for us. When you get tired in a toga, good news, you have sheets for a nap. You’re wearing an oversized napkin when your meal is a tad messy. And when you’re embarrassed, there’s ample material to cover your face. No reason for Ozempic when you have several flowing layers covering your midsection.  

So let’s bring togas back into the fold. 

A New Age

 

Many are legitimately worried about the age of our elected officials. I am as well, only for entirely different reasons. The real problem in congress is what I would call folks in the middle. Those in their thirties, forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies. Because with age comes experience and yes, occasionally, drool. 

 

But the old are the only ones who need to wipe spittle with a piece of legislation. Ideally, congress should be made up of octogenarians and infants. They have no experience, but that’s fine. Here’s what babies won’t do. How can they run for president when most of them will barely be able to walk? They won’t pollute the airwaves with press conferences. Though, when they do, it won’t be any less intelligible than the average congressman. 

 

For the climate obsessed, their carbon and actual footprints are far smaller. None of them drive yet, so that’s not something to worry about. 

 

It’s not like this could be any worse.

Extra Terrestrials should be Extra

 

Last week, to about as little fanfare as imaginable, the Mexican government revealed a supposed alien corpse, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Steven Spielberg’s most famous extra terrestrial. 

Let’s give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I’m feeling charitable on this rainy Monday.  However, my problem is the same one that I have with dinosaurs. Interestingly, another source of fascination by Mr. Spielberg. 

I am not into bones. I want walking, talking dinosaurs. You show me a skeleton and I roll my eyes. I am not interested in the next big Halloween costume. To me an alien in a box is just that. What I want from an alien isn’t much. Besides a mastery of social graces, the English language, and enough fecundity to engage in wide-ranging conversations about our place in the universe. So what am I supposed to do with the tiny mummy south of the border? 

I can’t take him out for coffee. I can’t teach him the ins and outs of bocce ball. And I can’t get over the fact that in this day and age, extra terrestrials are far from “extra.” That means buying useless accessories, yammering on about celebrity culture, and living out their dreams on social media. Is that too much to ask? Not in this universe, it isn’t. 

Cheeseburger in Inferno

 

The first thing Virgil said when he saw Jimmy Buffet was, “big fan.” 

 

The first thing Jimmy Buffet said when he saw Virgil was, “when am I getting to paradise?”

 

“We’ll get there, but I figured you’d prefer the scenic route,” said Virgil. 

 

Jimmy shrugged and they made their way through an ostensibly dark forest, it was brighter than he expected. He noticed a few bright lights and music in the distance.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You don’t recognize it?”

 

“No, should I?”

 

Virgil smirked and motioned for him to walk closer. As they approached, Jimmy realized what it was.

 

“I forgot how much fun being a guide is, seeing the look on your face is more than worth my paltry per diem.”  

 

“Is that Margaritaville?” “It’s a…Margaritaville,” Jimmy said to his astonishment.

 

“You bet it is. No zoning laws here. Unlike upstairs, where the building codes get a bit more complicated. Fewer people around to bother you, but lots more rules.”

 

“I am kind of hungry,” said Jimmy, which surprised him. He assumed he would have lost his appetite due to the travel. 

 

“Let’s it to-go. Eat it on the road.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes. I just wanted to show you around since your imprint is everywhere down here. But you personally, as a man, you’re going up.” 

 

“You had me worried for a second there.”

 

“No, don’t be. Besides, the food’s better down here. Easier to cook given the environment. No shortage of flames for charbroiled perfection. Burger?”

 

“Just don’t forget the cheese.” 

 

RIP

Fallon hard times

 

Late night television has seen better days. While they don't need "writers" in the technical sense, they do need someone to scroll TikTok for material. Even the biggest late night fan would concede it’s impossible to watch, let alone enjoy talk shows sober. So we have no right to hold hosts like Jimmy Fallon to a different, abstinent standard. A human being can only fake laugh so much without a tipple or two. There are few non-spandex related questions a clearheaded person can ask a superhero. And who’s to say Elvis Presley’s notorious gyrations didn’t send Ed Sullivan to the studio bar cart looking for a little relief?  

Breadlosers

Every family thinks they need a breadwinner, someone, who not unrelatedly must bring home the bacon. In our age of widespread gluten-intolerance, this is now an outdated mode of thinking. What our domestic lives need are no longer breadwinner, but breadlosers.

People who come home after a long day at the office, open the fridge and recreate a giant bowl of veggies with the occasional dropping of quinoa. An homage to the fast casual chain focused on all things green. When family time inevitably comes and a discussion of one’s day must by law commence, the last thing needed is a giant piece of sourdough staring back at them.

It was common for our parents, who despite their uncritical bread worship, warned us time and again about filling up on dinner rolls before a fancy meal. Whenever a restaurant gives food away, it should give every diner pause. They are essentially tossing out their trash on the table for the mindless to lap up. 

Wild religious expectations have confused people for generations. Daily bread without any discussion of feeling a bit bloated afterwards? I understand that deities tend to have certain digestive advantages, but come on, we’re only human. God might be wise to offer a salad every once in a while. Otherwise, you can't punish us for loafing around. 

(Stop) talking ‘bout your generation

 

The thing about generational cohort is that they are artificially created by bar graph enthusiasts and pencil chewing professors. It’s a way to divide people. There’s nothing inherently interesting about you because you’re boring during a certain date range. I don’t know anything important about you. It’s a modern-day form of astrology, only less scientific. 

 

Generations aren’t earned. You shouldn’t even ridicule someone for the generation they are allegedly a part of. It’s akin to making fun of someone because of the state they’re from. That’s a no-no, unless it’s Florida. 

 

It’s not a part of your identity. Labels should be grounded in evidence, as opposed to the roulette wheel that is the rotating cosmos. Your personality shouldn’t be dictated by the calendar. You’re not a baby boomer, you’re an aging hippie. You’re not a millennial, you’re a juice cleanse workout obsessive. You’re not a Gen-Zer, you’re a moron. These are labels I or anyone else can support. 

Neverheard in New York

The trouble with eavesdropping is that we’re not living in an Aaron Sorkin show where witty banter is as prevalent as the air we breathe. That’s just not how it works in the real world. Our job is to get to the deeper, cleverer truths within the mundane asides of average schmoes. Here’s how it works. You hear something like what’s below. 

I’d go on a date with anyone at this point. 

Uh huh.

 

This is a typical conversation between two friends. Happens every day on the subway. This is when we go to work making magic from nothing. 

I’d go on a date with anyone at this point. Except a Nazi.

Uh huh. What?

I’d date basically anyone but a Nazi.

Your last boyfriend was a literal Nazi.

Much Like France, I’ve learned my lesson.  

 

So this is great. A perfect, realistic conversation. But what if it took place in LA instead of New York? 

 

I’d go on a date with anyone at this point. Except a drug trafficker.

Uh huh. What?

I’d date basically anyone but a cocaine kingpin. 

Your last boyfriend is serving a life sentence. 

It was fun while it lasted. And I’m a much better actor because of it. 

 

For Chicago, just add a few passing references to pizza and you should be good to go. And for Florida, change any words to grunts. 

Traffic jamming

 

I’ll admit that when I first read about environmental activists tossing paint on precious Van Goghs, I didn’t get it. Were they commenting on the artistry? Or was it more technical than that. An attack on some obstinate museum curators’ refusal to use picture frames with protective glass? I failed to see their angle. Then again, some didn’t understand Jackson Pollock when he splattered onto the scene. I still don’t get it. However, after seeing the traffic these rebels caused out to Burning Man a couple weeks ago, I think I know what they’re after. 

There is lot to disagree with Burning Man. For one thing, why isn’t it Burning Person? For one person, why isn’t it Burning Thing? The endless serpentine line of cars headed out to the desert gave me a fuller sense of the point. You see, traffic is a multi-sensory experience, far more intense than your average psychedelic. I’ve seen God more than a few times while stuck on the BQE. Much like the stylings of Jerry Garcia, it’s called a traffic “jam” for a reason. The standstill should give everyone ample time to learn the best licks for a 10-hour version of Brown-eyed women. For those one their way out of town, the traffic has only gotten worse. Or, if you’re paying attention, gotten better. 

Space cowboys should realize that you don’t need to take something special to achieve insight, meaning, or clarity. Sometimes, all you need is to take a wrong turn.  

Mug shoot

One of the few perks of getting arrested is being photographed. Or it should be. Unfortunately, many of the creative people working within the criminal justice system exist on the fringes of the artistic community. It’s why the work of courtroom sketch artists is rarely seen anywhere else. No in the New Yorker and not in the pages of a middling college quarterly.

But sketches are an accepted medium. Mugshots, with their awful lighting and bland background, have little to no artistic value. Why isn’t there a movement to welcome professional photographers into the pre-trial fold?

Most things have gotten better over the years. Food, medical care, transportation. But when you look at mugshots from a century ago they have a certain indescribable charm. Perhaps it's the black and white, or maybe it was the fact the person behind the camera had respect for the subject and their craft. Whichever it was, it shows. At some point in the 90s, the mass production and the ballooning of prisons led to boring conformity. You could see it in the faces. They began to blend together. The individual appeal was lost. Frankly, the same thing has happened at the movies. Here though, we have no superheroes to save us. 

The arrested ought to look their best before their day in court. Innocent until proven guilty pales in comparison to ugly until proven attractive. This can only happen with the keen eye and expensive equipment of the pros. How about makeup or more wardrobe options? The price is film is irrelevant when digital cameras have made shooting more significantly easier. 

In the age of social media, it’s much harder to take a mediocre photograph than a decent one. That’s why mugshots are such a remarkable achievement. They have stood still as technology marches forward, adding more and more pixels each year. Not in front of the gray walls. Depth of field was something Renaissance painters latched onto hundreds of years ago. Yet some still haven’t learned their lesson. 

This isn’t about guilt or innocence. It’s about giving the public something of aesthetic value. We deserve mugshots that could hang in a museum one day, not a bathroom wall. Remember, we brought a Hasselblad to the moon.

Grass Warfare

It’s understandable that people believe I, as a city dweller, have little to no appreciation for grass. Too bad it isn’t true. I’ll admit that my relationship with grass is a complicated one. Complicated by the fact that I don’t see much of it anymore. However, I remember. Boy do I remember. 

I am not someone who approves of all types of grass. What I like is freshly cut grass. The humbling act of mowing does a whole lot of good for yards and homeowners everywhere. I don’t want it too short. Golf courses should not be emulated by the general population. I happen to give the Saudis a break when it came to their foray into the stupid little game with tiny balls. Why would I do such a thing? Because they don’t have much grass where they come from. Sand doesn’t stir up the same emotions as a verdant expanse of rolling green.  

Here's where things get tricky. Some heat-addled brains may have forgotten the havoc wrought by snow each year, but I haven’t. I like snow. I like the way it looks. I like the way it falls. I like almost everything about it, including its ability to disrupt entire communities at the drop of a flake. What I don’t like is when it melts across suburban yards and muddy blades of grass begin to peek through. 

Like many Americans, I prefer strict binaries only. Coffee or tea. Baseball or soccer. And yes, grass or snow. I can't hold both thoughts, these dueling emotions together. There's a time for grass and a time for snow, much like food courses or seasons. When they mix, we're lost. You don't add ice cream to a burger and think everything is will be fine. 

Toro Toro Toro

 

Sir Alistair Ogilvy Goodby Crispin Bernbach Kennedy IV doesn’t write anymore. That’s something he did plenty of in his former life. For now, he watches people. He insisted I call him “Al” or simply, “The Creative Director.” Despite his obvious lack of output, he has an entire floor in his villa devoted to not working. That intrigued me. The heavy door was propped open by old Art Director’s Club annuals. 

 

I wanted to know what he thought of advertising. Why he left and what he hoped to accomplish with this interview. Though he hasn’t been inside an agency in decades he still dressed like he went into work with everyone else. Black blazer. Graphic t-shirt. Expensive sneakers. Quirky frames. Trucker hat. The uniform of a certain creative mind at the dawn of the Internet. 

 

He lives in an ordinary European town, far away from the nearest city and any reminder of the world he once occupied. Or, in his words, ruled. His bedroom his faces west. He spent too many years rising with the sun that he insists on lounging in bed until noon. At his peak he worked on some of the biggest brands. Toilet paper, candy, soda, beer, feminine hygiene products. You name it, he’s probably written a pithy, inane headline about it. 

 

I met the Creative Director alone, arriving shortly after 1 PM. I wheeled in a case of champagne and thinly sliced ham, as he requested when he first spoke. 

 

MTP: How is your day shaping up?

 

TCD: I’ve been awake for nearly an hour. So it’s mostly downhill from here.

 

MTP: Do you feel this way every day?

 

TCD: Pretty much. 

 

MTP: Is that different than when you were running your own agency?

 

TCD: In a sense, yes. But I haven’t changed. When I got here, I could only speak in slogans and taglines. It took a year of silence to be able to form a complete sentence. I still remember the moment I knew I had to leave advertising.  

 

MTP: Oh yeah? Could you tell me that story.

 

TCD: It was right after Cannes. We’d won a boatload of awards. I don’t mean that figuratively. We had to use a boat to bring back all the hardware. No airline would accommodate that much weight. I knew I would have to move offices to fit them. And this was right at the beginning of the open plan craze. Where was I supposed to put them? In the bathroom? On the floor of the lobby? It felt like the right time to exit stage left.  

 

MTP: Incredible. Have you ever thought about making a comeback? 

 

TCD: I’d consider working in advertising again if it was on a planet with a different gravitational field. While those trophies were weighing me down, their mass never bothered me. 

 

MTP: I hope for our sake, that happens. Pluto sure could’ve used someone like you when it got knocked down a peg.

 

TCD: No kidding.

 

MTP: I want to dig into how you pass the time. 

 

TCD: I am the same person. I just don’t attend meetings, do timesheets, or get a salary. But I do go down to a little café around the corner and cut it up with the locals. 

 

MTP: Go on. 

 

TCD: The government is cracking down on it for the first time in years. Though it makes up a substantial portion of national identity. Everyone does it. From corporate executives to cab drivers. It’s called “bullshighting.” I was a natural, of course. The people of this village have been doing it right here for centuries. I sometimes even learn from them, watching as regular folks pontificate on subjects they have no knowledge of. It's the sort of performance that purely for the love of the competition. No accolades besides a firm backslap and a round of drinks. I was lucky getting to make a career out of the same skills.

 

MTP: What’s it like exactly?

 

TCD: Basically, you say whatever is on your mind at the time. You argue a point to its absurd conclusion. It’s not fair for someone of my stature to duel with rank amateurs. I do it nonetheless because I can’t help it. Plus, I don’t know if “bullshighting” as an institution will be around in five, ten, fifteen years. 

 

MTP: That must disturb you, the prospect of it going away. 

 

TCD: Not really. Every great account you lose eventually. Every great job you wear out your welcome. It’s the natural cycle of things. It’ll always exist in the hearts and minds of average people. Of which, I am hardly one, but who have adopted me as a quasi-leader.

 

MTP: Last question. Why do you still dress like this?

 

TCD: Two reasons. If some kid sees me on the street, I want him to know that this is what a creative director is supposed to look like. Secondly, I thought there was going to be a photoshoot in tandem with this interview.