Tribes and vibes

Remote tribes are finally getting a little Internet and I can’t see a downside. But this development got me wondering all the same: what else do these folks really need? Besides a steady stream of hardcore pornography faster than the Amazon’s most impressive tributaries. How about a string of retail outlets, a cavalcade of fast-talking celebrity influencers, and one place to get a decent bagel. Who knows, they might even want to add a few nice shirts now that the whole world is watching. How oddly beautiful that only now, after all these years toiling in the wilderness, do remote tribes finally have the pleasure of using an actual remote.

Welcome to my Anti-Capitalist Small Business

 

Greetings, comrades. I have a few items that may be to your liking. Material that’s anything but immaterial. Frankly, it’s how you can help support the means of my production. The first thing you’ll need is a collection of t-shirts, bumper stickers and hats that show the pesky bourgeois just what you have in store for them. After all, you’re a proletariat, not an amateurtariat. So start dressing like it. 

Because you can’t have a revolution without the proper attire. That’s why our incomparably breathable linen Balaclavas are moving faster than a breadline. It’s a luxury to revolt during the colder months. But with the climate getting warmer, every revolutionary must adapt. I’ve heard that the Siberian gulag is beginning to resemble Margaritaville. Hope you like vodka and cabbage.

Art is important. It’s why we’ve commissioned large oil paintings you can hang of yourself throughout your home. But before doing so, please enjoy a complimentary therapy session. Why? Because you can’t have a cult of personality without first having a personality.  

Need to indoctrinate an infant? Go home with a bag of red diapers. Taking a hike to a remote portion of our nation’s vast wilderness? Well, fellow traveler, try this frame pack large enough to hold any struggle. Doing yard work this weekend? Then you’ll most likely need a nice hammer and sickle to separate the neighborhood wheat from the chaff. And why not take a great leap forward with a pair of running shoes? Feeling an overwhelming sense of capitalist malaise? Try Uncle Joe’s cup of Joe. Can't finish your meal? A rare feat here, but if it's the case, enjoy a takeaway glass box where your leftovers are entombed just like Lenin. Eat it tomorrow or in a century, it'll taste about the same.

Hold on a second. Breaking news, we’re closed indefinitely due to my employees staging a little workplace revolt. 

The Real Catch

 

 

“There's a long drive, way back at center field, way back, back, it is - oh my! Caught by Mays. Willie Mays just brought this crowd to its feet with a catch which must have been an optical illusion to a lot of people.” 

-Jack Brickhouse

 

When I go to the beach in spring and summer, I don’t bring a football. Because It’s not football season. I bring a few mitts, a few extra baseballs, and a small radio to listen to the ballgame amid the thundering beat of surfside dance music. Because it is baseball season. 

 

It takes a certain level of proficiency to play in an area as crowded as the Rockaways in high season. There are, what people of a certain age, might refer to as plenty of bogeys. This might explain the extra balls, there to guard against water logging; a risk I take as seriously as any rip current. So you don’t want to drop too many throws your way. It’s both embarrassing and dangerous. There is something special about hurling a fastball as the tide rolls across your feet and nothing else. 

 

All of this is to say, when my friends and I do it, it’s just "a" catch. Joyous, restorative, timeless, but a catch all the same. “The Catch,” is reserved for one man and one man only. 

 

Willie Mays. 

 

In the years since his ur-catch, the lore surrounding it has only grown. But only Willie Mays could make a grab like that in the World Series and have many remark, “it wasn’t even his best.” He had it all the way. See how he tapped his glove beforehand? It was his rookie year, back when he still played stickball with the Coogan’s Bluff faithful. The truth is that the real catch wasn’t that one. Or one while combatting the twisting wind of Candlestick after the Giants abandoned New York. Or one in the hard-fought ’62 series against the Yanks. Or any one of the seven thousand times Willie Mays made a putout. No, it was none of those.

 

Willie Mays himself was The Catch. He was a real catch for all of us fans. Even those who never saw him play. We caught enough of him to understand that what he meant cannot be summed up in statistics. Yes, 660 is important, but Willie Mays is not a number. Unless it's 24. He engaged in breathtaking theatrics because this game is supposed to entertaining. It's meant to be fun. He wasn’t in a factory; he was in the outfield. And he never forgot that. 

 

RIP

The ledge of entertainment

 

Entertainment has come a long since the days of gladiatorial contests. When the crowds of spectators really were out for blood. Amazingly, this happened in a time without any jumbotron to relive the top plays again and again. If you missed it while chugging a goblet of wine, you had to ask your neighbor to describe the scene in gross detail. At some point, we got television. And at some point, after that, we got tired.

I now look to a different screen for joy and amusement. It’s the one between my windowpane and moderately fresh air. It’s a perspective that is always changing and always interesting. I don’t change the channel; the channel changes me. 

Here’s how it works. I open the window and like so many people before me, I stick my head halfway out of it, looking down on the cars, passersby, birds and all the rest. There’s risk inherent to this, which is why I specified “halfway.” There is a uniform that most similarly minded folks have adopted over the years. It’s either an undershirt or no shirt at all. 

There’s no binging, unless what I just ate decides to make a cameo. There are stars, but from this angle, pretty much everyone looks the same. And that’s how I like it. Small and inconsequential. I don’t have to worry about missing something important, since the street will be there tomorrow and the day after that. It’s waiting for me, to entertain, to distract, and if it’s anything like modern TV, to bore.

Light of my life

 

When mullets were ascendant and gas was not, concertgoers displayed their passionate incandescence by igniting lighters in unison. Waving wispy flames as the musicians on stage looked in with a curious mixture of confusion and pride. At least there was some danger wrapped up in the fire. But today, as safety-proofing has sapped so much joy out of life, it’s a relic of an earlier epoch. 

Today, people raise their most prized appendage, the illuminated screen of a smartphone. It signals the forfeiture of risk and joy. 

We could easily solve this dilemma by creating a bonfire of cell phones, melding modern and retro conceits to fuel a global tour. 

Irrational actors

 

It’s easy to pick on Tom Cruise. For one thing, he’s a little fella. For another, he is truly an irrational actor. Just not for the reasons you think. Most people criticize his faith, the fact that he’s been making the same movie for nearly thirty years. His missions sure seem possible. 

There are other supposed irrational actors. The Walkens, Jacksons and Deniros. Countless fans are shocked to see these master thespians in awful movies. But what’s irrational about wanting more money? They like to act and they love getting paid. Seems rational to me. 

For another, his name may be “Cruise” but when do you ever remember him living up to it? I know of no instance of him employing nautical metaphors during a red carpet interview. He doesn’t wear a captain’s hat, mind the tides, or choose boats when other celebrities opt for private jets and limos. In other words, he’s anything but a true cruiser. Right?

The smell test

 

It’s routinely bandied about everywhere from corporate retreats to back-alley dumpsters. The notion that everything in your job comes down to a keen sense of smell. Though what constitutes the “smell test” is rarely if ever mentioned. Is the method akin to sampling perfumes with a clean and disposable paper strip? Does it involve taste in any way, since so many smells are connected to our consumption? And what does it truly mean to fail the smell test?

Does an oversized schnozz give someone a nose up on sniffing the competition? Perhaps, it’s what made the Romans such a prosperous civilization in an age where chiseled features weren’t everything.

Sadly, as our society walks away from nuance, we have lost what it means to judge things individually. Say you enter somewhere, and the aroma of pungent fish stops you in your tracks. This would be a problem if it weren’t in a fish market, where the natural bouquet of marine life is perfectly normal, as opposed to say, your bedroom. Walking into a fish market and smelling soap or anything other than fish would be a clear failure of the smell test.

Be careful how you judge the smell test. And not passing isn’t the same as failing. 

Meet your enemies

 

It’s often said by those running out of things to say that you shouldn’t meet your heroes. All they can do is fall short and disappoint. Revealing their true character in a crushing way, destroying a former childlike wonderment at it takes to be a real hero. How many crestfallen kids have to slink across the faux marble floors after a lackluster meeting with a mall Santa before we as a society decide to do something about it?

 

Heroes aren’t the problem. It’s enemies. There are only two things that can happen when you confront a loathed nemesis. Either your previous notions of derision are reinforced by the enemy being exactly who you expect them to be. Or you find yourself pleasantly surprised, saying, “they aren’t so bad.” Unlike a meeting with a hero, you can’t be disappointed here. 

 

So go out and find your rivals for a dinner, a drink, or just a long walk in the park. Whatever happens, you’ll still have a pretty good story to share. 

Press their patience

 

Press tours have evolved quite a bit over the years. There was a time in the not-too-distant past, when someone promoting a book or movie just needed a brief audience with the reigning king of late night, his high holiness, Johnny Carson. On a gaudy set befitting the tastelessness of the era, you savored the time slot and the eyes of nearly every American gazing at your reflective suit.

 

Now, not so much. There is no Johnny. There isn’t even a Cavett. Instead, there are several late-night shows with barely any discernible difference between them. And dozens of podcasts, usually shot on the same set from the same angle. You hone your couple minutes of obvious self-promotion and make the rounds on various platforms. You tell the same story over and over, hoping new audiences don’t notice, unable to pick out a fungible word whenever you decide to shake things up a tad.

 

A modern press tour comprises of a few minutes of genuine material stretched into many hours of seemingly original content. Like a piece of dough rolled out from a tiny doughy ball, there are ways of getting the most out of what you’ve been given. Because the audience needs whatever you knead. 

Hallucinational anthem

 

Hallucinations are nations where appearances are often quite deceiving. There isn't a shared language other than fluent gibberish.  That may look like a fair law proposed by a wise politician, when in fact it’s a stupid idea from an utter nincompoop. That road you’re driving on has several gaping potholes that would do a number to your delicate struts, but you won’t notice them, even as your vehicle begins to rot in real time. Is it a tax a toll a gift or a bribe? Nothing to see here but butterflies and birdies. 

What are those people gathering in a large group doing? Is it a protest? Are they blocking traffic? No, it’s just a nice parade of gentle souls and calm people using their sweetest inside voices. A cherubic band of well-adjusted individuals exercising their right to exercise. 

In a hallucination, things aren’t always what they seem. No, that’s not a scooter riding down the center of the sidewalk, terrifying pedestrians ambling aimlessly through life. 

Is that a golden retriever or a unicorn? Both are pretty commonplace these days.

Or maybe you imagined the whole thing. 

The wrong foot

Maybe Bullion Bob Menendez and I got off on the wrong foot. Because I like that the man stores his money in a large boot. For too long, we’ve listened to the crypto cowboys and their cashless compadres rail against cold, hard greenbacks. When tucking money in your shoe is a beachfront classic. A timeless act of summertime subterfuge. Who hasn’t curled up a few crisp Andy Jacksons after receiving change from a surfside hot dog vendor? But if it’s gold bars you’re hiding, I’d consider a cooler over footwear. 

The Stet Gala

 

Welcome to The Stet Gala, where mistakes are made, then embraced. Some events reflect society perfectly, while others are so hideous you can’t look away. Take a guess which category tonight falls into. Oh, I see someone coming up the red carpet now. Is that who I think it is? From that show no one liked but everyone praised. I’m not sure, but I think so. And guessing here is good enough. This event seems to attract middling celebrities barely hanging onto their last remaining shred of relevancy. 

Our first person is dressed like a young, sultry Thomas the Tank Engine. Why? Because his entire career has been a trainwreck and we deal in scandal, gossip and poorly thought-out metaphors. Here’s an unidentifiable woman now. A politician, an actress, a fashion maven. I can’t really say.  Other than she’s wearing nothing but an oversized staple, hardly covering her, conveying to the gawking paparazzi that she’s an invaluable addition to any situation. 

A group of reality stars are confidently walking up the red carpet, pretending to be someone else. Here’s a decent actor who likes like an idiot. I won’t try to describe his outfit since to do so, would be an object lesson in foolishness. I don’t know what material he’s wearing, nor do I care.

Here’s my gardener now, holding a piece of heavy flagstone and a tray of neon green sod. So artificial it’s real. He waves, he bows, and he waters the audience. 

Just so you don’t think I’m merely the messenger, deriding the sartorially confused, I too am wearing something interesting. In this case, it’s a piece of the red carpet I was able to tear off using my teeth and a rusted razorblade. People walk all over me all the time in spirit, but not in actuality. Why not give them the chance to do it on the biggest stage?

When you get a free moment, change the channel. 

Asap's fables

 

The boy cried wolf because his tear ducts were damaged in a suspicious accident.   

 

The tortoise unsurprisingly beat the hare in a footrace, even though that doesn’t constitute winning given it wasn’t an event sanctioned by any recognized roadrunners club. 

 

The wolf and the crane involved serial OHSA violations at a nearby construction site. 

 

The fly in the soup ushered in the concept of complimentary dessert as a means of avoiding a lawsuit. 

 

The frogs and the sun promote the importance of hats and/or sunscreen. 

It doesn't add up

 

If it’s really surf and turf, why isn’t the meal served on a surfboard? 

 

Why isn’t it socially acceptable to throw throw pillows at houseguests? 

 

What’s the connection between peaty distilled spirits and barely adhesive tape? 

 

Since baseball players use a baseball, basketball players use a basketball, football players use a football, why do hockey players use a “puck”?

 

Why does L.L. Bean make camping equipment and other outdoor accoutrements when bean is in the name? 

 

Is there a good reason marble notebooks and marble rye are not made with marble?

Of all the creatures that fly why does a fly get to be called a fly? 

J. No

 

It’s a filter I’ve developed over the years, honing the perfect tool for appropriate media consumption. Like food, we can’t digest everything. Diets matter, unless you prefer retching in a formerly empty stairwell during a long overdue lunch break. So when I see a photo of Elon Musk, anyone wearing a red hat, or Jennifer Lopez’s newest paramour, I keep moving. Skimming doesn’t capture what I do, since that implies partial reading. I’m happier, healthier, and far less informed. 

Hmmmigration

 

I’m not a political person by nature. But even still, I can’t avoid the constant drumbeat of the immigration debate, banging on by people on all sides. So what do we do? Build a wall? Not quite.  

 

Walls don’t make a whole lot of sense from a very simple standpoint. That’s all they are. If the goal is keeping people one side, wouldn’t you also consider building a ceiling? A wall without a ceiling is like a box without a top. In other words, a package that would be soundly rejected by even the most apathetic postal employee for improper wrapping. 

 

A fence is a half-measure, though at least it functions without another ceiling installation. They work on their own. No one ever proposes doors, ones with locks and handles, bells and knockers. It adds a certain formality to the border crisis. “Just a second. Who could that be, honey? I’ll go check.”

 

A curtain would do wonders, especially considering the humidity in the region, giving the crossing a sense of theatricality it’s clearly missing. Or maybe a beaded entrance could add to the pomp of it all. Instead of security, why not border attendant with mints and hand towels on hand? If the pandemic taught us anything it’s that you can never wash your hands too much. Why not make it easier on everyone with a professional? 

Outside agitators

 

They’re becoming a real problem in the country’s dwindling great cities. They tend to arrive in flocks, squawking at authorities and flaunting the rules. They sing at all hours, keeping neighbors from dozing off without disturbance. They aren’t from around here, preferring to adopt migration patterns of more open communities. They relieve themselves in the open and pay little heed to monumental sculptures., They change directions based on which way the wind blows. They aren’t exactly well-informed either. But they subsist on scraps, diving in dumpsters, gutters, and anywhere else that provides a morsel of grub. They can be incredibly annoying. But freedom of assembly is taken quite seriously by all those of good conscience. They have a big advantage when the cops are called to break things up that other protesting hordes lack: the ability to fly away. 

Sounds smart

 

The transparent solution to midday pangs of obvious malnourishment can lead one down a serpentine path of false choices. Like Christ languishing in the desert during his protracted colloquy with the claret-hued hoofed one, temptation lurks around every menu. This is the difference between desire and necessity, the fight to enjoy, and the fight to survive. What you want versus what you need. Knowing you’ll repeat the process thousands of times until the mortal coil extinguishes, is it too much to focus on the singularity of a single moment in time and space?*

 

*What do you want for lunch? 

Singalong, long night

When I pay good money, that is to say, lots of money, to sit somewhere in near-earth orbit, watching distant creatures down on stage jam for a few hours, I have a few expectations going in. Some people attend concerts knowing they will barely be able to see the artists, preferring to appreciate the atmosphere of a rather sensory experience.

It’s not a sporting event. Though you do see people with band t-shirts, aping the fashion stylings of overworked roadies, lugging Marshall amps, contraband and neck pillows from gig to gig. 

All I ask for is a drunk behind me to singalong with the stars on stage. If I really wanted to hear the acts in crystal stereo, I would’ve stayed home and turned up my hi-fi. Instead I find myself among the fanatics in the outer reaches of stadium seating, listening to their takes on rock and roll poetry. 

It’s not harmonizing in the Garfunkelian mode, but it’s close. Plus, it is true stereo, authentic surround sand. The band on stage, the goober in the seat behind me in my ear. What more could I ask for? Not that anyone would be able to hear my cries. While I didn’t technically pay for these additional singers, I pay for them anyway. 

In theory

 

I don’t like music. I like music theory. Instruments are not necessary to appreciate music. People are always going on about how music is a language. But I already speak a language moderately well. I don’t need to know another one that’s based in numbers.  Instead of listening to a wonderful melody, I’d rather listen to two professors argue over the Phrygian mode than hum along to something remotely catchy. I’d like to understand who are these Phrygians and want do they want. What did they listen to? Did they foresee the musical revolutions to follow them or the preservation of food that bears their name? How did lowly Fridgians impact the refrigeration revolution? How often did their meals go bad? These are all questions that exist outside the realm of top forty radio.

Brainworm Jim

 

 

The newest adventure in video game technology has arrived: Brainworm Jim. In a series of platform games, Jim, a ruggedly good-looking and enterprising brainworm, moves through a brain, feasting on whatever he can find. His hunger for adventure is only matched by his hunger for brain matter. 

 

The object of the game is simple. Eat as much as you can without slowing down, while in the process leaving dead ends and conspiracy theories littered around the cerebral cortex. The person should be confused after you escape through a convenient cavity. How fast you navigate through the brain depends on your sense of direction. That and common sense. Each level is a different individual with dangerous aspirations. It could be a captain of industry in need of a reality check, or a delusional politician waiting for the world to enact some sort of worm limits.

 

Brainworm Jim is fun for the whole family, and in a way, the whole country. 

 

$9.99 on all your gaming platforms. Not suitable for small lobbyists. 

Emotional support

 

My emotional support animal has its own emotional support animal. It’s one thing for me to need a four-legged confidant when navigating the busy streets of a bustling city. It’s quite another for my dog to have someone to lean on during a hard day outside of the office. Does it mean walking three abreast is harder than two? Yes, obviously.

 

The job of my dog is to give me advice, help me get into spaces that are usually human-only. What’s hard for him is picking out the exact hydrant to urinate on. And having his own best friend, slightly shorter than him, doesn’t hurt. 

 

While I might need help boarding a plane, he needs one digging a hole, chasing a fire truck, or enjoying a piece of government issue postal carrier fabric. His emotional support animal legitimizes these interactions, helping them continue unabated for years to come. 

 

Plus, it gives all three of us lots to discuss during our nightly debriefing over kibble and chianti.

Something’s burning

 

The phrase, “burn it all down” is an interesting one. However, it lacks the imagination you’d think would be associated with the revolutionary class. Burning is fine, but is that the only way to destroy? I think it’s messy and quite dangerous. There’s smoke, fire, fumes, ash, and the whole thing can easily get out of control. Instead burning it all down, why not watering it? It’s just as annoying, but it cleans things. There are other elements besides at our disposal when the subject turns to destruction. Picture hundreds of people throwing water balloons at an administrative building. It’s almost an act of kindness.

 

Almost.

Many hats

 

As the saying goes, everyone wears a different hat. Some wear multiple ones at the same time. But there are others who don’t appreciate that every piece of headgear has an important function. 

Bicyclists.

 

The other day I found myself in line behind a bicyclist. I wasn’t driving. I was standing, waiting to buy a few rhubarb stalks. How could I identify this person without their two-wheeled conveyance anywhere in sight? Simple. They were still wearing their helmet. 

 

Donning a hat indoors if rude but wearing a helmet without a bike is downright idiotic. But it’s social marker. It carries cachet in the certain regions of Kings County. Where the streets slope towards the park and the finest stone is brown.  

 

To be fair, maybe this person needed to protect their precious brain matter, even while standing. 

Hello, walls

 

Creative impasses are often worked through not by staring into the AI abyss and willingly accepting one’s inevitable obsolescence, but by banging your head against the wall. The thing is, there are many types of walls. 

 

Are we talking exterior or interior? Load-bearing or thin particle any fantasy Miyagi would have no trouble breaking through. 

 

The image of the archetypal lunatic, with different pairs of socks, muttering about entities following them, many picture this individual within the confines of a padded cell. Too bad padded cells are wonderfully safe spaces. Do you really need to break through something for a breakthrough? 

Hard to say. Though hard usually depends on the material in question. Unlike brick and wood, pads give you the ability to effortlessly bounce of the walls. A rather novel idea, for those with something on their mind. 

 

This is why there is a tepid puddle of sameness throughout creative fields. People don’t know where to safely bang their heads. Instead of focusing on how committed your employees are to their jobs, focus on getting them committed. It’ll do wonders for their productivity. Because hitting the wall should be the start of a new, beautiful way of thinking. 

Apple Vision Amateur

 

Welcome to the era of spatial confusion. 

 

Apple Vision Amateur awkwardly blends digital content with your physical face. (Don’t worry, we’ll get to your mental face sometime later next year)

 

You navigate simply by using your eyelashes, ear lobes, nose hairs, and the occasional tongue twirl. Millions of subatomic tongue sensors elevate every chomp. 

 

So you can feel the things you love in ways never before hygienic. You’ve never tasted anything like this before. 

 

With Apple Vision Amateur, you have a finite canvas that transforms how you can finally ingest the apps you love. Because at Apple, we believe that “app” is short for appetizer, not application. You can accomplish this by pretending everything on your screen is edible, salting them, honeying them, garlicking them, and ultimately eating them. 

 

Arrange apps anywhere and scale them to the perfect bitesize, making the kitchen of your dreams a tasty reality — all while digesting the world around you. Really. Ever wondered what Manhattan schist tasted like? How about other hallmarks of geology class? With the ease of a text message you will be able to chew on any rock formation that catches your gaze. 

 

Apple Vision Pro can transform any space into your own personal dining table. Expand your appetites, by chowing down on television shows, games up to the perfect size while feeling like you’re part of the action with Spatial Ediblo. Did you watch Jurassic Park and wonder, “that shrubbery in the background sure looks delicious, now I see why most dinosaurs are herbivores.” Now, you can taste for yourself, thoroughly destroying Steven Spielberg’s vision.

 

And with more morsels than a pizza oven for each tooth, you can eat stunning content wherever you are — whether that’s on a subway park bench beside a madman or in your own bed when you’re the mad one.

 

Apple Vision Pro is Apple’s first 3D fork. You can capture magical mouthfuls and spatial crumbs in 3D, then relive those cherished bites like never before with immersive taste. Your existing library of food and beverages tastes incredible at remarkable scale. And edible panoramas envelop you — making you feel like you’re standing inside a burrito as the cheese scalds your kneecaps and fingertips.

 

Apple Vision Amateur makes it easy to collaborate and connect wherever you are. MouthTime tiles are bite-size, and as new diners join, the call simply expands in your dining room. Within MouthTime, you can also use apps to collaborate with colleagues eating the same entrees simultaneously.

 

Apple Vision Amateur is the result of decades of eating out, staying up late wolfing down greasy dishes for the purpose of transforming what it means to eat in virtual reality. This is the strangest product Apple has ever created. But finally, after decades, you can enter a new technological frontier and eat an apple, thanks to Apple. 

 

Innovation you can taste. Technology you don't need.

Taciturnip

 

I went to the farmer’s market, excited at the prospect of better fruit, having lost the appeal of apples some time in February. But nothing had really changed. There were no berries yet, no stone fruits, nothing that caught my eye and those of others. It was still a garlicked setting. 

 

That’s when I found myself face to root vegetable with a filthy turnip. Like most normal people, I don’t know much about turnips. They’re not beets and they’re not radishes – two things I do know something about. But the turnip intrigued me. I picked it up – heavier than I expected – and checked out.

 

On the way home, I buckled it into the front seat, narrating the historic parts of Brooklyn we were passing, since the vegetable was seated well below the window line. Told the story of the five-borough consolidation in 1898, the etymology of stoop, and where Frederick Law Olmsted ranks in the pantheon of great New Yorkers. The turnip didn’t say a word. Didn’t even stare at me. Unlike potatoes, he didn’t have eyes to roll. 

 

I kept going. When we got home, I took him out and asked whether he’d prefer a bowl or a basket. Nothing. I can handle shy people, but this time of obstinacy was tough. I’m inviting you into my home, providing you shelter from the sweaty masses of Park Slope, and this is the all I get? 

 

Nothing. This went on for days. I’d check on the turnip, say good morning, ask if anyone had called for me or knocked on the front door. Relationships are built on reciprocity on trust. With the turnip, I had neither. 

 

I did what anyone would do under similar circumstances. I found a cookbook and leafed through it for turnip recipes. It started as a playful joke. 

 

And then just like that, he was gone. Composted? Possibly. Either way, I never even got to say goodbye. 

Some things never change

 

There are times when I’m doing laundry and I long for the days when all you needed was a clean river, a well-shaped rock and time. One thing you didn’t need was money. Public laundromats have largely stayed the same over the years, cornering the market on loose change, namely quarters. I don’t have much use for quarters these days besides my bi-weekly laundry routine. 

 

I don’t flip them for wagers with friends. I don’t shine them to admire the profile of our first president. I hoard them for laundry. They pile up in a coin dish, next to useless nickels, pennies and dimes. I feel for them, since their purpose has been stripped away as society moves cashless. 

 

Parking meters were once a place where all, except maybe pennies had a legitimate function. Pennies are still good for filling a sock and threatening a would-be assailant. But wouldn’t fewer quarters have the same impact? Dropping them off tall buildings is a big recreation for the foolish, at least before the advent of protective glass and thick netting.

 

Laundry is where I put my quarters. With each one, I take a step back in time. Just twenty-five cents and everything seems to make sense. I don’t know what I’ll do when I have a washer dryer in my home. Perhaps I’ll still collect coins as a touchstone of a simpler era. A reminder of how things were. Because when a laundromat changes to tap to pay, we might as well close the Federal mint. 

Shiny objection

 

In a different era, courts were imbued with a sense of dignity. Whether the judges presiding from a lofty perch and the lawyers making their case, to the jurors listening attentively and everyone else soaking up the scenery from the back of the gallery. There is a lot to object to in your average court case, but most lawyers are not equipped to cut through the noise of modern life. 

 

This is where a shiny objection comes in. Instead of yelling at the judge like a child throwing a tantrum, why not take an alternate tack? Objections are the key to winning or losing. But judges have the advantage. Not only do their sit above the fray, but also do it with a gavel, something no one else in the room has. Lawyers can pound their fists or slap a legal pad against the bench, but these acts are usually frowned up by the judicial class.

 

What attorneys lack in the courtroom is flair for the dramatic. How can you stand out if you dress the same as opposing counsel? Better yet, how can you hope to make inroads with a skeptical jury when you rely on the same jargon, too? This is where sequins, musical accompaniments, mood lighting, and miscellaneous theatrics. Explore the space.

 

It’s a stage. Courtroom dramas have dominated the ratings for decades. It’s time our actual lawyers got the message. They are performers, not here to uphold the rule of law, but to entertain us. You’re not just a lawyer, you play one in real life.

Any objections? 

The sounds of life

 

Whistling while your work is a staple of good, honest labor. It’s come to define entire economic models. But it’s not the only sound associated with normal routines. Humming while you eat is an important part of proper digestion, as long as it’s done with your mouth fully closed. Muttering while you commute creates a wall of sound that helps others. In a crowded train or bus, people will invariably get too close to you, but not if you’re blanketed by a string of unintelligible utterances, peppering your speech every six to fourteen seconds. It’s the buffer you need, not the buffer you deserve. Mimicking a bird while you drive is a productive way to avoid a string of obscenities lining your vehicle’s interior. It allows you to commune with nature, work on something beyond a new four-letter word you’ve been saving for just the right tailgater. It works with the windows down or the windows up. And it attracts new feathered acquaintances - friends is too strong – everywhere you go. 

Wanna be a Devolutionary?

 

 

Revolutions are hard and complicated to win. Devolutions are much simpler, since they involve bowing to the natural disorder of things. Decay is a part of life, or well, the opposite of life. So take that bowl of chowder and leave it in the sun, let it stew and change colors, aromas. Let it turn from expensive appetizer to award-winning middle school science project to biological warfare that you need a hazmat sleeve around your ladle just to stir. 

 

You see, being a revolutionary involves lots of hard work. To devolve, you just have to leave yourself out in the sun. Become an immovable object, learn the differences between egress and ingress. While you’re at it, research “egret,” since the bird ends up coming in conversations between two parties at a standstill searching for the proper word. 

 

But words are overrated. Devolutionary acts aren’t done with aplomb at all. We need to forget reason, forget empathy, even forget language. Grunting and shrieking, howling and freaking, that’s the mark of a healthy devolution. 

 

Instead of focusing on the next level of homo sapiens, let’s throw it in reverse and make our way through the devolutionary highway. All the way back to single cell organisms hanging onto their atoms for dear life. 

 

Sit back, do nothing, and devolve. 

How big?

  

We have bigger fish to fillet, fly, float, flutter, foreclose, fold, flour, flaunt, finance, friend, Frenchify, frighten, free, franchise, fracture, flambé, freshen, freeze, fritter, frustrate, fuel, fill, fumble, fumigate, fund, fuse, flex, flatten, fire, ferry, fatten, father, fault, favor, fawn, fascinate, farm, fan, fake, fail, finalize, face, and yeah, fry.

Dan, Would You Rather

 

Would you rather report in a warzone or from the swanky apartment of friends living on Central Park West?

 

Would you rather anchor a national nightly news show or surreptitiously drop anchor from Walter Cronkite’s favorite yacht?

 

Would you rather interview a third world warlord wearing armor piercing bullets over their shoulder like a sling or a supermodel wearing ironically revealing camouflage?  

 

Would you rather work in a newsroom that allowed smoking or the microwaving of leftover fish?

 

Would you rather spill coffee on an important story or Chinese food? 

 

Would you rather bring up the Kennedy assassination at a cocktail party or Vietnam? 

 

Would you rather pronounce a Russian surname or explain cryptocurrency? 

 

Would you rather admit you got something wrong or stake your entire career on a set of clearly fabricated documents?

Bullion Bob

 

While everyone and their pet is focused on entering a cashless future, one rather public New Jerseyan understands that value derives from what you can literally hold in your hand. This includes your spouse or accomplice. Money should carry weight. I may admire the ballooning digits in your bank account, but if I can’t see a metallic flicker from your pocket when it's time to pay, what’s the point?

 

Why have money if you don’t really have it? What do you slip a maître d’ if not an actual item that requires polishing? IOUs don’t work in this context, do they? Finances belong in your checked luggage, not your wallet. 

 

Smart people realize that currency should inspire awe, as well as mild hernias.