Like riding a bike

 

Bicycles, despite their annoying place in civilized society, are commonly used as an example of a skill you never forget. However, it’s time we forgot. But first, let’s dissect this tiresome expression.

 

Bikes are a social problem, like the preponderance of fentanyl, vandalism, or public defecation. They don’t make a place better.

 

Bicyclists aren’t defined by 19^th century Frenchmen twirling their mustaches, but by Lance Armstrong and his juiced-up peers. I understand the urge to take steroids for baseball. It’s hard hitting a ball. Or to run fast. Nobody likes running, least of all runners. But to bike up some hills in Pyrenees? That I don’t get. Springsteen wrote about cars, Kerouac didn’t travel the country in a Schwinn, and Travis Bickle wasn't picking up passengers in a pink woven basket. 

 

Lanes, bells, and hand signals make the word a less interesting, more annoying place. Bikes are a blight. Thankfully, hating bicycles is a familiar, timeless pastime. You might even say, it’s like riding a bike. 

Single Thought Leader

 

Bread and Circuses: What Sandwiches can teach us about the Fall of Rome

 

Yeah, I ate a salad, but I was still dreaming about Sandwiches

 

Why rural Americans cling to Sandwiches

 

When did a hot dog become a Sandwich?

 

The Earl of Sandwich is the hero we need

 

Why I’ll be eating a Sandwich instead of voting on Election Day

 

Ordering a wrap instead of a sandwich isn’t treason – it’s something far worse

 

How Sandwiches created the American Dream

 

Life, Death and Sandwiches

 

A Sandwich for your Thoughts

 

The Last Sandwich You’ll Ever Want

I hope they serve Sandwiches in Heaven

 

My Favorite Sandwich is My Next Sandwich

 

What Cutting a Sandwich In Two Tells Us about current Political Divisions

 

Open Face Sandwiches should be shunned for this Sin

 

I don’t have anything else to say, but since t’s almost lunchtime…sandwich anyone?

Hall of the Kinda Okay

 

The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York was once the pinnacle of athletic achievement. It was more than a museum. It was a destination for fans young and old to embrace the tradition and learn about the game’s greatest players. This was where Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, and Sandy Koufax stood for their bronze portrait, making them immortal. 

 

But to fill out the museum, you need to lower the standards. This isn’t any different than what’s happened in most formerly great institutions. 

 

Today, it’s a little different. Let’s just agree that the standards have, for whatever reason, shifted a bit.

 

Numbers alone can’t tell the story of a great ballplayer. Why? Because numbers are just numbers. For one thing, they’re not letters. You can’t make words, though you could, with a little prodding, make music. 

 

Hall of fame should be more equitable. It’s not fair to leave out so many people who devoted their live to playing a child’s game. Why does it have to be so rarefied, limiting members to the greatest players of all time? Plenty of mediocre ballplayers are quite famous. It’s fame, not greatness, after all. And once they’re inducted, their fame will only rise. 

This isn't college with harsh admissions standards. It's baseball. Can you play catch? Can you hold a bat? Though college isn't exactly college anymore either. 

 

Modern Indignities

 

 

Getting puddle water splashed over your hardly waterproof jacket by a careless driver.

 

Having a pigeon defecate on your finely pressed pants. 

 

Losing your place in a book.

 

Sleeping in a room that dips below a delicious 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

 

Waking up to the screeching sound of a starling burrowing its way into your eaves.

 

Forgetting to tip the valet.

 

Settling for a glass of Chartreuse yellow because Chartreuse green is unbelievably out of stock.

 

Making a billion dollars on a movie without receiving an Oscar nod. 

How To Be Yourself

We’re all individuals. Unless of course we’re in groups. But don’t worry about that now. You too can embrace your individuality with a series of cover letter templates perfect for the hiring process. When you are seeking employment and wish to put your best self forward, why not pay someone else to do it?

For a nominal fee of $2.99, you too can become the individual you always dreamed of. With a variety of formal and informal 

For a slightly higher price of $3.99 you can pick and choose the best elements for a truly bespoke experience. Love the letter but not feeling the salutation? Not a problem. 

For an even higher price (assume it’s a fluctuating MP like a fine lobster dinner) you can formally hand over your identity to an outsourced worker living somewhere in a different time zone. They can become you in ways you never thought possible. Let them do you and watch as the offers come in. 

Professional writers shouldn’t bother themselves writing – at least not until they have a job in hand. Once you’re in the walled city, you’re not going anywhere. But if you’re nervous, I’m sure we can work out some arrangement to secure your position and let your career – and individuality – truly blossom.

Why be yourself when you can hire someone to do it for you? 

Cover Stories

 

As children, we’re told it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover. That it represents a lack of depth, surrendering to our inner whims and caprices. When there is nothing further from the truth. It’s the coverless books that lack depth, not us. This point of view is strange and dangerous.

A book without a cover is a brick that can’t repair your patio. It’s a paper weight made entirely of paper. Covers call attention to potential readers like a obnoxious sport coat or a multi-colored scarf. It’s literary peacocking. There’s just no way you can sell what’s written on page 352. The cover is a first impression. It’s who a book ought to be judged. 

Can you blame someone for judging you when a leafy green is wedged between your teeth? I have many books on my shelf that were purchased without any knowledge of the subject. They were obtained purely for an interest in the cover. I am richer for embracing my superficial side. Here three such examples. The Rascal King: The Life and Times of James Michael Curley. Who was he? A corrupt Boston politician who wore fur long before Joe Namath. The Honey Hunter of Nepal. What did they do? They hunted honey. And lastly, Sexual Deviations as Seen in Handwriting. I think this one speaks for itself. The title was enough for adequate judgment.  

And my bookshelf looks much better for it.  

Subterranean Dybbuk Blues

 

The secret tunnel found beneath the Chabad-Lubavitch Brooklyn HQ reminds me of my preferred form of infrastructure: the bridge. Tunnels are vulgar, while bridges are majestic. When you’re driving through the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour, it’s an endless stream of exhaust fumes and water damage. You’re tempting fate so deep beneath the Hudson. Cross the Verrazano at the same time and marvel at the very curvature of the earth. One is the route of rats, the other, of kings. When in doubt, always take the high road.

Meathead Theory

 

The Zapruder film plays on a small television set…

 

Meathead:      Listen, Arch. I have it all figured out. 

 

Archie:             What? Then why do you still have a mustache? 

 

Meathead:      I’m talking about The Kennedy assassination. After all these years, it finally makes sense to me. I’ve been doing all my own research.  

 

Archie:           I suppose it’s easy to find the time if you don’t got a job. 

 

Meathead:    The findings of the Warren Commission just don’t add up. I’ve been looking into things. 

 

Archie:             Would you look into the fridge and grab me a cold one? 

 

Meathead:      I’m being serious.

 

Archie:             So am I.

 

He goes into the kitchen and gets a can of beer.

 

Meathead:      Only saps believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. 

 

Archie:             I never liked Marines. So if not him, then who? 

 

Meathead:      It was the CIA, the Mafia, the Cubans…

 

Archie:             That school book depository would get pretty crowded with all those people. 

 

Meathead:      They weren’t all there at once. It was a conspiracy. 

 

Archie:             Fancy word. You learn that in the library? 

 

Meathead:      No…

 

Archie:             What makes you think you got all the answers, smart guy? 

 

Meathead:      I did my homework. You gotta trust me on this one.

 

Archie:             I can trust you about as far as I can throw you. That’s not a bad idea. 

 

Meathead:      When are you gonna wake up, Arch? 

 

Archie:             After my nap. Which reminds me. Let’s table until dinner. 

 

Archie goes upstairs. 

Transparent tradition

 

In America, we don’t have the same pomp and circumstance as our friends across the pond. We have no kings and no queens. But we do have rituals and respect. Many tourists ambling around the grounds of Buckingham Palace devote time to making the guards break. These are the guards in red with the big furry hats. They are serious people who look rather silly. Secret Service members wear suits and dark sunglasses. There’s no standardized headgear that sets them apart. Plus, it’s not an American tradition to make them smile, like it is with the palace guards.

 

However, I have discovered our closest national equivalent. It’s not the people who protect the White House or any important federal building.

 

It’s window washers. Why? Because they are so focused, so poised, that to make them smile brings instant joy to everyone stuck inside a stuffy conference room. It can lead to sudden smudging, a mark of approval and recognition lacking in the crystal-clear glass found on most skyscrapers.   

 

It’s another reason to return to the office. 

Not Nice Kicks

I’ve only been to one racetrack in my life. It was Belmont Park, on the edge of New York City, where Queens and Long Island meet. There, on a rainy, windswept Columbus Day, I and a friend took in feats of equine prowess, placing trivial bets to keep things interesting. That’s when it hit me – horseshoes are not horse shoes. They are torture devices. 

 

Where’s the outcry from the likes of Nike, Asics or Saucony? Horses deserve real running shoes, not hunks of metal driven into their hooves by the force of an ornery blacksmith. What century is this? You’re telling me the boys in Beaverton can’t figure out a better way for our noble steeds?

The saddles are for the jockeys, the shoes are for the horses. 

 

It’s the shoes. It was always the shoes. Imagine what Secretariat could’ve done with a new pair of sneakers? 

Snow and Rain

Snow is different from rain. But I l still like comparing the two weather phenomena. 

For snow, you need a sled.

For rain, you need an umbrella.

 

Snow days are an important part of childhood. 

Rain Checks are an unfortunate part of adulthood.

 

With snow, you can make a projectile out of nothing but itself.

With rain, you need to purchase a balloon to the do the same. 

 

Snow makes everything brighter from the albedo effect.

Rain makes everything darker from foreboding clouds. 

 

A Snow Man is a classic example of childhood ingenuity. 

A Rain Man is an annoying character from a film starring a famous scientologist.

 

We make snow when we want to spend an afternoon skiing or snowboarding.

We make rain when we want to wash our car or dog. 

 

We need rain.

We want snow. 

 

Rain is something we complain about.

Snow is something we cherish. 

 

Meteorologists dread rain.

Meteorologists look forward to snow. 

 

A White Christmas conjures up glorious memories. 

A Wet Christmas does not. 

 

The worst thing that can happen to snow is for it to turn to rain. 

The best thing that can happen to rain is for it to turn to snow.  

Rain sends you running for home.

And snow sends you running for it. 

Blockheads

 

Once upon a time, being a revolutionary meant having enough self-denial for a protracted hunger strike or a bright idea like self-immolation. But the need for such showy exhibitions have fallen out of fashion. Today, when you want to get your political point across, all you need is a car, a functional horn, and a love of yelling. There’s nothing like a standstill to force your enemies to reexamine their priors. That’s why blocking traffic has replaced the five-paragraph persuasive essay as a means of winning a heated debate.

Back in the Scaffold

 

New York City is working on removing scaffolding from many of its wobbly buildings. This development has been met with applause, especially after one such site said goodbye to its scaffolding after two decades of support.

 

I’m not so joyous at the prospect. For one thing, scaffolding is a nice place to stand during a rainstorm. It provides cover unequaled by standard awnings. But even more than that, scaffolding represents endless possibilities. It doesn’t matter if it’s covering the ugliest of structures, planks of wood, metal posts and uneven nails give hope to every passerby. 

 

Scaffolding is where dreams are made. Yes, it’s true there can be an errant bucket or falling hammer to jostle one from existential slumber, but mostly they’re safe. To see scaffolding on a building is to believe things do get better. As a society, we’re always trying to improve, one concrete gargoyle at a time. 

Whale of a Time

 

When I heard a group of bored scientists were trying to communicate with whales, my first thought was, “why?” If these sea beasts wanted to talk to us, don’t you think they would’ve by now? Sadly, pathetic forms of one-way conversation are a trademark of human behavior. Given all the types of bird calls available, only parrots seem to talk back. Do we really want a Moby Dick podcast from the perspective of the leviathan himself? That’s no way to honor the memory of Herman Melville. I’d like to think actions still speak louder than whales.  

Planktonic Love

 

While there are indeed a lot of fish in the sea, it’s not easy for plankton to meet people. These microscopic organisms are often overlooked by passing snorkelers and scuba snobs. Typical asexual reproduction means these spineless creatures are in desperate need of friendship and guidance. This is something that’s harder and harder to find.

 

However, as sea levels rise, it only makes sense that human beings widen their net of potential buddies. Instead of limiting one to dog parks and cat shelters, we should be looking towards the ocean. 

 

Only recently have plankton begun to realize just how boring their existences are and have. They have been around for 2 maybe 3 billion years. Which means there was a time when they didn’t have to worry about speed boaters and annoying fisherman invading their marine sanctuaries. We overtook them about fifteen or twenty years ago, with the advent of the Internet and online gambling. 

 

Who doesn’t need a new friend? Planktonic love is defined by going outside of your species, even considering a pal you might not be able to see or hear. That’s okay. Real friends don’t have much to say anyway. They are content to just be. 

State of Mind

 

Now that our two local football teams have transitioned into the past tense, with equally disappointing seasons, it’s time to finally come to terms with reality. The New York Giants are a fiction. The New York Jets are a figment of our collective imagination. Because neither team exists. To properly honor The Sopranos, 25 years after its debut, would be, in part, to begin this difficult conversation. 

It's time both teams residing in East Rutherford, New Jersey accepted that they are both key parts of the Garden State’s fabric. Material that includes a diverse array of flotsam and jetsam found clogging The Meadowlands. A place which, on the aforementioned HBO show was where characters could reflect on their life choices or use the overgrown flora to obscure serious crimes. 

The truth is that neither the boys in blue nor the gangrenous franchise have any authentic connection to New York. Not anymore. All that evaporated with the passage of time. Like so many New Yorkers before them, they left the urban maze for a quieter existence in the ‘burbs. They are Jersey teams with Jersey values. So you have to accept who you are and who are not.

As a kid, growing up in New Jersey, a mere twelve miles from Manhattan, I understood it was a cardinal sin to ever say I was, “from New York.” It didn’t matter I was born there and even now, all these years later living in the outer boroughs, I still offer the essential qualification that I was “raised in Jersey.”  It doesn’t matter that people who claim to live in LA typically live in the outer reaches of Los Angeles County, far from Grauman’s, Wilshire Boulevard or the Hollywood sign. That’s their problem. Out here, where the weather still changes, we should be better than that. 

New Jersey is about being stuck in traffic on the helix, questioning the lane width on the GSP, and omitting prepositions when speaking of trips “down the shore.” It’s a state of little pretension and lots of traffic. It’s home to great universities, revolutionary battlefields, and yes, that stupid show from MTV. It gave the world Bruce and Frank and countless others.

These two teams are running from who they are. Maybe the Giants have proved they can be two things at once. But the Jets clearly cannot. Mark my words: they will not win a Super Bowl until they accept their identity. Only then will the wrongs of the past be righted.

 

The New Jersey Jets has a nice ring to it, right? Not a high bar since 1969, the New York Jets has no ring to it. 

My New Week’s Resolution

 

Last year was different. It was last week. But aside from that, I was a different person. I used to scrounge in the collection plate for loose change, now I am a charitable person. I give to the poor, clothing, money, and outdate video game consoles. I started jogging, through neighborhoods, on highways, and in place when the weather is a tad too inclement. I eat probiotics and I never interrupt people. I let those with whom I disagree with finish their misguided statements. I joined a gym and began spin class. I think I’m a Buddhist now. I don’t eat meat, I don’t eat fish, I don’t drink anything – not even water. I’m on a total ice diet. We’ll see how climate change affects that newfound dietary restriction. And that’s that. 

At least until February 1st.  

Claudine

 

Claudine, Claudine, Claudine, Claudine

I’m beggin’ of you, please don’t take my work

Claudine, Claudine, Claudine, Claudine

Please don’t cite it with just a smirk

Your chutzpah is beyond compare, with piercing looks, not self-aware

With shamelessness that makes a scene

Your resume has a familiar ring, but what’s with that big whiteout stain? 

And I cannot cheat like you, Claudine

 

Harvard worried about your bleep, but there’s nothing about you that’s too deep

Not your lengthy Times Op-Ed, Claudine

But honestly, did you write it first or copy from a peer who felt coerced?

But you don’t know how to apologize, Claudine

 

Claudine, Claudine, Claudine, Claudine

I’m beggin’ of you, please don’t try to teach

Claudine, Claudine, Claudine, Claudine

Please don’t pretend you support free speech

 

They caved to the mob and now you need a new job

You could go back to school, Claudine

Maybe take a remedial course in how to properly source

Or whatever you decide to do, Claudine

 

Claudine, Claudine, Claudine, Claudine

I’m beggin’ of you, please Thank God for your paychecks 

Claudine, Claudine, Claudine, Claudine

Please take it easy with your martyr complex

Think About It

On New Year’s Day I drove out to Coney Island for a few reasons. To commune with nature, to walk the planks on actual wooden boardwalk, and yes, eat a hot dog from Nathan’s. What I didn’t realize was because of the polar bar plungers (that’s not a tool used by arctic plumbers, but a pastime of those looking for new ways to overcome a hangover). I hadn’t anticipated such difficulty finding parking. But we circled and circled, until I settled on a perfect spot along Surf Avenue. 

 

On the way, I passed a few driveways with a certain cheeky sign. It read, “don’t even think about parking here.” Excuse me? I used to have a driveway, so I know something about the lengths people go to inconvenience you. The idling delivery trucks, the taxis, the clueless drivers who don’t even realize it is a place to park. But I would never impugn someone’s right to think. I think about lots of things I don’t do. That’s my right as a human being. I think about staying home, ordering Chinese food, and watching Apollo 13 on a continuous loop. The key is that I don’t do it. 

 

I think about parking in a driveway because I once had one, and it recalls fond memories of an urban oasis. You can’t enforce it. “Think” is a pointless word. It reminds me of the ubiquitous bathroom sign at restaurants reading “employees must wash their hands.” Must? How about: employees wash their hands. I’d take a bit more comfort in that. Think about that. 

2024: Year in Review

What a year, huh? They say it goes faster the older you get, but this is wild. Yes, it’s true we’re pushing just about 30 plus hours in, but I think it’s as good a time as any to stop and take stock of where we are and where we were. The year has brought plenty of surprises. Some people gave up drinking, others gave up thinking. Here’s hoping both last for the foreseeable.

When I look back on the early part of 2024 (yesterday), I try and put myself back into the mindset I had in those first few hours of the new year. It's not easy to recall such a different time. I was so much younger then, wide-eyed, wide-faced, and wide-mouthed like a fiesty bass testing the limits of true line reading. What thespian can compare to such vigor? 

It’s easy to wait for something to play out before assessing its significance within a bigger historical context. I say, why bother? I review movies I haven’t seen, form opinions on books I haven’t read, and pontificate on political subjects I can’t bother to understand. Therefore, looking back on the year two days in seems in keeping with my hyper-modern philosophy. For one thing, it saves time. I don’t have to stay up on the latest podcasts or shows that the culture needs me to consume.

At the end of the day, it’s been a good year. The day just happens to be January 2^nd.