What makes a Friday Good?

 

 

In the working world, one is accustomed to hearing the phrase, “Happy Friday” during a meeting, no matter how mundane. It’s their way of adding some theatricality to the painfully routine. This led to the "happy Monday" disease, where simply being sentient was cause for public celebration. 

 

Too bad the pandemic changed things. Fridays used to be refuges, life rafts at the end of a long, arduous week. Then came the hybrid model and what was once a working day turned into a quasi-weekend. Full of long, luxurious lunches and poor, pitiful excuses. 

 

Good Fridays became bad Fridays, when they should’ve been great. Everyone got greedy, easing into the weekend, one automatic email reply at a time. 

 

When I think about it, a good Friday is starting to sound lot like a typical Saturday. 

Opening Daydream

'Twas hours before Opening Day, when all through the park

Not a player was stretching, not even Sunset Jimmy Burke;

The jock straps were hung by the dugout with flair,

In hopes that Babe Ruth would soon start to swear;

Each athlete was nestled all snug by their locker;

While visions of expletives conjured John Rocker;

And manager with his smokes, and I with my dip,

Had just packed tobacco like Baltimore Tommy Lipp.

When out on the lawn there arose such a batter,

I sprang from the bench to see ol’ Clyde Hatter.

Away to home plate I flew in a flash,

Grabbed a few bats and mimicked Norm Cash.

The lights over the infield on the freshly cut grass,

Displayed the shadow of an eerie Kevin Bass,

When what through my eye black did appear,

But a Ford Model T and a case of cold beer,

With a big old driver so loud and uncouth,

I knew in an inning he must be George Herman Ruth.

Faster than Rickey at the top of his game,

He hooted, and hollered, and shouted each name:

"Now, Lefty! now, Christy! now Sandy and Cy!

On, Willie! on, Henry! on, Mickey and Ty!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now swing away! swing away! swing away all!"

As pitches started to fly, along with some acclaim,

Swing for the fences, unlike say, Teddy Ballgame;

So out into the up-up-upper deck for a better view,

With a bag full of peanuts, The Babe in his natural milieu.

And then, in a bounce I heard one bang off the façade,

With fans cheering and clapping others tend to applaud. 

I forced a few cuts and begin flailing around,

Down the baseline The Bambino came with a crown.

He was dressed in a bed sheet, from his head to his spikes,

And despite amusing the umpire, he was down to two strikes,

A bundle of stogies he had flung under his arm,

He looked like John Kruk with similar charm.

His eyes—how they twitched! his dimples, how bloated!

His cheeks were like cocktail napkins, his nose how loaded!

His big mouth was arched like a Gooden curve,

And when he stepped out of the box, it was more of a swerve,

With a dozen or so hot dogs he prepared to eat,

They encircled his head, a halo of tubed meat;

He had a fat face and short little legs,

That shook when he belched like exploding kegs,

He was portly and plump, a right jolly Hall-of-Famer,

And I cheered when I saw him, without a disclaimer,

A tip of his cap and a point of his finger,

Soon gave me the sense that the digit would linger;

He spoke not a word, but went back to his spot,

This was the Sultan of Swat, once again calling his shot,

And sliding his hands from the knob to the barrel,

This wooden Excalibur put the pitcher in peril,

He dug into the dirt and gave his team a whistle,

And on the very next pitch, it left like a missile,  

I heard him exclaim and hit one out of sight—

“Happy Opening Day to all, and does anybody got a light?”

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.

Goodbye to all them

 

When you leave New York City for good, you can’t do it in a quiet way, slinking across the river like a bandit in the night. You are compelled to grab a your blowhorn and let it rip. You grab a guitar and strum a few mournful chords befitting your reluctant farewell. You want the people who are staying to know that they are the fools. They don’t get it. New York has survived centuries of upheaval and crime and garbage, but when Cindy T. from the Upper West Side packs her bags for the suburban paradise of Westchester, it’s over. There is no coming back. There’s certainly no one to take her place. 

 

New York City is a party, and that party is ending. It lasted through crack and crime and covid, but now, closing time is fast approaching. People can read the graffiti on the wall and realize that the city is going the way of Detroit before it. 

 

It’s a Big Apple. At the core of every apple is something mostly inedible. Apples rot, they turn sour, losing the sweetness that made them great, propelled them to stardom. This apple would be lucky to be remade as a sauce. But it’s destined for the cruel indignities of fermentation, a time-honored process known to many great Americans since before there was an America. 

 

Now that I think about it, I could go for some hard cider. 

Don the Lemon

 

Q: Is there something about your journalist you don’t like? 

A: Where do I start? It’s just not working out. It babbles incoherently, complains constantly, makes ridiculous demands. It’s one thing when you’re related to someone with the above characteristics, but this a job. I knew I wasn’t getting a Cronkite-level product, but this is still very disappointing. It’s one thing to be stupid, it’s another thing to do so while believing you’re smart. I wanted a bargain TV host that was able to form a complete sentence. I got something very different. Something far more annoying.

Q: Well, can try to get you a new one, if you’d like. You might want to try Substack, that’s where a lot of the good ones end up. But I would caution against getting a great one. That might be more trouble than it’s worth.

A: For who? 

Q: You. 

Tick-Tock for TikTok

 

I wasn’t sure about the proposed TikTok ban, but then I thought better of it. Did you realize that the app is mandatory for everyone under 18? Did you know that most of the content is lifted word-for-word from Mao’s Little Red Book? So that what children are watching is essentially the Chinese Communist Party set to dance music? Or that at the precise moment the umbilical cord is cut, an iPhone cord appears to ease the child’s transition, so they never have suffer through a word that’s cordless for very long? Did you know that it’s really hard to put you phone down when someone on screen demonstrates real rhythm? Did you know that the first rule of international espionage is to create extremely amateurish videos of mommy influencers driving while telling you about their typical day? Or did I just make all that up? 

I honestly can’t tell anymore, what I thought of and what has been inserted into my cerebellum by boys in Beijing. I guess I’ll have to open up the app myself to confirm. 

Checkablanca

 

What were the odds that only a few years after every major North American professional sports league fully embraced legalized gambling that a scandal would be forthcoming? I’ve been asking the best bookies from Bayonne to Boca and every one of them, to a man, is shocked, shocked. 

 

Who would have taken the bet that a league knee-deep in wagering, face-first in gambling, would fall ass-backwards into a huge scandal? It’s not something anyone, even the most seasoned, dyed-in-the-wool bettor would engage in. Nor would a veteran loan shark, a familiar shylock, or a clinical bracketologist. Fantasy gurus with simultaneous sponsorships from FanDuel and DraftKings were equally as surprised by the developments. If only they had inside information, they could have turned a profit from the news. The question is: will this be the end of sports gambling scandals as we know it? 

 

I wouldn’t bet on it. 

Unless You’re British…

 

You shouldn’t use words like “whilst.”

 

You shouldn’t sign off emails with “cheers.”

 

Or talk about the Queen, unless you are referring to Burger King’s significant other.

 

The phrase “teatime” should refer to golfing.

 

Your friends can’t also be chaps.

Bowler hats are what you wear while bowling.

 

You aren’t required to understand why all the politicians yell at each other so much. 

 

You’re not familiar with what a crumpet is and you aren’t about to find out.

Cleaning Spring

 

 

The filthy among us, in search of a bright spot along a shelf of dust mites, choose early Spring as the time they will clean up their act. I’m not buying it. A grizzly bear waking up from deep hibernation has less to clean up than some of these people. They think that a few buckets of Pledge and a mop are enough to change the narrative on their sorry, disgusting lives. This isn’t how it remotely works.

 

You live a dirty existence, in the muck, the mire, the sewer, and the squalor and you think that a few index finger rubs across a dusty dresser will do the trick. They won’t. Cleaning involves more than cleaning products. And it can’t only take place in the spring, before the heat and the smells overtake a community. 

 

The same people promoting spring cleaning never explain how it gibes with March and April gardening. How a person can be face down in a flower bed and have the temerity to talk about cleanliness. Washing your hands is a just a start. 

 

Because cleaning is something you have to do multiple times a day, working on the mind, body, and spirit. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. Spring isn’t nearly adequate.

The Rights of Spring

 

 

One moment you’re digging your car out of a deep snow drift, and the next you’re deciding which floppy hat to wear. Seasons change, while most people never do. Spring is a source of passion for much of the clothed public. Unlike New Year’s Day, it is the vernal equinox that represents true rebirth and rejuvenation, without the shackles of a pesky resolution. 

 

Spring is a great time to finely and formally watch the birds. You’ve spent years listening to them sing and screech, never once picking up a pair of binoculars for a closer, more intimate look. Early spring is easy, given the camouflage of leaves have not yet reappeared, obscuring your field of vision and giving the modest ones cover.

 

Weather temporarily recedes from conversation. In winter, whether unseasonably beautiful or typically frigid, is still worthy of commentary. Spring involves resignation, at least until summer when every extra drop of mercury takes up extra oxygen. 

 

Since the sun sets a little later, dinner gets pushed back into the evening. Baseball returns and people start having spontaneous catches on the street. The common language here is the threat of a round projectile hurtling at your round head. 

 

Spring does a lot right that other seasons can only dream of. Tomorrow we’ll address what it gets wrong and why. 

Election alla Putinesqua

 

Yields about 85-90% of the vote (don’t let the allure of 100% entice you. The idea is to appear legitimate)

 

-Add extra votes as needed, to taste, as it were

-Armed security guards

-Surveillance cameras 

-A hint of controlled opposition (for appearances)

-A good helping of propaganda

 

You want to deal with dissent prior to the first ballot. Remember: you have Siberia, this vast wonderland of nothingness at your disposal. So use it. 

 

Let people think they are voting in a democratic election but make it clear that you’re the only viable candidate. That way, when they walk into booth understanding their mission.  

 

Employing religious overtones in sham elections never hurt an authoritarian. Instead of worrying about corporeal endorsements, nod to the clearly ethereal. 

 

Regardless of the outcome, you’re not going anywhere.

 

And don’t forget to add capers.

The Half of It

 

Sunday is New York City’s “Half Marathon,” a concept I understand even less than a full marathon. Why do something if you can only do half of it? You wouldn’t defend ending the Super Bowl at halftime or driving half-cross country.

There’s little accomplishment in doing half. In a way, you’ve already lost before the race starts, by admitting that it’s not a complete task. Children won’t ingratiate themselves to their stressed parents by doing half the dishes, half the laundry, or making only half of their bed. You might argue doing half is worse than doing nothing. There’s a fuller ideal in the total abandonment of one’s filial duties. When you shovel half the sidewalk, you were better off leaving it as an ice rink for neighborhood children to skate, sled, and fall. 

There is one exception to the half rule, which of course involves another different half. That is half soup half sandwich lunch special dating back to ancient times. Since we’re fast approaching spring, prime soup weather is fading. For those participating in this weekend’s misbegotten Half Marathon, have the decency to enjoy a half sandwich at the finish line. Without it, you should stay home.

 

Road Protested

Let’s say you’re interested in doing a five hour protest in a city center. The first thing you need to objectively answer is whether you honestly have five hours of material. Many activists think they have plenty to draw from, until raucous pedestrians, police officers and revolutionary figures rattle their confidence and sense of purpose.

You need about twice that to comfortably endure the chaos of a long protest. It helps to have even more. The truth is that not every rhyme works on every crowd. A band is no different. Having a few albums helps assemble a stellar setlist, otherwise you’re just playing your first record straight through, including the songs most fans skip. 

There’s also the problem of syllables when it comes to chanting. Take Derek Jeter. He was a great player, a legendary player. At the start of every home game, the Bronx bleacher faithful would shower him with rhythmic chants, “Der-ek Je-ter.” We can say it now, since he’s long retired, but his name had as much to do with his success than his statistics. Imagine if instead of being Derek Jeter, he was Derek Sanderson, his actual middle name. “De-rek San-der-son.” The syllables are no longer equally distributed, creating a clunky chant. I doubt he would’ve made an All Star game with an name like that, let alone the Hall of Fame. Protests are no different. You can easily “Boy-cott Star-Bucks,” while boycotting Trader Joe’s is a taller, grander, ventier order.

Good thing I have some advice that could change activism as we know it. Like a comedian who carefully hones their craft for years in small town dives before landing under the bright lights of New York or Hollywood, activists would be wise to follow a similar path. Why not start blocking traffic in a town with a single traffic light before clogging the main arteries in a major hub? That way, they can work out the kinks in relative obscurity, anywhere from Dubuque to Gulfport, away from the harsh glow of important media centers.

Too many activists skip the minor leagues, preferring the instant gratification of landing on the cover of the New York Post. But they would be better served understanding that mastering any skill takes time, trial and error. 

Before the revolution is televised, you need several hundred unaired dress rehearsals.

Garbage out, Garbage in

Nepal has Mount Everest, Tanzania has Mount Kilimanjaro, and New York City has towering piles of trash. For residents and tourists alike, it is a sight, and smell, for sore eyes. Garbage has come to define the metropolis, in ways pizza and bagel (prior to disposal) never can. Some throw the subway system into this, since the subterranean form of transportation has certain telltale signs of detritus. But what makes the garbage towers different is the spectacle. Restaurants and apartment buildings vying for sidewalk supremacy mount bag on bag.  

The trash they are a-changin’. New rules will make these urban art installations a thing of the past. Like every other city, bins will make it harder for hardworking rats and pigeons to gnaw their way through the bags for a second helping of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

 

The summer smell, such a part of the multi-sensory city experience, will be no more, enclosed by thick metal. Just because you hide something doesn’t mean it’s not there. When garbage is in your face, you can’t ignore it. Now, it’ll be easier to forget where that pizza ends up, and who gets to enjoy it next.

 

Garbage is just like you and me, in that it appreciates a little fresh air. We should all be worried.

Reading Double

 

Reading is supposed to be simple for the moderately literate. But I’ve been having trouble lately, mostly due to the evaporation of serifs, those curious little flourishes that help distinguish certain letters from other ones. A lowercase “l” and a capital “I” are not the same, they can't be. One is a vowel, another a consonant. Too bad that is only the beginning of your problems. 

While it’s true that those letters blend in, creating a major dilemma for the world’s finest cryptographers, there is more to worry about. Anyone who comes in contact with these pesky lines is suddenly at a serious comprehension loss. However, when the possibilities are limited to two, you’ll figure it out soon. It’s a coin flip. Unfortunately, things can get substantially worse and quickly. 

In addition to the two letters, you could be looking at a vertical dash, a number 1, a simple line, a misshapen “T” or a collapsing “V.” Symbols can only be symbolic if they have a single definition. They can’t be mistaken for something else. I don’t gaze into the gaze of a world-weary alligator and see the watering eyes of a crocodile. That’s because I know the difference between the two creatures. Why can’t communication be the same way? What’s not to understand?

 

Everything, it seems. 

Bye, The Pharm

 

Serious creative side effects can occur that can be severe, such as the loss or erosion of good ideas, total or partial confusion, boredom, annoyance, apathy, and anger, usually manifested through shaking your head, hands or feet, hitting your head against a wall, desk or window, staring into the abyss, bouts of occasional crying, frequent yelling, primal shrieking, howling, singing, humming, snapping, dissonant whistling, the tendency to provide numerous caveats, excuses, and qualifications when confronted actual work. If you feel you’re becoming a hack, seek professional help immediately, specifically a talent coordinator, or recruiter. Report an odd preference for incomprehensible corporate jargon, which can be career threatening, or uncontrolled nonsense, which may become permanent. High salaries can lead to truly atrocious work, but can result in general weirdness, trouble sleeping and eventually, quitting. 

 

Fellow Travelers

 

 

When you live in a society, the subject of what we owe each other often comes up. Beyond the confines of our own nuclear family, there is a call from the local community. But you have to listen.

Last night, on the way home from work, I was faced with a dilemma. New Yorkers rarely address each other in the subway, not even to say excuse me. They prefer to move silently past. Noise of any kind can be interpreted as a warning sign, a redder flag. 

 

I saw a man falling asleep and clutching his fingers, turning purple like tiny, purples sausages. I watched as the blood left his digits, wondering if I should step and intervene. He woke up, shook his extremities free and let things reanimate into a hue of pale beige. As he stretched out, I was left with the question: should I have done more? Should I have helped him avoid a dark knuckle blue? 

 

I figured that someone else would get involved and maybe it was this thing. The last thing I would want is to get in the way of a narcoleptic and his fetish. 

Sanguine the Penguin

 

Sanguine wasn’t like the other penguins. He never considered the possibility that he wouldn’t someday learn to fly. Sure, swimming came naturally, as did fishing, and waddling across the Ross Ice Shelf, but there had to be more out there. 

 

He looked up to passing albatrosses, not as albatrosses, but as examples. He admired their flight pattern, their wherewithal, and the verve with which they cut through the briny, icy air. Despite the harsh climate and his limited wardrobe, he remained hopeful. He knew better days were ahead, and that might just be in the air, with other birds. 

In the end, he did fly – on a Qantas flight bound for the equator, sipping tropical drinks from comfort of first class. After a lifetime spent digging fish out of his fingernails, a bag of mixed nuts was better than caviar. He always thought his feathers had to be for something better. As it turns out, it was for wiping his beak after a few sips from a complimentary glass of brandy. 

Wait, am I in a cult?

Sometimes, you can be in a group setting, surrounded by good and decent people. You’re laughing and mostly having a fun time. You’re sitting down too, passing around a bulbous cheese plate to newcomers, when it dawns you: am I in a cult?  

You might be. 

Determining whether you’re a member of a cult has only gotten more difficult in recent years. That’s why I’ve come up with a simple step-by-step questionnaire used to uncover the truth. You won’t be left in the dark any longer. 

Do you have multiple interests or just one, all-encompassing interest? 

 

Do you  constantly change the subject in casual conversation to your single interest? 

 

Do you worship any individual outside of those usually found in conventional religious institutions?

 

Can you read this questionnaire or is a fellow traveler reading it to you right now? 

 

Are you obviously out of shape?

 

Do you wear cheap, ill-fitting red baseball hats no matter the situation?

Well...

Polyidiocy

 

I used to be an idiot. Well, I’m still an idiot, but my idiocy was limited to a single activity. The wrapping of presents. Whatever I did, I just couldn’t figure it out. There were always rips, tears, and lumpy folds. Ribbons were an afterthought. To make things worse, I couldn’t open presents either, shredding the paper beyond recognition so it couldn’t be reused at a later date. 

 

However, in recent years I’ve decided to compound my singular idiocy into exponential idiocy. Why be just a bad driver if you’re not also a bad parker? Why give bad tips and treat the waitstaff politely? Why eat with your mouth open if you’re not also a total slob elsewhere? Idiots contain multitudes and there’s nothing wrong with wanting more. 

 

I never realized how focusing so much on wrapping presents was depriving me of other idiotic situations. There’s never a reason to limit your idiocy. Don’t let friends or loved ones stand in your way. This is your life and you deserve everything you get.