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.  

Welcome to Toodumbia University

 

Hello there, prospective high school student, considering our university. We are honored that you’re thinking of us. It really matters to be on the minds of someone without a fully formed cerebellum. Don’t fret, you’ll have far more power than an tenured professor. But what makes our school different from the others on your list? 

 

It’s very simple. While many institutions of higher learning offer small class sizes, world class education, and a verdant quad with a smattering of hacky sack, cornhole, and other portable lawn games, our focus is on you, the person. Not you the individual, but you the group. You’ll be indoctrinated during orientation week, so your personality should be subsumed for the glory of the mob.  

 

Are you worried about grades? That’s not something you need to think about. You’re a camper first, a student a distant second.

 

When you arrive on campus in the fall, the first thing most colleges tell you is to move into your dorm. There’s no need for a dorm here. Everything you need will be right on the quad. The green will be a burnt dirt brown. We can provide several types of tents, a wafting potpourri of cannabis, incense, and excrement. There’s no need to worry about sharing a bathroom when the whole campus defaults as a glorified toilet. It’s a relief knowing that relieving yourself is not something that needs to be planned with any thought. 

 

So spread out, make yourself at home, and yell into you pass out. We want a generation of young people so angry they can barely think, let alone walk straight. 

 

Hope to see you soon. 

Is there a draft in here?

 

Bright lights, big suits, and awkward poses. The appeal of watching an overpaid commissioner of a major sports league read out the names of young men or women moving from the college ranks to the pros is hard to figure. There are the occasional rude louts in the back booing (Jets fans usually) when any name is called. Though inebriates, they are also students of history, watching as their franchise has the Anti-Midas touch. 

 

But aren’t there ways to make this more spectacle more entertaining? No more uncreased baseball hats. No more stage play with uncomfortable handshakes and hugs. This is not what people want to see. They want to see someone jump through hoops – literally. I’d like a future teammate tackling the selection from their blindside as a reminder of what to expect in their transition to a higher league. 

 

Fans want a taste of what’s to come from these greenhorns. And they shouldn’t have to wait months to see it. This is a televised event that has less juice than the interview segment on Jeopardy. Let’s see the kids sweat a little. It’ll happen sooner or later anyway.

Scrabble rousers

 

For too long, Scrabble™ has broken up families, destroyed friendships, and wrecked entire communities. The subject of vocabulary is a sensitive one. No one wants to admit they just gave up a Triple World Score to Grandpa in his supposed golden age senility. But often, that’s exactly what happens. The game has too often singled out those who haven't mastered the English language. And how is that fair? There are other languages, you know?  

 

The reasons this has ruined whole portions of polite society is because at the end of every Scrabble match there is a winner and a bunch of losers. No more. It’s not entirely accurate to say that “everybody wins” now, but it’s certainly true that “nobody loses.” Unless you’re a great player and this new development might force you to dig the chess board out of the crawlspace. 

 

Who needs to score. I would like to change the rules to diminish the strain of competition further. Every square is a potential letter. Who’s to say a word is spelled a certain way? Noah Webster? Enough of that. Whatever you put down has a right to be on the board. It’s not fair to look at something solely through the prism of a printed dictionary. Let’s encourage people to grab letters in the ways they speak. This way, people who can’t even read can participate and find joy in the contest. 

 

Let’s keep the conversation going, goineg, and gooning.

Marjorie Taylor Scene

 

I deserve gold things. I am entitled to my share of the deep state. I refuse to be silent during speeches. I am a deeply unattractive person inside and out, I’m no fun to be with…

 

Today’s Daily Abomination with Marjorie Taylor Greene. Marjorie Taylor Greene is a congresswoman with the intelligence of a floor lamp. Not just any floor lamp but a floor model floor lamp. One that’s seen greasy palms, but never dimmer bulbs. She is not a good speaker, a thoughtful leader, or a fan of democracy.”

 

I am going to make a great speech today. Because I’m bad enough, I’m dumb enough, and doggone it, people hate me. On today’s show, I am going to talk about something I know nothing about, politics. But that’s okay, because I’m a mediocre power broker. 

 

I want to talk about debate. First off, I come from a fishing family, so bait is something I do know about. What about discourse and datcourse? But I don’t eat at fancy restaurants with courses. I like my food shoved through the window of a roadside drive thru. Hot, sweaty, and loaded with corn syrup. I’ve created some simple phrases for those watching at home, should anyone you a question about politics. 

 

Ukraine is not my crane. Israel isnotrael. A mockery of democracy. 

 

I’m not here to lecture, but I am here to preach. I am here to drink wine out of a bag and hang from the rafters. I don’t need to read the founding fathers to know that I’ve found something more interesting in my closet. Makes me look like a personal flotation device. I feel like yelling. Do you? Let’s yell into the mirror together…

 

Today’s Daily Abomination with Marjorie Taylor Greene was paid for by complete and utter morons.   

Sick Transit Gloria Monday

 

In our technological age, there is the constant worry about how and when automation shall leave people in its cruel wake. Go no further than into any New York City subway station to feel the resounding and implacable wail of human will. Technology is in places, but never when you need it, and never when you want it. 

On many days there are reroutes, planned changes, decided by the subterranean overlords as a part of scheduled inconvenience. The standard maintenance of infrastructure rotting before our eyes. But instead of relying on tablet screens, smart TVs, or anything resembling Alexa or Siri, what you’ll find is something old-fashioned and quaint. 

The sudden and confusing changes are hung on pillar after pillar. Each station has its own MTA Martin Luther, affixing these subway theses. They are printouts, pieces of flimsy paper, taped, tacked, or sometimes left in a pile on platform benches for all to see and none to decipher. 

The only hint of technology is that they are not handwritten. Everything else about them and their placement says, “we are not going quietly.” Because confusion down there is by design.

Listening with your eyes open

 

When people find out I listen to 90% of Yankee games on the radio, they are first surprised, next confused, finally shocked. It’s like finding out I lack a basic sense. When what they fail to realize is all the benefits radio has over television and in-person attendance. 

 

The players’ uniforms this year were a major controversy adopted by bored fans with nothing else to complain about. Not something I have to worry about when tuning into the right frequency at gametime. 

 

Streakers disrupt the game. Television avoids showing the culprits. Radio simply can’t. But lengthy descriptions are always welcome. 

 

“The Wave” never enters my mind.  

 

I don’t have to wear sunscreen, unless I choose to bring the radio to the park or beach on a beautiful day.

 

You’re not supposed to cook your own food at the stadium. I can grill easily with a radio in earshot. Grilling indoors has major health risks, so TV is not suitable for the backyard barbecue enthusiasts.  

 

I love driving. You can’t drive onto the field without someone alerting the authorities. Likewise, you can’t safely drive with a portable TV shoved into your tiny glove compartment. It’s for gloves, after all. 

 

When the game is televised on a strange streaming platform, my life and love the sport goes on totally unaffected. Like it never even happened. Amazon Prime, Apple TV, my only choice is between the crispness of FM or the strength of the AM signal. 

 

I can hear people selling beer and pretzels, without worrying about them blocking my view of the game. 

 

And of course, John was never on TV. So radio was the only place I could hear him. 

Drivel War

 

Like certain types of people, certain types of ideas can be categorized. They can be labeled, pinned down, and stuffed into a tiny, biodegradable packages. Sure, they’re predictable and easily comprehendible. Because they reside on a certain fleshy protuberance. Resting where smell originates, and breathing accelerates. It’s a locale that can changes depending on the environment. The weather affects things on here, be it wind, rain, or floating pollen delivered by a traveling band of generous creatures. Up here, or down here, depending on your perspective, is a smooth landing spot for an idea that needs no nuance. Metaphors aren’t welcome, allegories only confuse, and what’s a parable again? Something that you stick in a glass dish on your fancy mid-century coffee table. Right? Not everyone can fit so nicely in a place like this. It certainly isn’t for everyone. When everything is open to interpretation, nothing is. It is, you have a guessed, a little on the nose.  

Schlubcore

 

Over the years, many people have enlisted my help in making sense of fashion trends. Especially those that seize the populace like a virus, changing nearly everything about someone. From how they dress, to who they are. 

 

If you really want to understand the state of fashion, just head to the airport. This is a place that was once an event, where people dressed up for the privilege of taking a flight. Now, it’s beyond dressing down, with travelers donning everything from gym clothes to pajamas. The schlubiness of modern fashion has taken hold of our minds, as much as our closets. 

 

Apathy is only represented by a uniform, whereas it must be cemented through a mental shift as well. You can’t just look the part of the yoga pant, visor and flip-flopping buffoon. You start watching the worst things on television. You discuss the contents on your salad bowl with strangers and loved ones. And you really start to let things go. Mirrors aren’t impediments, but accelerants, fueling these attire absurdities. 

 

That’s the key. While society begins not to care, to lose interest, to le things slip, someone has to be there to step in. my role. To paraphrase William F. Buckley, a fashion critic is comeone who stands athwart airport gates, yelling stop – change your outfit, you look like a schlub – at a time when no one else is inclined to do so. 

Juiced

 

For years, orange juice dominated breakfast nooks and diner booths, the go-to for those looking for a beverage in between hazy H2O and burnt coffee. It was always there, accepted and rarely questioned. But orange juice as renowned as orange juice was in the 20^th century, its legacy has only grown more complicated legacy in the 21^st. 

 

For starters, the trendy juice craze changed the way many understand and view the liquified fruit in their glass. Colors began to shift. Oranges became reds, greens and sometimes strangely unappetizing browns. The contents of the juices changed practically overnight. Orange and sugar had their moment in the hot Floridian sun. The public could no longer concentrate on frozen concentrate. 

They wanted vegetables in the mix, too. Leafy greens, roughage, and anything that fits with a healthy blender shove. It was difficult to look at a glass of simple, unadorned orange juice the same way again. 

 

Some fruit remained. But it turned exotic, with guavas, mangoes, and passion fruit. Oranges, once the dominant piece of citric vitamins, found itself on the other side looking in. So pour out a glass of OJ, preferably down the drain, since it will attract unwanted insects anywhere else. We have better things to drink these days, and have for quite some time. 

Unlucky Ol' Sun

 

I didn’t want to harshly criticize eclipse enthusiasts, traveling far and wide just for a casual glimpse at the sky. But now that the clouds have settled, I feel I must, especially given what’s transpired since.

You would’ve thought these people had never cared much about the sun before. Their affection for the planet’s literal lifeforce was limited to a few eclipses that you simply must witness. I’m not here to criticize eclipses, that would be, even for me, a bit much.

 

I can’t help but feel that many of these folks are fair-weather sun chasers, focused on the rarest of celestial events, ignoring the daily beauty. Have these people ever seen a good ol’ fashioned sunset? How about an early morning sunrise? Both happen every single day and I happen to love them. Twice a day, we get the sun taking center stage. Plus, they are the vehicle of most beautiful days, at the beach, at the park, at the ballpark.

 

The sun does so much, it should be appreciated more than, oh I dunno, once every eighty years. Is that too much to ask? Like say, every day. It’d be a small step toward reconciliation.    

Not so Obvious J

A lot of juice will be spilled in the coming days assessing the life and times of the recently departed. Many will struggle to put this individual in his proper historical context. Here are a few ways they could describe him, should they tire of the most obvious. 

 

Well-known Western New Yorker

 

Ex-football player

 

Heisman Trophy winner

 

University of Southern California icon

 

Buffalo fan favorite

Ford owner

 

Commercial actor

Leslie Nielsen movie franchise foil

 

Former Hertz pitchman

Merchandise enthusiast

 

Native San Franciscan

 

Celebrity golfer

Vegas guy

 

Talkative, though slightly stilted sports broadcaster

 

Semi-popular Brentwood resident

Law enforcement supporter

 

Dear friend of Don Ohlmeyer

Near memoirist 

 

Real murderer hunter

 

Legal team funder

 

Italian loafer lover 

Rhesus pieces

 

Are you a tree-dwelling primate tired of subsisting on roots, bark, and half-eaten fruit disposed of by your human cousins? Are you sick of depending on other monkeys to share the “good stuff” over an arboreal dinner? Could any of your razor-sharp canine teeth be classified as “sweet”? 

 

Good news. Reese’s introducing a revolutionary, or should we say, evolutionary product: The first and only candy made explicitly for monkeys is here. Created in a top-secret lab deep in an undisclosed jungle, there isn’t a mammal on two legs who can resist this sugary confection. However, to truly appreciated it, your arms should hang lower than your ankles. Because you don’t have to be a Great Ape to enjoy Great Eats.  

 

Relying on dozens of feral focus groups, we discovered than many monkeys were tired of the same old diet. They wanted something after dinner. At first, we spoke with some Amaro companies for a bespoke digestif made just for them, but they ended up just smashing the bottle against a rocky outcrop.  

 

Better than any bonbons for Bonobos or Gorilla gorp, this snack is different, because it wasn’t made as a joke or a one-off. Of course, our next order of business is modern dentistry, but that shall come with time. 

 

So grab a handful, or better yet, a footful of Rhesus Pieces and start chewing. Prehensile extremities can make the check-out process that much more seamless. The sort of multi-tasking humans can only dream of. 

Wig Deal

 

I try not to give credit to the British, considering how this country was founded. I don’t take milk in my tea is a single, not-so-silent protest. But I’ve come to a harsh realization that part of the reason lawyers in America, and for that matter, the entire judicial system, do not command respect is the decided lack of wigs.  

 

Wigs, though goofy, put our founding fathers on a pedestal closer to Mount Olympus than Mount Pleasant, New Jersey. It wasn’t because of their writing or philosophizing; it was their curly white locks. That set the bar that the second generation of American politicians found themselves losing face with their commitment to au naturale. 

 

While I think this would instantly change the perception of the legal profession, I believe wigs deserve wider appeal and acceptance. Instead of forcing deli workers to don hairnets, why not let them choose sandwich-inspired wigs? Seems only fair and sanitary to do so. 

Take the presidents, for instance. Wouldn’t the adoption of artificial hairpiece instantly change the way we view a certain candidate? 

 

The Scenic Route

 

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your conductor speaking. Please forgive the short delay while we remove a substance of indeterminate origin from the tracks. However, if you’re curious now that we’re not moving, feel free to shift to the righthand side of your car for a rare look at genuine subway dweller. This person has taken on the work ethic, if not fashion sense of a rodent, after years living beneath the surface. Don’t wave, don’t look them in the eyes and keep all extremities inside the car at all times. I only have so many rabies shots on board.

 

Don’t mind that smell, it’s just my lunch, a tub of past due cream cheese and a day-old bagel. Amazingly, they’ve yet to master ventilation in these tin cans. 

 

To your left is Sal, he’s a construction worker on his smoke break. He detests other human beings and prefers getting fresh air in a place devoid of it. 

 

If you look closely, a bit beyond Sal’s smoking hand, you should be able to make out some graffiti, or what, some people politely call “scratchiti.” Frankly, I can’t tell the difference between scratches and cursive, but friends of my insist on calling it art. 

 

I’m running out of material. We usually start moving by the time I begin explaining the difference between graffiti and scratchiti. Anyone know magic? How about a joke? Have you heard the one about the stranded subway car? 

Other Things You Shouldn’t Stare At

 

 

People picking their nose. They’re liable to flick something at you out of sheer embarrassment.

 

Cars with more than one broken window. It could be the scene of an ongoing investigation, or a crime being committed. 

 

Dogs that’s snarling, licking themselves, or sticking its head out of an open car window. 

 

Anyone talking to themselves, lest their refocus their monologue on you.

 

Raw oysters or clams. It’s best just to eat them and be done with it. Smell if you have to, but don’t stare.

 

Chain-link fences.

 

Prison buses.

 

A diner menu. You should know what they offer by now. 

 

Certain fruits and vegetables. 

 

Anyone playing pickleball. 

Eating Cro: Part 2

 

Crable 

This is something every dining room needs. An edible table with flaky legs and the succulence of a Cornish game hen. 

 

Crochair

In the same vein, there are few additions to the mealtime experience than ingesting your seating.

 

Racecror 

Most people think that driving fast is the point of driving. Not for those who have the privilege of eating their way out of a traffic ticket. Sorry officer, but you can’t make out my plate, since I just had the extreme pleasure of inhaling it in one massive bite. 

 

Crusband 

Many young women search under rocks for the perfect man. The perfect husband. But what if they were looking in all the wrong places. I’m here to say, unequivocally, that they were. Crusbands allow every wife to enjoy a healthy, albeit slightly buttery relationship, until things get stale and call for a toaster oven. 

 

Croquet

I thought I understand this game with the mallets. But only recently have I come to the sad realization that its lack of breakfast pastry has made it one of the greatest lies since the Nixon administration. A croquet match needs croissants. How else is a person supposed to endure it?

 

Crobot

All the AI naysayers fail to appreciate that for machines to transcend man, they must be tasty. That is what, for me, the crobot represents, in all his kneaded glory.  

Eating Cro: Part 1

 

 

I’ve watched as bakers everywhere have taken the flaky croissant to greater heights, both in terms of pastry and linguistics. For every new item on your plate, we get a new portmanteau. First, there was the cronut, then came the cruffin, and now the crookie. But a question remains: Have we truly pushed the boundaries of buttery lamination? 

 

Hardly.

 

As a proud non-baker, I feel that I have something valuable and objective to offer those devoting their professional lives to waking pre-dawn and sweating in front of an infernal oven. I wouldn’t expect bakers to think as globally as I have. Because croissants, with myriad layers, provide ample room to expand and delight the savvy breakfaster. 

 

There is another frontier beyond the glass display, out where only lunatics reside. This is where baking must go to stay relevant. Why? The rest of society has already gone there. They no longer have a viable excuse to steer clear of madness… 

The New York Word Exchange

 

When two people reach a verbal impasse, they’re forced to exchange words. This ritual dates to the days of wampum, when chiefs from warring tribes chose not to deal in barter, but rather, rhetoric. Centuries later, the so-called word exchange is one fraught, especially for those caught up in the daily torture of playing Wordle.

 

Those who confuse word exchanges with casual conversation are in for a big surprise. There’s a way to do this. You can’t use just any words in a formal exchange of this magnitude. Especially with crowds forming around each party. It often turns into a duel of wits. You have your word, they have theirs. Now, you could try and exchange it at the same time, or with the help of a third party to keep things civilized. 

 

Most people find that cursing, swearing, or a strung together barrage of insults works quite well. What most people fail to recognize is that in a proper word exchange you are giving the word to the other person. So while you might think that using a four-letter word helps your cause, it’s literally fuel for their attack. This is why during the toughest exchanges between two worthy adversaries, the exchange quickly degenerates into a guttural display of grunts and primitive gestures. Syllables are diminished along with brain cells. 

 

How does it typically end? Like a game of cricket, it can go on for days, with nearly as much fanfare. But one party, beaten and crestfallen, tends to haul off and hit the other person. Which usually ends the exchange. At least until the authorities arrive on the scene demanding a verbal statement.  

Don’t Give me "Babe Ruth in the woods" routine

 

SHOHEI OHTANI AND HIS INTERPRETER INTERVIEWED BY THE DA.  

 

He doesn’t want to go anyplace the pitcher doesn’t hit.

 

That’s not really up to him, especially considering the state of his elbow post-surgery. Besides, most leagues replaced pitchers hitting with the DH. 

 

He’s already started having a catch. He should be ready by Bastille Day, possibly even the Fourth of July, .

 

If he’s legitimately healthy, we’ll take that under consideration when looking to place you in a Witness Protection league. In the first few innings, you might have to wear a fake beard until we have sufficiently canvased the grandstands. 

 

He wants to know, what about his old teammates? 

 

What about them? 

 

Am I going to shag flies with them, field grounders, rub the belly of the giggling mascot? Don’t I have some kind of contact with them? That is the point of baseball: contact. 

 

No. And I didn’t know the dodgers had a mascot. 

 

You mean, God forbid, someone gets shelled in a game they need a relief pitcher, I can’t come in out of the bullpen. 

 

Maybe, if the game is really out of hand and there’s nobody left in the stadium, something can be worked out.    

 

I can’t do this. This is me the interpreter talking now. What if he goes somewhere that doesn’t need interpretation? 

 

That’s right. I don’t care whether you go or not. But he’s not going back to Japan, so that shouldn’t be a problem. 

 

You need Shohei, you don’t need me.

 

But if it’s gonna make him a happier hitter, a better hitter having someone translate the menus of every fancy restaurant, I’d like you to be with him. We’re gonna keep his career alive. You can try to stay in the big leagues without our help, but that’s a real gamble. And not one a player usually wins.