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?