Pay your dews

 

Young employees everywhere seem to be unwilling to pay their dues. They aren’t into the idea of spending long hours engaged in tedious manual labor while confined to a tiny windowless room. “Dues” as a concept are frequently misunderstood. If they actually grasp the idea at all, since it evokes the greasy tardiness associated with the Dewey Decimal System. What libraries hath wrought on misbehaving members deep in the literary arrears. But the fines are fine now. No one has to pay extra for misplacing or outright stealing a cherished tome. It’s all considered the cost of doing business. 

 

In their zeal to advance in their chosen career, these clear-eyed youths are forgetting one important thing: paying their dews. That’s not something anyone can get around. It could be the dew point, coating their rickety sedan with a film of morning moisture. Or at a time when everything carbonated is either sparkling water or alcohol, there are those soda partisans still very much committed to the dew. Is it good for you? No way. But neither is paying your dues. So you have a choice, work hard to get ahead through late nights and long hours or guzzling milk crates of a devilishly yellow liquid. No, not that one. Although it helps. You want to show that you career about something, even if that something is a mid-tier sugary soda that few give the time of day to anymore.

 

One is path natural, one is anything but. 

Curb Your Endorsements

 

Bobby walks into the kitchen and immediately starts taking items out the fridge. Bread, cheese, meat, condiments. He places each one on the counter. He’s humming to himself to the tune of “Danny Boy.” 

 

Bobby:             "Oh Bobby boy, the press the press is calling…"

 

Cheryl, his wife, walks into the room wearing a cocktail dress, clearly ready for a night on the town. 

 

Cheryl:             What are you doing? You’re not even ready.

 

Bobby:             Making a sandwich, honey. Have you seen the 

                        bear meat? I’ve had a hankering for it ever since                    

                        I rewatched Grizzly Man.  

 

Cheryl:             We’re going out for dinner. I told you last night. 

                        It should be in the door with the rest of     

                        your exotic animal fixins. Next to the mustard. 

 

Bobby:             Ah yes, delightful. And relax, I’ll be ready. 

 

Cheryl:             Tonight’s really important to me.

 

Bobby pauses, unsure of what to say.

 

Cheryl:             You don’t remember. 

 

Bobby:             Of course I do, it’s a fundraiser of some kind…

 

He trails off

 

Cheryl:             I don’t believe you. 

 

Bobby:             It’s not me, it’s the brain worm. You know what 

                        the doctor said about my memory.

 

Cheryl:             You can’t keep using the brain worm as an 

                        excuse every time I get angry. It's not fair. 

 

Bobby:             Before I forget, I know I was supposed to 

                        endorse someone.

 

Cheryl:             I don’t think that’s a good idea. 

 

Bobby:             Prettay, prettay, prettay bad

Deion Slanders

 

How’s everyone doing this morning? I don’t care. What you should care about is how I’m doing and only that. Nobody has seen the light like me since Jesus found himself running a forty on water. I heard he was pretty fast for a non-athlete. Some say I’m messianic, I disagree. That’s like saying I’m messianish. The truth is much clearer. I’m somewhere between the Holy Ghost and the Big Man. You may look to my subpar record last year and see it as some sort of indictment of my coaching abilities. Not so. Who else could go 4-8, finishing 1-7 and still garner the cover of Sports Illustrated, a profile on 60 minutes and numerous other examples of puff piecery?

 

Nobody. That shows my greatness. I don’t need to win to win. Got that? But first, allow me to lay down a few ground rules regarding my relationship with you, the press. I don’t take questions. I give sermons and it’s your job to give affirmation. I’m not a young man, so getting used to tough questions at this age is an unreasonable demand. I am who I am. You can compliment me, encourage me, laugh at my jokes, and rationalize my boorish behavior. What you can’t do is dig into the reasons behind any questionable acts. The answer is right here in prime time. 

 

In the end, I’m doing you all a favor. This will save you time, money and stress. There are wars going on and other more important things for you to focus on. Let me run my football team the way I want and there won’t be any problems. 

 

Now, if you’d let me, I’d like to lead the room in a short prayer. 

Family Business

 

It’s become de rigueur to dismiss the concept of companies as families. But what about family businesses? Every deli, laundromat and dental practice is full of folks with the same last name. And Last I checked, most corporations are full of scions, heirs, ne’er-do-wells rounding any legitimate boardroom. The Murdochs, the Rockefellers, and many others in politics, sports and business line the ladder with close and distant relatives. It seems to be the only way to run things.

 

Yet, employees in walks of life get offended when corporate structures are compared to family trees. Not me. Most families don’t pay you handsomely. Don’t you people want to work from home? It sure helps when your colleagues are members of the same gene pool. 

 

Not all corporations are families. But they should be. Look no further than the mafia. People always say, your relatives can’t fire you. In this case, they can fire at you. Mafia families are just that – families. No matter what. Even when you’re not really related to your reporting capo, you’re treated as blood. These only fosters are better, stronger working environment. In practice, things can get dicey, but the principle stands. Whether it’s the mafia or another hallmark of Italian American culture, when you’re at work, you’re family. 

Opening positions

 

Recently, I let those in my immediate orbit know that I need some help producing this daily blog. What I told them was that I need assistants. It should’ve been an email, because lo and behold, as I made my walk through the city, I kept noticing fliers lining telephone poles and mailboxes that said I needed “assistance.” While that is certainly true, what I really need are people willing to do a great deal of dirty work. And humming the classic Steely Dan tune of the same name is only the beginning. A mandatory, yes. The end-all-be-all? No.

 

I want to be able to focus on writing for pleasure. In other words, writing that fails to yield any financial dividends. Because of this reality, the assistant position is unpaid. How could it not be? I’m here for my art and thus you should be there for it too. Or to buy my groceries, take my car in for an oil change, and other miscellaneous chores I dream up after a day of hard work. 

 

There are benefits. Lots of them. Not in the traditional sense, but you’ll have to learn how to drive manual transmission, read a road atlas, and find a clear frequency on an AM radio dial. These are skills that may not help future employment, but my concern is not the future. Why would it be? I need a new turntable, and I need it now. 

Under the influencer

 

You’re likely wondering what makes an artist an artist. It’s safe to say, it’s many things. Sadly, you can’t separate the art from the artist without inflicting serious bodily harm. Knocking a sculptor’s output off a high ledge is enough to damage more than one’s parquet floor. So leave it to me to discuss the specifics.

 

Every artist has influences they carry with them at all times, usually deep within their soul, or better yet, if they have medallion status, in a piece of checked luggage. Since we’re on the subject of influences, I might as well delve into my own. Because they aren’t your expected list of great men and women, select individuals who have left a clear mark on civilization.  

 

Like in dumpsters for soggy pieces of used cardboard. It’s something that inspires me to do more than recycle, but to consider the strength of my arguments. Look at what rain does to a milk carton. Sure, it’s fine with a liquid on the inside, but never seems to prepare for what happens on the outside. A lesson for us all. The moon is an obvious influence, especially when its waning humility waxes towards totality. There are other influences you can find in any pantry or fridge.

 

I’m an individual. I don’t need other individuals muddying that identity with different senses of self. So I naturally look elsewhere for creative support. Which I did for years until I realized the power of following another individual. 

 

Which is why, after years of dumpster diving and moon howling, I’m primarily influenced by influencers because their whole purpose is influencing the impressionable. I need to be told what to think, how to dress, and what to say. It’s easier that way. Imagine having to do this alone. Even influencers have influencers because as this grand pyramid scheme sustains every minute aspect of social media. 

 

I’m fluent and they’re affluent, which by my count, is only a couple letters of difference.

Your honor

 

When I was asked to present this prestigious award on the way to the ceremony tonight, I must admit that I hesitated at first. I’d never heard of the recipient, the award, or the venue. Was I really the best person to do this? It was put in no uncertain terms that I was the only choice. Not the first choice, but now the only choice. There were a few things working in my favor. The honoree has no friends, family, or colleagues willing to do it, I was staring at a rather lucrative offer, as well as the shapely threat of a possible weapon. What did I have to lose? 

 

So I might add, it’s an honor to be here tonight. Every day someone, somewhere receives an award. It’s usually made of plastic, or metal, rarely gold. It’s manufactured somewhere the laws against child labor are necessarily lax. 

 

I’m sure you’re a great actor, or a greater bowler, or something of equal value to society. This is a special night and for many in the audience, I’m sure this is the whole reason they let you out of the 

 

I don’t know who you are, why you’re here, or what you’re doing. But I now know why I’m here, to someday be a similar position, with a well-compensated stranger singing my praises in front of a half-drunk audience noshing on bland crudités.

 

Thank you. I’ll see myself out.  

Why you’re wrong about being wrong (you’re right)

 

Stepped on any rakes lately? Tripped on any banana peels? Fell into any open manhole covers? If so, you may be kicking yourself (with whatever feeling you still have left in any of your multiple extremities). But I’m here to tell you to stop that. It wasn’t your fault a lazy landscaper decided August was the best time to collect leaves. Nor are you to blame for an escaped zoo monkey’s inability to understand the basic tenets of composting. And how are you at fault when a construction worker forgets that most people prefer to amble at street level. 

 

You’re not wrong. Everything you think about being wrong can easily be turned around into a positive. The key is to blame others for your ignorance and arrogance. They set you up to fail.  Trust your instincts, even if they are what got you in this position in the first place. 

 

The worst thing that can happen to a person as they age is an unstoppable, almost biological maturity. Suddenly, in the dank sewer system of an overfed metropolis, you’re happy at your new perspective. This isn’t right, even if you are. 

Johnny Arson

 

Thank you, thank you. Does anyone smell that? Based on the last ratings book, it sure isn’t success. But where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And in our case, lots of it. If you’re able to, please ignore those alarms, at least until I get to the end of my monologue. 

 

Now, I’m used to making audiences pass out from laughter, but smoke inhalation is a first. It was supposed to be a small electrical fire in the parking lot. I guess there’s a lesson. You just can’t find good help committing insurance fraud anymore. 

 

Oops, there goes the curtains. I knew they looked flammable. It’s always nice to be right about something. It’s been years since I sweated this much on stage. Really brings me back to those early days hitting the clubs only to dodge produce. They didn’t serve many fruits and vegetables in those days, but it always seemed to find its way into the hands of disgruntled audience members. 

 

I knew I shouldn’t have listened when those inspectors told me to remove the asbestos from the studio. Live and learn I suppose. Or maybe just “learn.” 

 

Got a great show tonight. Terrific guests. Mostly members of the Los Angeles County Fire Department, but what did you expect? And who knew that when my career went up in flames, my studio would too? 

Amateurnunciation

 

 

When someone mispronounces your name, it’s not a mistake, it’s a message. What they’re saying to you is deeply hurtful. How can they not know what you’ve known since birth. You may have had an inkling pre-birth, in those heady halcyon days when there was nothing to do but float and wait. 

 

People see my last name and they think it’s acceptable for non-dyslexics to reverse the “i” and “e” in Mosier settling on a name that vaguely sounds like moisture. It’s enough to make a grown man sweat. Then there are those who insist on excising the “i” entirely under the premise that the surname has plenty of vowels already. This transforms into a name too Teutonic for anyone this side of the Rhine. “Moser” with a hard z. Then there’s the unapologetic Frenchification: “Mo-zee-ay” that usually comes with a side of “Olivier.” That’s where the “i” must have gone. I don’t support it, I don’t condone it, and I don’t respond. I need to be addressed perfectly before deigning to answer even the simplest of questions. It’s an American name, in case you were wondering. 

 

The point is this. When someone can’t say your first name, last name, pet’s name, child’s name, the prudent thing to do is to take offense. It’s by definition, a personal attack; on your character, your identity, your literal sense of self. 

 

It’s simple, really. Mosier rhymes with closure. Got that? 

Reappraise the lord

 

Lots of judgments are kneejerk. Made in the moment by people lacking humility and perspective. With impulsivity and irreverence. But you don’t know what you don’t know. It’s why it’s a good thing to reassess everything years later, when the stakes are embarrassingly low and nearly everyone around you has forgotten what they were so angry about. 

 

A reappraisal is meant for panned movies, woebegone cultural figures, geopolitical quagmires and even undercooked shellfish from an establishment specializing in fine dining (restaurant).  

 

Many first noticed this during the heady days of George W. Bush’s bathtub oil paintings. Portraits of the former president floating rubber canards through bubbles. People started to say, “he wasn’t so bad.” It’s happened with television shows once derided as proof of society’s rapid decay. But when you see former stars of Jersey Shore now, many look at them like old friends. Whenever anything is considered vacuous in the present, a good defense is that it was far ahead of its time, misunderstood by critics who couldn’t quite grasp the scope of such an incandescent cultural phenomenon.

 

Because time truly heals everything. If not heals, then it obscures the truth to such a degree that you can’t help but look back and smile. What’s bad now is good soon and what’s good now is better later. Everyone wins when no one loses. 

Beaten into submission

 

The following is a diverse list of articles I sent to The New York Times opinion section for immediate publication. They remain in submission limbo, neither accepted or rejected, destined for an eternity in the unread portion of an editor's mailbox. Until now. 

A pigeon defecated on my shoulder; now I understand the absurdity of high fashion

 

Yes, you should absolutely interrupt people more

 

Why I freak out when I see cookies of any kind on a dessert menu

 

Stop asking me if the milk smells okay

 

Why pickleball should be outlawed and its proponents incarcerated 

 

The beauty of being very wrong about nearly everything

 

Put that champagne flute down: the finest glassware for toasting

 

The case against reading 

 

When a pimple is a metaphor 

  

The real reason most electricians have stopped using the phrase “not the brightest bulb”

You too, huh?