What should’ve been

 

(The Town Crier by Charles Green, 1867)

This meeting should’ve been an email…

Fair enough. But this email should’ve been written on a piece of yellowed parchment, or better yet, crinkled papyrus. And delivered to the recipients not by Pony express or boomerang, but from atop an upturned milk crate in a public square. It should’ve been read aloud to all who’d listen. CCs, BCCs. Regular people are interested in your Q1 goals and premature Q4 reports. 

I still remember when email still had a hyphen, when people knew what the “e” stood for. When many folks, still learning the ropes of new technology, devised a plan to print out their letters and stick them into open outlets, hoping the information would transfer through the walls and into the computer in the next room. 

This is an announcement not a meeting. Somewhere a town crier just stopped crying.

Wake up

 

(Willem Defoe in Light Sleeper, dir. Paul Schrader, 1992)

They say successful people sleep about four hours a night. I want to be successful. So I’ve stopped sleeping entirely since that’s the only real obstacle I can think of on the road to high achievement. Many among the dozing class are waiting to hear my technique. How I’ve transcended the cruel servitude of slumber. Wait no more.

 

The first half of my day is business as usual. I field calls from captains and corporals of industry. Haberdashers and software engineers. I breathe new life into their projects, answering their questions, parrying their problems. When the sun starts to wane, I do the same. But that’s not the end of it. I brew a pot of coffee and guzzle that between dinner and midnight. I eat sparingly since a heavy meal can add an unforeseen amendment to even those with a strong constitution. This is when I begin a curiously meditative state. I repeat the phrase, “I will not sleep tonight. Tonight, I will not sleep” between midnight and the sunrise. Is it annoying? Am I loud? Does this wake the neighbors? Routinely. But the way I see it, I’m doing the community a favor. I take a long, luxurious shower at sunup. 

Then I just do it again and again and again and again? You can't think of it like that. Not sleeping. You just commit to not sleeping today. Tomorrow is a tomorrow problem. I don't get jet lag when I travel. That's a plus.

 

The problem with sleep is that you dream. I don’t want my dreams relegated to late night hours. I need my dreams working as hard as me, clocking in, clocking out. I need my dreams awake. Otherwise, they’re wasted.

 

You want to be awake to injustice? Then you can’t sleep a wink. There’s no in between. I’m only a few days in but I’m starting to see the appeal of the zombie lifestyle. Sans the flesh eating part, but you never know where I'll be in a few weeks. I’m starting to see things. Visions, really. Is it a hallucination if you believe it? If you can reach out and touch it? 

 

Some people lose themselves without sleep. Me? I’ve found myself. Something you can’t quite get a grip on. Is it manic? Am I a maniac? I don’t know. But what I do know is that no one ever invaded a neighboring country due to lack of sleep. The night before an armed conflict you’re up, you’re excited, pacing, grabbing your supplicants by the lapels in mass anticipation. Hysteria is nice too. It’s like Christmas morning. Only the tinsel are RPGs, the carols are IEDs and the presents are well, everything else. Don’t you get it? Don’t you get it? 

 

I’m tired. I’m so tired. I want to sleep. But I also want a chocolate bar. Self-denial is part of life. Ask your favorite monk what he’s up to in that department. If he's still making spirits for the Holy Spirit. It’s part of ofoofo fofoofofo oooooo oofof oof apjoijdskal;abjsidav-[poidjk;a lsjsj;laajioapwenjva k;lmsjewoi fhpvhf saobd;dsd;kfldsahl pisdngh abpoawrrwmgbh opaioh wgpo habo [hiwapo ibjkwafop idsagupwoeiqthnp9284u0g9jo;bl w afisu[09dvejow ;gMLEFAJ VBSHIUDOPJN WOVDIPHAS V[‘KMASDVAOIWAVJ0[SW DJDI)H 09AQE[WJOSHGF0ae9pawsvjovs u-as9dv h p[svhaojwe 98waoi;awsoidj[pOVHdi jsa9pw8hsoajywhar[wvPK AW’JZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

 

Sorry, what was I saying? Ah yes. Success. Successful people. Successful persons. This is it. You’re welcome and good luck.   

The Last Straw

 

(Tropicana TV commercial ca. 1989)

Sometimes you see an ad in a busy transit hub and your eyes well up with a certain liquid. Now, it could be from the overwhelming aroma of bleach, used to mask a spill from a certain other liquid. Take your pick which one. Then again, you may just feel a connection to the words or better yet, the image on the billboard. 

 

Ads have always been there to guide me, to teach me, to show me the way. I don’t have time to read Kelly’s blue book to choose a car or spend hours in the cereal aisle determining which rectangle box has just what I want inside. Car ads are why I hope to one day drive across a salt flat and cereal ads are why I have a sneaking sympathy for the vampiric among us. How can Dracula be such a villain when Chocula is such a hero? 

 

These are uncomfortable questions few people dare to ask. But one ad has always stayed with me. In it, I witnessed a revolution, a window in the future. Peeking at a technology no one in the present could possibly fathom. 

 

All these years later and orange juice remains the same. What the hell happened? Betrayal is a strong word, but it’s completely justified here. I have been betrayed by teams of citric innovators who have innovated nothing. Do they keep adding other fruit? Yes. But that wasn’t the promise. The promise was that you could stick a straw into the orange itself and start drinking. I want that. I need that. I don’t need another streaming service or a new iPhone; I want to be able to drink orange juice straight from the fruit using nothing but a straw. 

 

It should be simple. They’ve had decades to get around to it. Instead, the focus has been on changing quantities of pulp. I dream that one day the pleasure of eating an orange is exactly the same as drinking one. Is that too much to ask?

 

Apparently, it is. The War on Straws has outlasted The War on Drugs and The War on Christmas, similarly opaque conflicts that have dominated news channel chyrons for years. But those battles appear over now. Because we no longer make straws that cut through in this country. They bend at the slightest pushback. Are their lonely artisans toiling away at their tool benches, blowing glass and melding metal as a sustainable straw alternative? Perhaps. But the question is this: are they doing it to change the way we drink orange juice? I think you know the answer. 

 

To tech billionaires focused on cryptocurrency, climate change and interstellar exploration, allow me to make a modest plea. Consider the orange and how its juiced. Not only would this make amends for Tropicana’s ancient mistake, but it would also eliminate a lot of cardboard. That's good, right? 

Man's original sin was clearly about fruit. That's never been disputed. Who knew it was really about juice?  

Tulsi Blabbard

 

(Win Mcnamee/Getty Images)

I’m dumb. I’m a dumb person. Now, I say that with immense pride and understanding. When I was in congress being dumb unfortunately did little to help me stand out. I had to do that on my own by shaking hands with world leaders. I’ve always felt that handshakes are important. You can prejudge someone by reading their press clippings. But good luck reading their palms accurately in a double-page spread. That’s something you must feel for yourself. 

So I like hands. I like hands a lot. I like my hands. I have two and most people I deal with have two, too. That’s not to say I’m opposed to a shoulder pat, or an elbow squeeze should circumstances require it. That’s what great about traveling overseas, you get to see how different cultures work. And it usually involves hands. I believe that once you shake someone’s hand you are indebted to them for life. Maybe not financially, but hopefully financially. It’s why I always bring a checkbook with me.

You gotta hand it to our former elites. They were so smart. Think of it, smart people got us into many wars. Wars we didn’t understand. Smart people have beliefs and often principles, underpinned by a guiding philosophy. Dumb people have so much thing. At least I don’t. It’s time the keys were handed over to the morons. As an idiot, I can’t wait to take the wheel. 

The Groan in the Loan Star

 

(Muhammad Ali, Zack Clayton, George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire 1974, AP Photo)

This is what we’ve all been waiting for. An extremely annoying semi-famous YouTuber facing off with an over-the-hill pigeon-loving psycho for what should be a match to reimburse the audience. It’s rare we get two fighters with punchable faces on the same bill, but he we are, Jim.

 

They’re coming out now. Here we go, ding ding ding.

 

The overly tattooed podcaster meanders around the ring while the cartilage chomper wobbles aimlessly. A few phantom jabs as beads of sweat douse the floor. Now Jim, this match is being simulcast deep into the outer solar system so any nosy aliens will not consider us intelligent life and move on to the next galaxy. This is the physical embodiment of the peace sign or sticking a flower in a soldier’s gun. Oooh, finally, a nice headshot, Though it’s more Annie Leibowitz than JFK.

 

The judges are talking it over. It should be just a few more moments. And there you have it. A technical farce by unanimous decision. Maybe the rematch will be more of a joke. 

Put that Zipper down

 

(Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross, dir. James Foley, written by David Mamet, 1992)

"

"Alec Baldwin mocked for leaving his fly down during ‘SNL’ closing scene..."

Moments later, Baldwin decides to formally address the cast.

 

Baldwin: Let me have your attention for a moment. So you're talking about what? You're talking about that commercial you shot, some director that doesn't want to cast you, some extra that doesn't know what you're saying. Let's talk about something important. 

 

One actor realizes his fly is down and begins to zip up.

 

Put that zipper down! Zippers are for clothers only. I'm here from uptown. I'm here from NBC. And I'm here on a mission of manners. You call yourself an actor, you son of a bitch? The good news is -- you're fired. The bad news is you've got, all you got, just one week to regain your jobs, starting tonight. Starting with tonight’s zip. 

 

Baldwin dramatically zips up

 

Oh, have I got your attention now? Good. 'Cause we're adding a little something to next week’s show. As you all know, first prize is a Tesla Truck. Anyone want to see second prize? Second prize's a set of bit coin. Third prize is you're fired. You get the picture? You laughing now? You got pants. NBC paid good money. Get your legs into them! You can't wear the slacks you're given, you can’t wear them, then hit the bricks pal and beat it 'cause you are going out!

Someone mutters, “the pants are weak.”

The pants are weak? You're weak. You know why, Mister? 'Cause you wore Dockers to get here tonight, and I’m wearing ten-thousand-dollar Brunello Cucinellis. That's my name. And your name is "you're slacking." And you can't dress in a man's trousers. You can’t sport them. And you go home and tell your tailor your troubles. Because only one thing counts in this life! Get pants that fit on the waistline which is belted! 

A-B-C. A-always, B-be, C-clothing. Always be clothing! Always be clothing! A-I-D-A. Attire, intact, dress, adjust. Attire – do you have nice attire? Intact -- are you fully intact? I know you are because there aren’t any button flies in here. Dress -- have you dressed in front of a full-length mirror?!! And adjust. A-I-D-A; get out there!! You got pants flyin’ off the rack; you think they came in to get out of the truck? Garb doesn't arrive on a mannequin lest it wants to pose. Hanging out there waiting to give you their clothing! Are you gonna take it? Are you man enough to take it?  

 

He removes a diamond-encrusted gold belt from his waist.

You see this belt? That belt cost more than your car. I made $9.7 million last year. How much you make? You see, pal, that's who I am. And you're nothing. Nice hat? I don't give a tip. Good apron? Go home and grill some dogs. You wanna work here? Clothe! You think this is abuse? You can't take this -- how can you take the abuse you get on a shoot?! You don't like it -- leave. I can go out there tonight with the wardrobe you got, make myself fifteen thousand laughs! Tonight! In two hours! Can you? Can you? Go and do likewise! A-I-D-A!! Get mad! You sons of bitches! Get mad!! You know what it takes to get laughs?

 

He puts on a clown nose, hair and makes a few vulgar gestures to the crowd.

It takes funny clothing and juvenile humor to get laughs.

 

He takes off the clown outfit. 

Go and do likewise, gents. The roles are out there, you get ‘em, they’re yours. You don't--I have no sympathy for you. You wanna go wear those pants, then clothe, it's yours. If not you're going to be shining my enormous clown shoes. Bunch of losers sitting around a community theatre. "Oh yeah, I used to be an actor, it's a tough racket." 

 

He takes out large stack of silver zippers tied together with string from his briefcase 

 

These are the new zippers. These are the Alec Baldwin zippers. And to you, they're gold. Technically, silver. But you don't get them. Why? Because to give them to you is just throwing them away. They're for clothers. I'd give you good pants but you wouldn't know what to do if you got ‘em. 

 

He puts back on his gold belt.

 

And to answer your question, Kenan: why am I here? I came here because Lorne asked me to, he asked me for a favor. I said, the real favor, follow my advice and fire your ass because a loser is a loser.

Painting pending

 

(Sherwin-Williams current logo)

The religious and irreligious alike have many names for him. The Big Guy upstairs. The White Bearded Boy. The Almighty Father. The Prime Mover. The Creator. And God. There are many others too. I prefer The Painter. It’s both artistic and utilitarian. I says what he’s done, and what he’s going to do.  

Sherwin-Williams, a Cleveland based paint manufacturer founded during the Andrew Johnson administration, one year after Appomattox, seems to understand this fact better than any of their competitors. They realize that the point of paint is not to recreate the Mona Lisa on garage doors and rusty dumpsters. It’s to do one thing: cover the earth.

When your grass turns brown during an extended drought, you paint it green. When the leaves in your neighborhood aren’t vibrant enough for visiting peepers, you paint them. And when the sand at your favorite beach is off-color and not exactly sandy, you paint every last grain milky white. This is about entertainment and aesthetics. It’s about seeing the world as it ought to be. 

Life has many layers. Who knew the whole time that was just a reference to paint?  

In our crazy world of toxic spills and environmental disasters, it’s nice to see one company taking a different tack entirely. An organization that understands the importance of smoothing out the cracks. There are no do-overs in life, but there are paint overs. Otherwise, we’d all just have to live with graffiti covering every single public surface. 

The Dumb and the Dimmest

 

(The Best and the Brightest by David Halberstam, HC 1972)

When you’re building a team of any kind you want a wide array of intellects and personalities. You want people who complement each other, especially when the going gets tough. You need some folks who can stammer their way through any follow-up question. You’ll need people who sweat a lot under pressure, wiping the stained armpits of soiled dress shirts with monogrammed beach towels. You’ll want ranters, ravers, and anyone who believes streaking through a public place focuses the body and centers the spirit. 

This isn't about speaking truth to power. It's about speaking gibberish to everyone. 

Then you should always have people who can be counted on to treat themselves (and their gullets) to delicious paint chips, or what experts refer to as “brain food.” These snacking heroes will come at any problem from a slightly different angle giving you the diversity of opinion you so crave. Plus, you'll be able to alter the chi of your meeting room with a fresh coat.

Strength isn’t in numbers, it’s in mind-numbingly dumb people. You want to think outside the box? Then you will require individuals who will do things to that box you would never think of. But you will need a box, so dial up the Amazon deliveries before your first cabinet meeting and make sure there’s plenty of cardboard to go around. 

Anatomy of a Moron

(Henderson, Nevada, Oct. 31, 2024. Mike Blake/Reuters)

Samuel Johnson had it wrong. The true measure of a man is not how he treats others. Those people who can “do him absolutely no good.” Nor does it have to do with how he treats animals, whether through petting or fetching. It’s also unrelated to a man's general attitude or demeanor. A man cannot be measured by superficial things like etiquette. Whether he chews with his mouth open or keeps his hat on indoors. These capricious codes of conduct have very little bearing on the life and success of a man. Especially one squarely in the public eye; a pesky stye inflaming society to act. 

The true measure of a man is the distance between his eyebrows and his hairline. In other words, it’s the size of his forehead. For the forehead is the blank canvas a man draws on for inspiration. Fabula rasa. Long before the first cavemen ever decided to grab a second helping of bone marrow, he had to rely on his wits. Because the only thing Neanderthals ever had over homo sapiens were their foreheads. Thick, lustrous and lengthy. Strong enough to stop a charging mammoth. 

It’s never been about what’s inside your head that matters. You don't stare into someone's eyes to see their soul. You focus on their forehead until one of you passes out from exhaustion.

 

Early sailors would rub sextants across their wrinkles for a chance at dry land. They couldn't calculate longitude back then, so why not? The forehead remains an ancient map, giving us a peek into the future. Or, maybe, just maybe, the way to the nearest federal penitentiary. 

Banalogies

 

(Example of SAT exam analogy section, ca. 1987)

Making sense of the world without analogies is kind of like riding a bicycle without handlebars. You can do it for a few blocks, but eventually you’ll be facedown with a healthy mouthful of pavement. It helps me understand and cope with any unsettling facts on the ground especially during important world events.  

 

Voting is like throwing confetti out of window in a fifty-story building. Sometimes it lands where you want, sometimes it doesn’t, sometimes a bird grabs convinced it’s food. 

 

It’s sort of like when you’re ready, locked in and hankering for New England Clam Chowder. You see “chowder special” scrawled in chalk on the sandwich board out front. Then the steaming bowl arrives, and it contains the unmistakable glow of tomato soup. It’s Manhattan Clam Chowder, and since you never asked for clarification, there’s no sending it back.

 

Watching cable news is like laying on a medieval torture device. The rack comes to mind…and body. You lay there in excruciating pain for hours, if not days on end, but there are moments of unexpected bliss when contorted into a foreign position you’re suddenly comfortable, albeit for a nanosecond.

 

Talking politics with someone whom you disagree is quite similar to playing volleyball with a rabid racoon. It involves drooling, frothing and usually happens at night surrounded by overturned garbage cans.  

 

And now I know why they removed analogies from the SAT. 

Oh, The Places You Won't Go!

 

(Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss, 1990 HC)

Condolences!

Today isn’t the day.
You're off to no place, nowhere and no how. 
You're here to stay, somewhere, and oh wow!

You got a vacancy upstairs.
You have coins in your shoes.
You could buy yourself any ticket you choose.
But you won’t click the button, you’re not gonna broach
You are the guy who can’t travel in coach.

Is it Canada you’ll fly, with the Mounties and moose?

Gathering up maple syrup, flannel and maybe a noose?

You’ll need a new passport, but should stick to poutine.

Posing with cheese curds is hardly routine. 

Or maybe it’s further, way across the pond 

To Europe! Waving your wand

To Heathrow! To Orly! To Charles de Gaulle!

The food carts there are just like a mall.

Best to stay mute, but better to nod

For now, sit tight, just like the Squad

Oh, the places you won’t go!

Not Spain! Not England! Not Germany! Not France!

“Marseille it ain’t so”, said the pimple to the lance,

You’re not here to visit, to stay or to settle

What did the pot say to the kettle? 

Not Corsica, not Sicily, and definitely not Crete,

Those are islands are there, though you’re not gonna meet

You got a home Malibu, and another in Aspen

One more in Palm Springs to keep your staff gasping

Tribeca, Marin and off to Sun Valley

Not too bad, that’s quite the tally

So you’ll be fine, from set to the stage

Dispensaries now, well they’re all the rage 

So sob in your stories, lean into postings

Even rich donors experience ghostings,

Stick to the kitchen, hone your mincing

Instead wasting time on futile convincing.

You’ve said this before, made similar threats

But oh how private planes pile up debts

A familiar feeling, though hardly the first

Can it really be said that this is the worst?

In ’68 you sobbed, sapped of your joy

Considered relocating to some shack in Hanoi

By ’72 things had slowly improved,

But once a knucklehead, always a stooge

Water and gates, plumbers and creeps

Waiting for gas with honking and beeps

The eighties were darker, despite all the glitz

The climate was warming faster than a schvitz

You spent too much time browsing real estate options,

When looking for loopholes, have you consider adoptions?

Things got weirder as we migrated online

Ignoring the geese, their flights sublime

After 2000, it was too much to bear

Committed to moving, only now with less hair

Would you go? Would you leave? Was this really the end?

Not with your living. Make believe! Pretend!

Thank the academy, your producers et al,

They line your pockets with a crypto haul

So...
be your name Beyonce or Barbra or Bruce

or Dicaprio Deniro Damon or Juice

But OJ is gone, into the hereafter,

Is that applause? Or is it laughter? 

Your limo is waiting

So…get on with your day

You're going anywhere, that's what I say

Four by four

 

(JP Danko/Stocksy)

Once upon a time, I think it was four years ago, things were great. But then four years before that they were awful. Then again, four years before that they were great. Well, that’s not really true. For some folks, four years ago was awful, four years before that was great, and four years before that was pretty awful. Actually, that’s not exactly true either. Since four years ago it was good and bad. Just like four years before that, four years before that, four years before that, and so on and so forth. 

 

But no time is wholly one thing or the other. During those years it was good, bad, great, awful and lots of other adjectives only my thesaurus knows.

 

So four years from now might be awful or great like today or both or neither. 

 

But we’ll still be here. Same with four years after that and four years after that. And on and on and on. 

Casting your vote

 

(Men's Lives by Peter Matthiessen, 1986 HC)

Casting your vote takes time and care. But the very first thing you need is a ballot. You can fill it out, or not. A blank ballot requires the same exact skill as one dotted with pencil streaks. Getting your hook around a paper ballot isn’t too difficult. If you think it helps, feel free to slap a few squirming worms on the end, just for good luck. 

Now that you have your ballot attached to a hook, you need to find a nice fishing pole. Wood will do fine. Carbon fiber isn’t bad, but it is expensive. Because this is a democratic exercise. Find a dock or anywhere beside a body of water where you can actually get your feet wet. This is important. You will only get a few opportunities to cast your vote before the material begins to disintegrate. There aren’t mulligans here. 

Once you cast your ballot, watch as it floats. Admire fish, fowl and bored snorkelers swimming around it for a real taste of freedom. 

Some may say this is tantamount to wasting your vote. Perhaps that’s the case. But I get a vote in this country. Which means I get to take it fishing. You don’t have to that. You can keep it on dry land, away from the moss and mollusks. I don’t have that luxury. 

I live on an island. 

Meaningless endorsements

(Photo by Suzannah Hoover)

Have you heard the news? There’s an election coming up. Tomorrow? I didn’t realize. As a no-to-low information voter myself, I wanted to raise my cup of knowledge a tad by asking those in the know who they’re backing this season. I went out in my neighborhood and asked several people what they’re doing on Tuesday. That way, I can make a slightly more informed choice. 

I asked a bartender, a butcher, and a bodega owner. I went up to a woman crossing against the light, jaywalking in full view of a barreling bus. A man sleeping on a stoop not his own. A teenager parking in an extremely tight spot. A delivery guy with plastic bags over his hands. A runner running in place for long enough to be corned with this important query. I need to know where each of them was coming from. Not their home address, since I had that information already. After receiving all this data, I didn’t know what to do with it. Okay, so now I know who the construction worker filling a pesky pothole on my block is voting for. I finally understand the political leanings of the man drinking a forty ounce for breakfast. The butcher helped steer me towards a good chicken breast, would he do the same with a candidate? Thanksgiving is coming up. 

I need athletes, musicians, actors, directors, artists, writers and grocery store clerks to tell me who to vote for. Or I could just make the choice myself.