Abolish Trees

I’ve had it with trees. Looming over me like a vicious kindergarten teacher who uses their terrifying stature and tyrannical will to get students in line. Is it any wonder that paddles and yard sticks, so long used by lunatic nuns with a hardwood fetish, are carved from fallen trees? They take up space like a capacious high school teacher carrying two full lunch trays of meats and cheeses as a means of getting kids to spread out. And eventually, they keel over without any advanced notice like a drunken college professor, sauced and spent after another afternoon of back bending physical labor to mimic the curious gait of Richard III.  Yes, my life in academia has seen more than its share of towering (and falling) personalities. Imagine how much lower tuition would be if universities concentrated on higher learning instead of how many young saplings belong in the quadrangle.

 

There are politicians who believe that planting trees solves every little problem. Like what to do with that weird sliver of grass between the sidewalk and the curb. They relocate an ounce of dirt with a golden shovel in front of an adoring crowd and seriously think they're making a difference. They promote the unexamined merits of Arbor Day. But no one stops to ask: when is it enough? Trees get a pass. We let pandas in captivity decide if they want their relationship to transition to a more amorous one. But yet, we do the bidding of elms and oaks – the slobbering hand maidens of the arbocracy.    

 

They’ve had a great run. No one can take that away. But what’s the point? The Empire State Building wasn’t constructed to be a tall spike in the middle of Manhattan. There were offices, plenty of space inside send the city into the clouds, maximizing the city’s vertical real estate. Even the Eiffel Tower allows tourists to enjoy it. Trees have no such ability. The occasional elf or squirrel may get in there with birds resting on branches in between flights. But termites are the only ones resembling our national workforce and they lead to ultimate destruction. Shouldn’t that tell us something? That maybe we could use this land for something better. Like a parking lot or bocce court.

 

Trees don’t do anything. They just stand there and, when the time comes, they fall. We are the ones who turn them into credenzas and bureaus, shelves and cutting boards. If they did they on their own, at least I could see keeping them around.

 

Trees kill. Okay? They break, they get struck by lightning. Look, we’re not going to get rid of all of them. Not yet. We still need wood and will for a while. But we can at least get them out of cities and suburbs, giving us all more breathing room. Oxygen may become a problem, but we must have plenty of extra ventilators and tanks just sitting around collecting asbestos. It's time to get them out of storage.

 

Trees have tricked us into celebrating autumn, as we watch them carelessly throwing their leaves on the ground like a spoiled garden brat. Do they pick them up? No. They get us to bag their trash, raking them into piles like a servile barber cleaning up the cut locks of hairy customers. It's all beneath us.

 

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time, not too long ago, when wrapping my arms around a redwood sounded like the American Dream. But I’ve seen too many good people cower under these arrogant psychos lining our thoroughfares and parks. We wait on them hand and foot. Let them rot. 

 

You want more shade? Then wear a hat.

Out of touch

In times of crisis, I seek out celebrities for answers, for guidance. Cloistered in sprawling compounds with professional chefs and live-in magicians, they are profoundly out of touch. They pay for things they don’t understand. They sign checks they don’t read. A missing zero is nothing. What’s more advantageous to our current global predicament than being literally out of touch? Six feet? Try 6 miles of ocean frontage and a driveway so long it fades into the horizon. These are people who have time on their hands to settle our greatest problems. Helipads are other people. And in this case, that's them.

However you choose to slice it, touching is bad. We should be looking to stay as far apart from each other as possible. With greasy paws and sharp hangnails, you’re bound to injure someone with the gentlest of taps. Astronomically rich people who’ve made a career of pretending know about life. They are here to apologize, to laugh, to lecture.

 

I could look elsewhere, of course. To salt-of-the-earth publicans delivering a constant stream of bar top wisdom or to convenience store cat wranglers mesmerizing customers with a steady flow of bodega bromides. But those familiar sages aren’t nearly rich enough to be taken seriously. To think of solutions, you first need room to think. And the aisles here are far too narrow for that. It’s actually a hazard to stack canned goods on top of glass bottles in the hope a quake won’t come. But it will.  

 

Celebrities have one clear leg up on the rest of us regular people. Having achieved wealth and fame, they are now free to focus on the most important existential questions facing humanity. Inside their mansions or private sea planes, they are afforded plenty of space to ponder unfettered. Once you’ve gotten everything out of life, you can devote your time to serious frivolities. The ones I can’t think about. Diet, fashion, technology. I can’t remember when it eat, so why not tell me what to eat? It's a good start.

 

I trust them. Once you've seen someone convincingly wear a prosthetic nose in a made-for-tv movie about Jimmy Durante, why not model your life after the actor? If he or she can convince you they're someone else, they can make you believe anything. Martin Sheen really is a former president. At least he seems to think so. And that's good enough for me.

All politics is yokel

 

What’s crazy is that there are a few dozen remaining agitators still wandering the planet who believe they can avoid politics altogether. It’s not for them, they say. As if politics are a voluntary indulgence, like croquet or another geriatric game of leisure. The elderly deserve an aerobic form of gambling that involves more than pulling a lever on a slot machine. It's why we give them mallets with their first social security check.

 

Politics are tied up in everything you do and everything you say. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t realize that. Hopefully, reading this changes your rather blasé attitude for the better. You may want to live in an apolitical world – or is it a political world? Nevertheless, it’s important to have the correct set of politics. Otherwise, what’s the point? As you go through your daily routine, you’ll start to see how politics bleed into everything you do in profound and unmistakable ways. The thing is, you don’t need more than a single strong example to hammer the point home.

 

What you want, what’s most important to you, is that you have a well-proportioned sandwich for lunch. That there be no more attempts to push salads or wraps. You do what comes naturally: Go to the deli and follow the supply chain. However, when’s the last time you interrogated your local hoagie man about his positions on nation building, healthcare, or immigration? It’s probably been too long. Yes he understands heroes in their breaded glory, but does he understand heroism in all its facets? 

Let’s say you find common ground with Sando Boy, commiserating about the estate tax while he selects the juiciest ball of mozzarella bobbing in a nearby bowl. That’s good news. What a relief, huh? Not so fast. What about the baker delivering that semolina you can’t live without? He's been heard saying "the war on poverty" was an actual war on poverty with tanks. He once said "great society" sarcastically with visible air quotes. Then there's the cheese monger with delicate digits. You’re lucky he didn’t choose a lucrative career in physical therapy, preferring to massage dairy products instead. These people are not without politics of their own. They have opinions on regime change and welfare reform – opinions you must know if you hope to actually enjoy your meal.

 

There’s more. Since you’ve grown tired of olive oil and vinegar, you opt for mayo. When’s the last time you considered the Mayonnaise cartels and condiment warlords spreading power so your lunch isn’t too dry? If there’s meat, how do you know that the turkey you’re enjoying wasn’t a reactionary bird with fascistic tendencies ruling the roost by fear. ? You don’t. Now, some would say, it’s better to eat an evil turkey than a good one – of this, there is still an open debate. But the point stands – you need to know what goes into that sandwich you thoughtlessly inhale. Making it on your own doesn’t eliminate any of these moral dilemmas. It makes it harder to get answers. 

 

And this is just lunch. A lot can happen between now and dinner.

Not to LARP on it

 

With more problems plaguing the world each day, it feels silly to pick one issue out from the crowd. Why separate a fine, upstanding global problem from its friends in an overwrought public display of nonsense? Because it’s what the situation calls for. One by one, you must go on down the line, until there are no more things to complain about.

 

Live action role playing or LARPing is a frequent source of derision by members of the mainstream. They sneer at these adults in perpetual adolescence descending on countless American cities. What they are missing, but what you probably already know, is that most of us yearn to play dress up. During childhood, it’s enough to turn a bad day into a good one.

 

Kids look up to pro athletes, not because of any on-the-field achievements, but for their clothes. You see, these people get to dress like they are playing a part in a big Broadway production. These costumed heroes represent what we all want in our lives – to work in a profession that has a clearly defined uniform. Putting names and numbers on the backs of creatives in ad agencies would certainly make things easier. What’s remarkable to me is how entertainment is the only profession that understands the necessity of a costume designer. We’re all playing different roles and each one requires a particular outfit. That's a job ripe for growth. 

 

Why should ballplayers have all the fun? There’s an insatiable urge to wear a costume dating back centuries. Cavemen knew this. They chose fur and an understated wooden club, when they just as easily could’ve picked up some new threads and a cane from the prehistoric tailors on Savanna Row. To be themselves, they had to look like it. They couldn’t have worn three-pieced suits without feeling a bit off. Imagine how much easier that would've made it for predators, looking to identity prime meat. "Oh look, Dan, the dope with the pocket square looks like a filling lunch." They all looked the same, thus strengthening their position. 

 

So where’s my costume? I have a part to play and my role is not that of costume designer. It’s enough getting up in the morning and remembering to eat breakfast and brush my teeth. I now also have to decide what to wear as well. It would be far more empowering and efficient for copywriters to adopt a uniform. You didn't see Derek Jeter trying to distinguish himself from the likes of Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth? 

Why is it that Tony the Tiger has more sartorial sense than every executive in the Frosted Flakes boardroom? Probably because he doesn't have to waste time choosing clothes, instead focusing on things that matter - like how many Rs belong in the word, "great." The key word in LARPing is "live." And it's about time we all followed suit. 

Will real New Yorkers please sit down?

 

Back when I commuted every day, strangers would constantly invade my personal space. But it was mostly to ask questions. Ya know, the usual stuff. Directions, restaurant recommendations, pithy movie reviews. But on occasion, someone would stop me and say, “hey, what defines a real New Yorker?” I never had enough time to provide a sufficient answer. After the train arrived I’d be stuck yelling through the closing doors, please.

However, real New Yorkers are indeed a real thing. They are known by common traits and signs that anyone, no matter how unfamiliar with their kind, can immediately identify. It’s a good thing this concept has crystalized over the last few months. Not a bad time to take stock in what we have.

 

Real New Yorkers have two, maybe three homes - one in Connecticut and another in Florida or the Amalfi Coast. They spend very little time in the city itself, preferring to tell people who don’t know any better where they’re from. Yes, they pay rent, but they rarely let the sun set on them in any of the five boroughs. Saying you’re from NYC is like a diploma from a college you graduated from decades ago. It means a lot to those on the outside. 

 

Real New Yorkers exclusively refer to the city as “The Big Apple”, or when surrounded by throngs of French speaking relatives “The Pomme Grand.” They talk excessively of “appling” or “getting their apple on” – cute pet terms for entering the city limits. 

 

Real New Yorkers follow closely the exploits of NYFC, ignoring the four major sports as painfully passé and lacking genuine competitive flare.

 

Real New Yorkers adore Times Square – the lights, the sounds, the bus exhaust. It’s where they come alive, buying a soft pretzel after a hard day.

Real New Yorkers appreciate what tourists bring to the city, adding their own sense of style and joy. 

Real New Yorkers never have anywhere to go, listlessly strolling in the center of the sidewalk and only jaywalking in an emergency. They sure have the time. 

 

Real New Yorkers don’t have a favorite building or bridge. They love every single structure equally. Whether it’s the Brooklyn Bridge or the Randall’s Island foot bridge, the Chrysler Building or a random fire hydrant on East 92^nd Street, all are the recipients of their big, pumping heart.

 

Real New Yorkers never complain about anything. They treasure graffiti on their cars, homes, storefronts and faces. It gives them each character. So long as the spray paint doesn't get in their eyes. 

 

Oh and one more thing. There’s only one real New York. It’s a narrow strip of cement down by the Battery. Let’s say about two feet long and a foot wide. It’s a low cut curb and just big enough for someone to sit on and ponder the city’s exceedingly narrow sense of self. It's not comfortable, it's not safe, but it is real.    

 

Sensitivity Reeds

  

“That was a poor choice of words.”

 

“Should you really be saying ‘poor’ in this context?”

 

“That was a terrible play on words.”

 

“I wouldn’t say ‘play’ if I were you. It evokes whimsy.”

 

“That was a bad choice of words.”

 

“But it was your choice. And now, you must live with it.”

 

The aforementioned quotes are among the endless list of phrases running through my mind at all times. They continuously scroll like a movie with too many Key Grips and Best Boys, seemingly bestowing credit on half the population – anyone who passed craft service during filming and extended so much as an eye roll to the line producer. “And thanks to Bubby for his untoasted bagels. That was just what we needed to rewrite Act 2.”

 

It pays off to be safe, to be anxious. The world would be a much better place if people were a bit more sensitive. Let your dear rhino friends keep their thick skin while you do the hard work of thinning out. Having a thin skin implies you’re connected to reality in a clear and intimate way.

 

Over the years, there have been plenty of global techniques for stoking sensitivity and most involved the feet. Racing across hot coals. River dancing on a bed of nails. Galloping over broken beer bottles. Sashaying through a scorpion colony. But the finest method for dealing with insensitive citizens, those members of society who wouldn’t tear up at the sight of a schmaltzy hieroglyph, came from Ancient Egypt. And it also involved the feet. Sensitivity trainers would wade into the shallowest parts of the Nile retrieving the best-looking reeds. Reeds that give you goosebumps by sight alone. Then they’d take them back to town and proceed to tickle the bare feet of these difficult characters for hours on end. More often than not, it worked. The recipients began to watch not only what they said, but where they walked, too. 

 

Now I’m sure you can already see the problems with recreating this today. With our fixation on socks and shoes (foot masks, as it were), most people won’t willing to let their feet (leg hands, as it were) be subjected to such alleged humiliation. The best reeds in America are found in the Garden State's Meadowlands, amid unparalleled suburban decay and painful memories of the New York Jets. Interestingly, the Jets have arguably the most sensitive fanbase in the league, beaten down by years of poor performance and terrible management. But it’s hard enough getting people to remember to take their shoes off at the airport. Socks seem like a lot to ask.

 

Yet we could use sensitivity reeds in 2020. Is it any wonder that reeds helped create a whole branch of musical instruments? If you won't let government bureaucrats tickle your feet with long strips of Jersey vegetation, I guess that's all right. Would you just listen to Kenny G instead?

Qualified Impunity

Oh, I’m such a big of fan of his. You know who I mean, right? He’s an authentic renaissance man. Not the double-fisting turkey legs at your local fair renaissance man. But the sort of the figure who could’ve handled a bout of bubonic plague with dignity and class. The kind of person who can paint with true perspective after suffering through years of flat Medieval schlock. Had these people ever seen a real nose? This guy on the other hand - the painting hand - has depth.

He’s one of my heroes. He’s spent whole summers retrieving cats specifically from trees the Fire Department ignores. He writes thank you cards, leaves notes on windshields when he notices a flat tire, and never misses an opportunity to surprise a sad friend with an encouraging text. Did you read his first book, Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Friar? It details his transition from miserable short order cook at a highway diner on Route 46 to Carthusian monk. He went on to say very little while making the world’s finest Chartreuse. Naturally, he left the monastery soon after finishing his first bottle, but the experience was enough to delight readers (and monks) the world over. He’s the perfect role model in every way. Almost every way.

 

There is that one thing though. Before I go any further caroling the praises of this illustrious person, I should say that I don’t agree with everything he says. You have to say that sort of thing nowadays or someone might just confuse you two. He does have a few beliefs in his sturdy bag of ideas that are indeed questionable. 

I’ll come right out and say it: one day in 1997 while crossing 5th Avenue on his way to throw a rubber ball against Cleopatra's Needle for a self-catch, he referred to the fixed gear bicycles riding by as “neutered.” Thankfully, an ex-friend tweeted about it 23 years later, otherwise it would have been lost to history. Because without that firm evidence, he'd still be Monsieur Parfait AKA Yogurt Boy.

It’s harmful, it’s confusing, it’s unscientific. And it negates everything else he’s done. The paintings, the turkey marinade, all of it. There’s so much at stake here. I’m more comfortable disowning him entirely than risking the remote possibility someone may confuse us. Bikes aren't people and he knows better. Are there times on long rides when you find yourself talking to your tires and spanking those handlebars with gusto? Yes. But to imply that bicycles have any idea what it's like to undergo a complicated and serious medical procedure has no place in a civilized society. Does his tireless support of bike lanes and bike shares offset these hateful remarks? No and you can't let that happen.

 

Adults needn’t have heroes, nor nuanced perspectives. They’re much harder to paint.