People are Nuts

 

When I say that squirrels are the moral compass of the country, I’m not bluffing. When I say that these long-tailed rodents fill the massive void left by organized religion, I’m not exaggerating. When I say that these “cute rats” have a keen understanding of right and wrong, it should already be obvious to anyone who’s ever installed a bird feeder. They provide the American public what we’ve been sorely lacking for decades now. They see through our petty skirmishes and trivial squabbles, viewing us as we truly are. Squirrels understand that the world revolves around nuts. The wilder the better. But nuts don’t just fall out of trees, they are all around us, all the time. Squirrels know. They appreciate a nice acorn every now and again paired with roasted broccoli or a fresh radish rose. 

Nuts run major corporations and enact weird policies with poorly written guidelines, heavy on jargon and light on substance. Stuff everyone in the company must follow – or else. Some nuts lead countries of varying shapes and sizes, redrawing the map to suit their cartographical impulses. 

Yes, it’s true, some nuts, let’s say, walnuts, have been known to improve a salad or two on occasion. But that’s the exception. Most recoil at the mere thought of loose, subpar vinaigrette. Sure, there are those who routinely add nuts to ice cream sundaes. Peanuts or pistachios, though walnuts work here, too. But this is not the norm. It’s simply undignified for a Fortune Magazine reading Captain of industry to require a daily drench of hot fudge as a chocolatey substitute to an already rigorous self-care regimen.

Filberts are good to shove into a visible crack to stop an inevitable leak. I’ve never seen someone eat one in earnest though. It’s always a bet of some kind, consumed after a person is pushed to the edge. To achieve the right consistency in water chestnuts usually means violating at least one subsection of the Geneva Convention. 

Most people are complete nuts.

Getting Bitter All the Time

 

There’s something to be said for letting things go. For letting obstacles casually roll off your back without as much as a second thought. And that’s still true when excruciating back problems and throbbing joints dominate your every crouch and lean. Because not everything rolls well, since not everything enjoys a nice new set of wheels. Some things streak while other things dent. You never can tell what’s going to leave a mark and what will hardly be remembered in a day or so. 

When the time comes to plop down on an expensive leather couch for an extended session with a prying shrink, letting things go often benefits the plopper. The money spent spilling your soul is greatly improved by moving onto fresh territory each week. Constantly dissecting the same few subjects isn’t bad for your mental state as much as your financial one. You don’t always know it at first, but the good doctor doesn’t want to deal with the same thing every week either. It’s like watching a repeat when they’d much prefer hearing a new tale of woe. It’s nice not always knowing the plot.

But for many in the working world, bitterness is the fuel that drives them. And why not? I’ve never been one to call out bitter folks. For one thing, bitter is one vowel away from better. It’s why I’ve always given bad (rad) and crummy (chummy) people the benefit of the doubt. 

What’s one letter off in the scheme of things? 

Litter. 

Deeducation Camp

Hello, stragglers, find a seat towards the back where I can’t see you. I don’t need to make out your faces – the security footage will be plenty clear when I review this assembly later on today with members of the NSA. That said, welcome to Camp Magna Errata in the heart of Undisclosed Territory. You have some bad habits, a lifetime of them, and we’re here to help.

Now repeat after me, “id est vestrum erit flagitium.” Good. There’s still a chance for you yet. 

Since this is a camp for adults, I’d like to speak to your children first. You don’t have to leave the room, just put on these ear plugs and blackout sunglasses. That person standing behind you putting a bag over your head is a professional. We haven’t suffocated anyone yet and we’re not about to start now. It’s okay to laugh. Laughing is good. It means you can breathe. 

With that taken care of, kids, thanks for bringing your parents out to camp for this year’s first summer session. Obviously, some of you are worried about putting us in charge of their well-being. Don’t be. Many of us come from the BOP (Bureau of Prisons) and most of us have parents of our own. There are probably many of you wondering how you’re going to get home, since the vast majority of you are minors. That won’t be a problem. We have issued flawlessly beautiful counterfeit driver’s licenses which, once they’ve served their initial function should grace any mantle. This way you can drive home the family car without issue. There are PBA cards on the table by the exits in case you want some extra protection should you get pulled over on the thruway. I realize that many of you are skeptical of the merits of the camp since your college funds are going towards payment, but think of it this way: once we’re done with them, you won’t need to run away to school. Indoctrination begins here, but continues in the home. 

Jimmy, Johnny, Stacey, please start removing the bags from the campers’ heads. I’m noticing Mr. Whitaker is a little too blue, thanks. Light purple is okay, but anything darker and we might have to engage the paramedics again. Those gasps you’re hearing sure sound like excitement to me. Every year I see a new batch of campers ready to unlearn what they think they know. However, it’s that first near-fatal coughing fit that says to me, “summer has arrived.” 

Remember, this is a “deeducation camp.” To paraphrase Socrates, “the only thing you know is what we tell you.” It’s not that questions aren’t permitted exactly. There’s just no point to asking them. We tell you everything and that should be enough. Hopefully, your religious upbringing, lodged somewhere inside, eases this process. 

After two years with us, you’ll be ready again for society. You could get out early for good behavior, though that’s extremely rare. Much more common is getting your sentence, I mean, tenure extended based on the board’s oversight. Your meals are taken care of as are your sleep aids. Whoever you are on the outside is irrelevant to us here. There won’t be yachting or small talk. You listen, you unlearn, and you keep your mouth shut. Unless you’re eating, then you have to open it. 

And that cute little Latin phase is our unofficial motto here at Camp ME. It means, “it’s all your fault.” Bathroom is the last door on the left. There's only one stall, so if you want some privacy, it's probably best to find the Exxon just outside of town. It's only about a half a mile away.

Run Along

Running from something is much easier than running for something. Otherwise, you’re like a politician who’s forced to take a side on every issue and stand for every single thing. You won’t have a stand-in to take the heat either. Your opponents, your constituents and your miscellaneous jungle cats will still walk all over you. They’ll be lying in wait, ready to pounce with a series of gotcha questions or sharpened claws meant for mauling.

It’s why, when asked anything, no matter how inconsequential it seems at the time, never put your hand up. Unless you prefer to wave your personal life goodbye. You’re stepping out on your old existence for one that’s dictated by people you have never met. For this reason, and many others, your handlers will help jog your memory at every campaign event, imploring you to get better with names. 

In any race, there’s a winner and a whole lot of losers. Lead the way, take each criticism in stride, and march to the beat of a different chief of staff. Tread lightly, troop across, and steer every conversation onto subjects you’re familiar with discussing. That means Russian novels can take a hike.

Stroll around, saunter along, and ramble through your term. Trudge on your own merits unless you'd rather plod on. Ramble, amble, and let yourself wander. There’s the whole notion of leaning in, which is fine as long as you avoid tipping over. Achieving the perfect balance takes time, practice, and the right pair of athletic shoes. 

But when, if ever, will you be allowed to put your feet up? Maybe when you’re unceremoniously ushered out of office? Get a move on, your enemies are at the elevator bank. A standard fight or flight response requires either strong fists or a large cache of frequent flyer miles (you have neither). Might be time to make a run for it. Hurry, scurry, dart, and dash. Scamper, scuttle, zoom, and zip. Speed, streak, boogie, and bolt. Gallop, hurtle, bomb, and rush. Don’t forget a copy of the constitution on your indefinite constitutional. It could come in handy at a show trial down the road. 

Tired yet? You could take this sitting down. 

Potemkin West Village

Lately, concerned citizens have focused their ire on the street-encroaching monstrosities enlarging the reach of nearly every restaurant in New York. These formerly modest joints, small in stature, have taken the sidewalk and the street by force, and are now looking for more territory to conquer. What about cars? What about pigeons? What about the putrid garbage that needs a sizable place to pile up for its semi-weekly collectors? Who speaks for them, with their grimy overalls and banana peels? 

Last year, industrious restauranteurs began constructing outdoor structures as a place where diners could dine in the open air. But what now? There are those who wish to tear down these particle board cafes to make room for anything else. Not me. I’d like to see every restaurant have one. Then I’d like establishments that don’t even serve food have one. Like laundromats, banks, and public restrooms. Though the last one might become predictably problematic in the wild. Whatever, we’re a resilient nation and we’ve come too far to let a little alfresco urinal cakes get in the way of a great concept. 

These structures say to the world, “everything is going to be okay,” and that’s even if everything isn’t going to be okay. When people see them, they think, “good, at least someone is making the most of a bad situation.” 

That will do for a bit, holding people at bay. The more financial institutions and bathrooms with large outdoor umbrellas, the better. This time though, we must go farther. I’m talking about building fake restaurants with cardboard people (balsawood is fine ) that say the city is more vibrant than ever. Details matter. There should be people of varying sizes, with a person in the back receiving the Heimlich to bring some realism to the scene. 

Things will get tricky in the winter when the frost makes it annual return. But by then, everyone could just go inside to eat. 

Clear a Path

I meet people every day who want things handed to them. Little things in bags with doilies inside and ribbons on top. Things that are both expensive and useless. Gifts that no one needs but everyone wants. Things with handwritten cards and envelopes full of cash. They want to be treated like they’re walking the red carpet when all they’re doing is heading full steam into a conference room for some late-breaking ideating. 

These people are married to the notion someone else with a higher salary should be the one to crack the big idea for them. If they firmly believe that, foxtrot over to the ol’ Chemical Bank on Main and see if they have any safes to take a spin. Ask for Dave. Then ask why they haven’t changed the sign to Chase since the merger between the two financial institutions happened twenty plus years ago. 

They say they want a path cleared for them. They want their bosses to give them more than dribs and drabs, but chunks and hunks instead. Enough to chew on and plenty to choke on. 

What do they think this is? Logging 101 with Long Jack Lumber turning Muir Woods into a stack of piano legs? If that were the case, I’d recommend grabbing a flannel shirt from the pile over by the bonfire, some steel-tipped Timberlands if you’re worried about the lead ones and any clip-on beard for the follicly-deficient. While they are detachable, they aren’t yet itchless. Mere toupees you staple in place onto each cheek. Although, having someone else man the stapler usually means better, less askew results. 

What else do these ingrates desire besides a clear path? They want it landscaped and everything. With gnomes, fountains, manicured hedges to form a soul-crushing maze. They despise guardrails or limitations of any kind. They’d prefer cruising around a curve only to careen off it into the ocean below. That’s how they define freedom.

I think it’s time to log off for a while. The fumes are starting to get to me. 

Mental Summer Break

When you find yourself chasing parked cars, picking broccoli out of your molars using the rusty bumpers of ancient Corvettes, perhaps a vacation is in order. That’s where I found myself a week ago, hopped up on iced coffee (or is it ice coffee?) humming the spiritual chord progression of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” at an octave even the birds in the area viewed as painfully disruptive. Taking time off as a valued, cherished, and beloved member of any team is not a simple procedure. People depend on me. Without me, they might consider themselves oddly competent when they’re not.

I had to get away. I couldn’t read another lengthy email from an underling, promptly dictating an adamant response only to watch as my live-in AI manufactured numerous inventive typos. This isn’t merely a “ducking” affair either. It went beyond that. “Rat custard,” “sun of a kitsch,” “peace of Schmidt.” The last one obviously a reference to retired baseball Hall of Famer, Michael Jack Schmidt. You might ask why must my responses all be littered with profane insults? I wouldn’t say littered.

I could’ve taken the obvious route, boarding a cruise ship bound for wherever, praying each night for smooth sailing and a sanitary buffet. But that’s not the sort of buffet I had in mind for this mental break. My focus was squarely on one, James William Buffet, the preeminent promotor of vacations and vacation-related culture. Listening to his entire discography gave me great insight into what living on island time would truly entail and how it would affect my large collection of clocks.

I had always dismissed the rabid Parrotheads, believing they were a twisted cult, obsessed with decapitating the only birds able to give us a little guff. Frankly, they scared me. Anyone living permanently on vacation was someone to be feared, someone with nothing to lose – except their suitcase with sunscreen in the triple digits of SPF.

When I discovered that there were no actual severed parrot heads and this was not the Bermuda shorts wearing wing of Bohemian Grove, I got a little more comfortable. So I locked myself in a 12 X 12 break room last week, one pried open with a crowbar that must’ve been left behind by the previous tenant. I played “Margaritaville” – oh, I don’t know, I lost count somewhere around Wednesday. Figure it’s a 3-minute song that I played for 5 straight days. By Friday I was feeling amazingly refreshed. There was no initiation, nor was there an unwanted appearance by the Parrothands, a radical splinter group who’ve made their presence known at more and more concerts of late. 

All I can say, under advice from my legal team, is that it’s good to be back.