Soupy Tales

A couple of activists tossed a can of tomato soup at a Van Gogh painting. This is proof that the arc of history doesn't always bend towards progress. The pair were almost onto something. But as everyone knows, you're supposed to throw a tomato at the artist, not a soup can at the art. Like a game of telephone, it was a matter of generational miscommunication.

I try not to judge strangers too harshly. But in the case of these angry critics, I have to draw the line at matching clothing. You should never wear the same shirt as your friend, unless you both work at an Applebee's. But at least then, your embroidered name tag will mark a clear distinction. However, the fruit in the restaurant's logo is an apple, not a tomato. 

Thinking the same is one thing, but dressing the same? And at their age? That's totally unacceptable. You need your own revolutionary style, comrade. Maybe a Nehru jacket and a Mao suit. 

What I appreciate about the dimwitted duo is their choice in soup. They knew enough to steer clear of clear liquids. Because activism, like soup, is all about substance. And you won't get anywhere with a salty bouillon cube. 

The thing is, oil paintings are soft targets for the oil averse. Why not attack pizza parlors and pork stores lined with bottles of extra virgin olive oil? I'll tell you why. They're afraid of a certain Italian-American subculture. 

Caught in the crossfire is Van Gogh himself. This is man who took global dependency on oil seriously. He went farther than most to cut out his personal contribution. What do think ear wax is?  

Carrots and Corduroy

 

The following is an excerpt from my fortcoming memoir, Some Things I Did, in which I recount in painstaking detail the most inconsequential and boring moments from a life full of them. It’s not a celebration of success, nor is it a meditation on failure. Rather, it is a simple accounting of some stuff that occurred not too long ago. I will publish more in the future. Something we can all look forward to.

From an early age, Bugs Bunny was a hero of mine. He taught me the value of repetition and the power of a memorable catch phrase (a memorable catch phrase). Initially I wondered if “what’s up doc?” was a commentary on the United States healthcare system, or merely a reflection of his choice in friends. Being a celebrity, he was no doubt on a board or two, nurturing more than one expanding endowment. But even more than that, Bugs taught me how to eat. Long before the raw food craze of the early 21^st century, there he was, an independent rabbit, surrounded by candy, cigarettes, and TV dinners, chomping away on a far healthier choice: wild carrots. This was my example. 

 

Oh, it must’ve been 2014 or so. A crisp March day. The sort of day you need shoes, but not gloves. You want sunglasses, but not ski goggles. Perfect for the seasonally bereft. 

In kindergarten, a classmate told me about the many benefits of carrots, including how it could practically give you X-ray vision. His attempt to demonstrate this began with a maraca. The boy explained how there were beads inside, ones no one else but him could see.

While he showed off his eyes, I must've rolled mine. What would be the first of many in the following three decades.

I’m not one to measure food. Although, I do have a yardstick hanging in my kitchen to swat at pests and pretend to conduct the New York philharmonic. I’ve always thought a conductor’s baton to be rather ineffectual in size and scope. Perhaps my background as a high school fencer of minor acclaim affects my view of other sword-like objects. 

You don’t expect to love corduroy the same way our culture promotes flannel and wool. Despite my distance from a tenure track professorship, I began wearing corduroy blazers. I never wanted to teach a graduate level philosophy course. I just wanted to look like I did. 

So on this early spring morning, staring into a nearly empty fridge, I donned my natty, ratty, tattered blazer, and took out the healthiest thing I could find. In this case it was a medium sized carrot. From my research, I knew I had to peel it first. Though Bugs never did such a thing. He went in fresh and unvarnished, probably ingesting more than his fair share of dirt in the process. But a cartoon character, however iconic, is not a nutritionist. 

There I was, walking down Broadway, one of Astoria’s main throughfares, eating a carrot. That’s until I reached the end of it; not of the street, but of the carrot. Mind you, this was long before city-wide composting. So I had nowhere to deposit this stump, besides the overflowing trashcans and open sewers. I looked everywhere for rabbits, but saw only rats and pigeons. Then I did the most sensible thing I could think of.

I ate it. 

All Points Bulletin

Technological progress has left many of us confused and distraught, incapable of adapting to the constant changes. It seems like only yesterday that my assistant was bragging about our office’s new fax machine. Or that the horsepower of my morning commute was measured on hoof of an actual horse. Nevertheless, there is another piece of Americana destined for the trash heap after the digital revolution claims yet another innocent victim. 

I’m talking of course about bulletin boards. The naïve and lazy welcome anything that steers them clear of an accidental thumbtack pricking. Personally, I have always enjoyed the risk. Maybe it’s why the presence of dangerously sharp paper cutters in every classroom at my elementary school was not seen as a hazard, but as a way to teach students to watch their extremities. 

The thing about bulletin boards is they are not just used by people wishing to promote their weekend dance troupe or a bake sale. Bulletin boards, at their best, are rather illustrative. Pinning up photographs and using yarn to connect the dots gives the impression of having a handle on any situation. 

Make no mistake about it: everyone loves bulletin boards. Criminal profilers swear by them, often tacking large maps during an ongoing investigation. But this isn’t simply something good guys can get behind. Bad guys love them, too. Cutting out magazines and circling heads with a red grease pencil is practically mandatory if you’re starting up a criminal enterprise. Conspiracy theories remain theories without bulletin boards. They help the theorist see their work in three dimensions. So it won’t be the same if all this juicy data is kept on an iPad. Without the moment when the cops walk through the door and see their high school yearbook photo pinned into cork is sure to make society significantly poorer.

Bad people and good people aside, there’s another group of bulletin boosters we can’t ignore. Crazy people. Every would-be genius knows that to show off their beautiful mind, they need several boards for “calculations” and “breakthroughs.” This can’t go digital. It can’t. There is something romantic about a borderline personality frothing at the mouth while digging for the perfect tack. And there's nothing romantic about doing it on the "The Cloud" or via a YouTube algorithm.

Think of what will we’ll lose. I haven’t even mentioned what I’m going to do with bowl of 10,000 thumbstacks in my living room. I shudder at the thought. Bulletin boards make bad ideas look great. Everything looks cooler in a semi-collage. Please, will you think of the children?

Class War

  

When I think of class war I don’t picture pitchforks and full length portraits of Karl Marx. There are no picket lines or overwritten placards. No one has a bullhorn. I think of the constant thump of a gym class dodgeball inching ever closer to my face. I see spinning protractors flying through the air like Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore’s helicopter assault. Bouncing off open lockers to the tune of Wagner. 

I imagine the smashing of beakers by a disgruntled Tennis pro. History, a subject so encompassing, it’s a wonder the same people don’t also teach a course on Life. 

In college, classes get too specific. You lose the comfort of generalities often ound in institutions of lower learning. Why take Introduction to Advanced Multivariable Post-Calculus when you can just take Math with a capital M? A class is like a good name. Unless you are actual royalty, it shouldn’t be more than three words.

Then again, that’s just me.

Not on my watch

 

Time, though artificial, is a very real preoccupation for many of us. You can convince yourself it’s not real, but such a proposition is much harder when face-to-face with a Patek Phillipe dealer, staring into his metal briefcase packed with vintage timepieces. A middle-aged Swissman who has left his chalet simply to speak with you in person. He’s made time for you, something you once believed was as fake as the crabmeat in your California roll. He didn’t even have a chance to twist his mustache into form and would've preferred spending the afternoon on the slopes with a nice Riesling. 

Time’s fradulence is not something many of us question. That’s unless we’re considering buying a one hundred thousand dollar watch while on European holiday. 

I don’t want funky do-dads on my watch. No touchscreens or WiFi. I don’t need connectivity or anything related to “The Cloud.” I want people who are in my presence for seconds to ballpark how much I paid for it. Which means I need gold, diamonds, and other rare gems that make it clear this wasn’t obtained on the blanket of a nomadic street salesman.

Because people who love expensive watches have too much time on their hands. 

Just Don't Do It

 

When an advertisinge icon passes away, it’s can be dislocating for everyone even peripherally connected to the dearly departed. You can’t quite find the words, even though you’re in the communication business. You don’t know what to say, but you know you have to say something, lest people think you’re some marginal figure. 

Here’s what you do. You find a picture of yourself and the late leader. You tell a story about how they changed your life. But here’s the thing, the story should be about how great you are, not them. People are already quite familiar with their genius, but may not realize what an innovator you are. 

It’s why you have to tell them. The story should play into your strengths, while getting the deceased to tacitly vouch for your abilities. Dead men tell no lies, nor do they disagree.  

Use words like love. While this may seem like a eulogy, it’s more like a job application. You need your peers to put you on the same level. This is your chance. You never know what recruiter will notice. 

Turning the Page

You’re probably wondering why my debut novel, Dancing Down Under Part 2, failed to catch on with the public at-large. I’m not confused one bit, since I know the real reason people skipped it in favor of lesser forms of entertainment.

It wasn’t the size of it. 1200 pages is the same length as the Bible and most of you have no issue committing that text to memory. 

Nor was it was the complicated plot points. Some reviewers didn’t understand why the protagonist was named Salvator in Chapter 1, Samuel in Chapter 2, and Jumping John throughout. Look, I studied literature at a very high level. Being confused is part of what makes a great book. You’re not supposed to understand everything. 

Had people judged it by its cover, then the book would be on the bestseller list right now. 

There was hardly any outcry that none of the narrative took place in Australia. “Down Under” implied an office building sub-basement, or hell. 

The lack of dancing wasn’t an issue. This is a book, not a movie. 

While some of my initial readers found the words “Part 2” dangerous and dishonest, I said that it worked for Georgie Lucas, so why not me? 

The preponderance of typos due to my inability to find a good editor only added to the story’s earthiness. This was written by a fallible human being and not some robot Shakespeare. 

The real reason people ignored the stack of books sitting in front of one of Port Authority’s many public restrooms is personal. The stupid people didn’t buy books. Smart people did, but how many of are there? Fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty in the whole country. That’s just not enough to sustain a career based on peerless artistry and pure originality.