Saint Timonious

 

Timonious was born in modern day Tunis, eighty-seven years after the crucifixion. He enjoyed the proximity to the lord, assuming it added to his already growing cache. His upbringing was privileged, coming from educated and wealthy stock. His preaching started on the schoolyard, not far from the Mediterranean. He knew he wasn’t just different from every other child, but better. He felt that in his bones. 

 

He'd stand atop wooden crates, rocks, really anything he could find to give himself a proper and prophetic stature. 

 

He never picked ups a check, preferring his followers to take care of it. He bathed several times a day and found alabaster to be his favorite material, adorning most every surface in his gallic Chateau. 

 

One of the very few saints who insisted on beatification in his lifetime. The way he put it, “I’m already a saint – you know it, I know it. Why not give me the title so I can charge more at book signings.” A special exception was made, and he toured the world as “the Living Saint™” here to lecture you sinners. He hoarded sponsorships, collection plates, and bejeweled footwear, especially anything of the open-toed variety. He had several houses, compounds, really. He got into banking. The “most profitable prophet,” as his chariot read. 

 

He thumbed his nose at martyrdom and prided himself on being a survivor, outlasting all of his contemporaries. He had a family, because “why not? To not pass on whatever I have, now that would be a sin.” 

 

He knew he was better than everyone else and, in many ways, he was. He never tired of telling people that, and they never tired of hearing it. It was a match made in heaven, only it was here on earth. He died at the ripe age of 132, choking on an oversized caper, dropping his trusty gilded chalice, spilling ceremonial wine all over his fine alabaster patio. Even he would say, he had a pretty good run. The hardest part of faith for him was worshipping Christ, someone who he doubted had anything on him. That was a daily test, one of the few he consistently failed. 

 

While we won’t see the likes of Saint Timonious again, his legacy lives on. And you never have to look far to find it. 

Cool Down

 

The ad agency Big Spaceship rebranded itself SPCSHP, now forced to explain the proper pronunciation using a parenthetical (in case you’re wondering, it’s still “spaceship”). This got me thinking: can I apply lessons from these purveyors of cool to my own life? 

 

I’d like to think so. Being cool used to be about leather jackets and smoking cigarettes. Sports cars and snazzy sunglasses. A well-timed quip or a perfectly tuned finger snap. These were the hallmarks of coolness since the beginning of time. But not everyone knows how to snap and few have access to great vintage clothing. 

 

Today, all you need is the caps lock key and an aversion to vowels. Now, my name is littered with vowels, starting with the very first letter.

 

Henceforth, I shall be known as LVR MSR (pronounced Oliver Mosier). It has a nice ring to it, don't you agree?

Lost and Not so Profound

 

Lots of places have a “lost and found.” It’s where gloves, hats, and electronic devices go when their owner’s carelessly misplace them. But there’s something very wrong here. “Win and found” makes a lot more sense. 

Some may say it's not yours. But whose is it then? It's not theirs. Someone has to win and someone definitely has to lose.

 

Think about it. It’s winter. This winter. It’s cold. Very cold. And you need a wool sweater before braving the frosty elements. Have you tried looking in the “lost and found?” While there you may find other items to your liking. Things people have tossed off, forgotten, or totally ignored. You have a few sweaters to choose from. Why not take both? Is that an iPad? The hat for my favorite team? You can find a new wardrobe and a new sense of self in the “lost and found.”

 

It sure sounds like a win to me. 

 

Formally Formerly

 

I don’t use Twitter. Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to say, X. Or should I have said “I don’t use X, formerly known as Twitter.” This is the clunky phrase that has pervaded our current discourse. When can we just say, “X?” Twitter was always too bird-oriented. Chickadees tweet, people drone on and on.

 

So how about now? Can we update it now? Soon, soon. There are strong precedents for abandoning the “formerly” trap. 

 

At some point, people stopped saying, “I was vacationing in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon,” figuring you’d be able to find the island on a map. 

 

When your dumbest, least ambitious friend comes back from medical school somewhere overseas, you can’t say, “Hey Mister, don’t stand with the fridge open.” Can you? He’s a doctor now. 

 

One day Marky Mark, good vibrator, became Mark Wahlberg, good actor. Few objected at the time and even fewer remember those heady days of shirtless music videos. 

 

The point is that names change. People move on. It’s time we did the same thing. There is something rather liberating about saying, “I hate X.” It’s open-ended, hopeful, and not all that specific. What more could you ask for? 

Defuncty Town

 

Apparently, Sports Illustrated is going away and many journalists are mourning its demise daily. It’s a shame, a sin, or something even greater. Can you imagine a world without Sports Illustrated? 

 

Well, I can. Since I haven’t had a subscription to the magazine in years, I can do it quite easily. But the culture really is poorer when a single publication of diminishing standards finally calls it quits? Perhaps. What about when Mademoiselle hung up those stilettos for good? How about when McClure’s threw their letterpresses into cold storage? Or when the good folks at the Partisan Review tossed hammers and sickles into a raging bonfire? 

 

Or what about magazines are still technically around but you wouldn’t really know it by perusing TikTok. Like say, The Saturday Evening Post or Esquire, once titans of the industry, now reduced to the margins of a post-it note. Is Banksy our Norman Rockwell? I hope not.

While dinosaurs have been extinct for 65 million years, The Dinosaur Times has been in the past sense for about three decades already. Where does the time go? 

Et Tu, Mute?

 

It’s understood that actions speak louder than words. But you know what speaks louder than both? No words. Especially when it comes to television shows. When I’m judging a program with several talking heads yapping away, I emphatically hit the mute button for an objective perspective. NO closed captioning either – that’s cheating. I can’t lip read either, so it’s purely about gestures and body language. The mood of the room is captured in every grin and raised eyebrow. 

Chaplin didn’t need words, neither did Keaton or Lloyd. That’s my bar. The great thing about TV, sports, or political punditry, is that you can be annoyed while the volume is at zero. Whatever else you say about it, that’s rather impressive. I don’t need to hear a word to form an intelligent opinion. I just need to watch the histrionics, the guffawing, and the ill-fitting suits. 

By watching on mute, I able to come away a better understanding those who crank the sound. I can see the shows for what they are, assessing their substance. And I can see what they are not.

 

Which is, almost uniformly, not very good.

Water we doing?

 

If you’re anything like me, you don’t know when to drink water

I can't figure it out, despite my alma mater 

Do I drink it in the morning?

Do I drink it without warning?

Do I drink it before bed? 

Do I drink it every meal or do I drink in lieu of bread?

Do I drink it when I’m thirsty or do I drink it when I’m bored? 

Do I drink it for myself or do I drink for my lord?
Do I drink it out of boxes or do I drink it cans?

Do I drink it out of bags or do I drink it from my hands? 

Do I drink it from the sea or do I drink it from the lakes?

Do I drink it from a gutter no matter what it tastes? 

Do I drink it from the sky when it starts to rain?

Do I drink it from a puddle when it starts to wane? 

Do I drink it by the ounce or do I drink it by the quart? 

Do I drink it for fun or do I drink it for sport?

Do I drink it from the faucet or do I drink it from the source?

Do I drink it from a hose with substantial g-force?

Do I drink it from a glass or do I drink it from a bowl?

Do I drink it from a spring or from a watering hole?

Do I drink it from a geyser?

Do I drink it to make me wiser?

Do I drink it when it’s snow or do I drink it when it’s ice?

Do I drink it unsweetened or do drink it with spice? 

Do I drink it as a gas or do I drink it from a glass? 

Do I drink it all the time?

Do I drink it with a lime?

Do I drink it until toxicity?

Do I drink it with electricity? 

I drink it all these ways and more, from the heavens to the ocean floor.

But I don’t drink it from a recyclable cup or a reusable bottle.

My philosophy forbids it as a hygienic Aristotle

So I shun Nalgene and S'well and Stanley and Yeti.

Yet I have plenty of options while being quite petty.