ASAP’s Fables: The Frogs Who Desired a Ping

 

“You know how it works,” said the first frog.

“I do? You’re the one who insisted and I’m quoting, that ‘we simply couldn’t live without it,’” said the second frog.

There, two frogs resting atop a pair of lily pads, waited for any signs of life coming from their recently purchased iPhone. 

“It was very expensive, you know,” said the first frog.

“And? Get to the point, I’m in a rush,” said the second frog.

“And I think that it ought to matter,” said the first frog.

“It’s not like the thing is waterproof. Didn’t they at least offer you a case for it?,” said the second frog.

“I figured we’d be using it so much in the first few weeks there’d be no reason to ever put it down,” said the first frog. A naïve statement if the second frog ever heard one. 

The two frogs weren’t so different. They grew up in the same pond, went to the same schools, made the same friends. But there was a worldliness to the second frog, as if he’d been somewhere, had lived another life once. He knew things that most friends didn’t. He liked classical music, appreciated Kentucky bourbon and in recent years took to watercolors. Now the first frog, he was a frog. No one confused him with a reincarnated Dalai Lama. His opinion was never sought after by visitors. All of a sudden, the phone started to vibrate. 

“Oh my goodness, it’s happening,” said the first frog, a little frazzled.

“Answer it,” said the second frog. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“It was a text message, wasn’t it?” said the second frog.

“I wish that would happen again. How exciting. I’ve never felt so alive,” said the first frog.

Moments like these caused the second frog to hate the first frog. Then he remembered he was just a frog and how shouldn't expect more from him. He went to Best Buy and purchased a phone. That was reason enough for celebration.  

“Who should we call?,” said the first frog.

“Who can we call?,” said the second frog.

“We could call information? Or one of the emergency numbers,” said the first frog.

“No, it has to be organic. You can get in serious trouble if you’re not in the middle of a real emergency,” said the second frog.

While the two frogs were discussing the possibility of making an outgoing call, a stork sidled up to them, surprising both with a sudden greeting. 

“Hello, boys,” said the stork.

“Oh hi, we didn’t see you there,” said the first frog.

“You should’ve called first. We have a phone now. Check it out,” said the second frog.

“I prefer the spontaneity of a pop-in, no call.” 

“You hungry?,” said the first frog.

“I think I got everything I need right here. I’m in a hurry though,” said the stork.

“What was that emergency number again?,” said the second frog. 

Chain Gang

How do you hunker down and get things done? Do you light a candle, say a prayer and turn up the stereo well past a friendly level? I don’t do any of that – not anymore. I’ve become inured to unproductivity, embracing time-tested procrastination techniques like fresh squeezed goose down pillows. You see, I’ve tried it my way. I’ve tried hunkering without assistance, from home, from wherever. And you know what, it’s not working. I’m not working. I sit there and stare, with my shirt threadbare eating a ripe pear (when in season). 

This explains why I’m back at the office. However, I won’t be doing the same old routine of clocking in and clocking out at reasonable hours. I will be part of an elite program of natural go-getters voluntarily allowing their superiors to chain them to their desks. Plenty of folks talk about being chained to their desks, burning the midnight oil, but how many truly shackle up when the situation demands it? 

Instead of complaining about your boss’s inclination towards handcuffing your thoughts, present your wrists like a surrendering perp and get to work. I know this isn’t what they teach you in business school. The only thing touch-feely in the working world should be the cold metal irritating your skin after twelve to fourteen hours. The truth is, I find it even difficult to work when handcuffed. It’s not that the ideas don’t flow like Medieval honey wine, they do. But I’m preoccupied with picking the lock. I find an ancient paper clip, straightening it between my teeth as a makeshift key. That frees my hands, but my feet are still connected to the desk. I’m not going anywhere. 

Working on a creative chain gang is a joyous experience. You get to know the people by your side in a way that most open offices never allow for. There’s no brainless ambling through the halls looking for that one true stapler. You are assembling something - what? That's unimportant. Who needs Ritalin to hyperactivity when a chain does the trick?

There are questions that remain. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of dragging a desk down a stairwell during a move, well, you should know that during an emergency it’s a bit more complicated. Though I sure have ducking covered. 

It's The Oil

When someone says to you, “it’s the oil,” it’s not always immediately obvious what exactly they’re talking about. They could be crouched beneath the cracked chassis of a previously sputtering automobile. One that was leaking dark liquid at every turn. A vehicle that endured its owner’s cavalier attitude towards frequent oil changes, believing the act was ceremonial at best – the mechanic’s equivalent of consuming the host. Check the engine, check the oil, but don’t you ignore that eucharist under the hood.

They could be referencing the delectable marination of a well-cooked piece of salmon, watching as none of its skin sticks to the grill. They know there is such a thing as too much oil, soaking the fish past the point of no return. 

They could be referring to the absence of wrinkles in the octogenarian’s face standing before them. It seems an acne-riddled adolescence does have some material benefits, albeit ones that come to pass long after high school graduation. 

They could be discussing the work of Jan van Eyck, striking in visual clarity and religious solemnity. Though anyone with an open search bar knows people were painting with oil for thousands of years before that. Remarkably though, no one thought to paint with vinegar.  

They could be educating you on the particulars of committing insurance fraud during a natural disaster. “Oil in the pan,” or something. How that would work doesn’t have to make sense to you, since you’re not the one going to jail. You’re only listening. 

Or, and most understandably, they could be analyzing the trajectory of an errant bowling ball that somehow delivered a strike on the Brooklyn side. On the subject of bowling, I have much to say. We live in a time where people are working remotely, but some things, like bowling, you can’t do from home. You have to venture out in the world. I’ve heard reports of people trying to juggle multiple gigs at once, but those doing this aren’t working afternoons at a deli and the graveyard shift at a bank. For whatever reason, these fools remain in the same industry, increasing their chances of being found out. When Yogi Berra was in his prime, he opened up a bowling alley with ex-teammate, Phil Rizzuto. Had Berra been playing for the Yanks while trying to also catch for Cleveland, even in an era pre-social media, it never would’ve worked. 

He went bowling instead. You should try it sometime. 

Force Mayeure

While admiring the numerous decaying piers on Manhattan’s west side, home to many a working-class mollusk family, I came across a flyer. It too was decaying, fraying from the Hudson’s rhythmic  sloshing. It wasn’t easy to retrieve without falling into the drink.  I took comfort in knowing how difficult it must’ve been to hang. I sat on a half-submerged slab of concrete that once served a vaguely nautical purpose reading the flyer. From what I could see, the contents were vaguely political, relating to the upcoming mayoral race. Still wet, I dried the paper off by holding it dangerously close to the Westside Highway, letting the speeding cars do what a laundromat never could. Here’s what I found:   

Polarized Society

 

Every day during my morning jaunt through town, I take notes, observations of the people I come across. Not the people I come in contact with – that’s a no-no when giving strangers the Jane Goodall treatment. I wouldn’t want to risk interfering with my work by literally getting too close. So I keep my subjects at a reasonable distance, using binoculars only when appropriate.

My findings rarely surprise anyone with a background in anthropology. Some people wear hats, some people do not. Some people wait for the light to cross the street, while others like my neighbor William “Dash” Nilly traipse across bustling thoroughfares in what could only be described as a willy-nilly fashion. They help me pass the time in between cups of coffee. But recently I’ve noticed something – according to many, we are living in an extremely polarized society. That may be so. However, too often I see people walking the sunny streets post-dawn without sunglasses. Should they be donning shades, the lenses are rarely if ever polarized. Is it too much to ask in a supposed polarized society for one’s choice of optics to match the tenor of person-to-person interactions? 

I thought so. Yet when’s the last time Ray-Ban or Oakley had a thoughtful word to add to the fraught conversation? They are tongue-tied, afraid to get involved. What they don’t understand – what you’d like to think Polaroid understands – is that they are already involved whether they realize it or not. Want to change society for the better? Increase access to your sunglasses and allow people to finally see the world as it is. 

There’s another problem staring at us through reflective glass. In this polarized society of ours, how many people reside in either of the globe’s two poles? As in, what is the number of folks who pay their taxes from the North or South Poles? There’s Kringle. There’s John Q. Penguin. After that, the rest of us are only pretending to live in a polarized society.

Although, the earth has always been a little bipolar. 

Takin' Up Space

A week or so ago, sleep-deprived and heavily-medicated scientists scrambling for good news amid the alien fever gripping the nation, noticed hundreds of unexplained radio bursts originating from a distant galaxy. This is a transcription of what they heard… 

DJ: Korax from Andromeda, what’s on your mind today?

Korax: Hi, Johnny, first time caller, long time listener. What’s going on with the Circinus Highway? I pay my taxes and my daily commute is full of asteroids, comets and every other rock that’s been around since the Big…BEEEEEEEEEP…Bang. 

 

DJ: Easy there, Korax. Hey, somebody in the booth. You guys awake? C’mon fellas, what am I paying you for? Did anyone hit the dump button before that went out over space? Hello?

 

Producer: Hey Johnny, we caught it in time.

DJ: Phew. I guess that’s why there’s a 7 light-second delay. Korax, I’m gonna have to hang up if you do that again. So please watch what you’re saying. Remember, you're on extraterrestrial radio. This isn’t Alpha Centuri – there are rules here. 

Korax: Sorry, Johnny. I just get so carried away sometimes with all these guv’ment bureaucrats. Is a smooth highway really too much to ask?

DJ: Apparently it is. Korax, thanks for the call. Let’s go to um, how about, Sol in deep space.

Sol: Johnny, can you hear me? 

DJ: You’re on the space, Sol. What’s on your mind?

Sol: I have a young kid and he’s pestering me about taking him into a black hole for his 18^th birthday. I know what Newton's law says Johnny, but I think I should wait until the turns 21. 

DJ: I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sol, but did it occur to you that he’s already been in one? That he’s simply asking you permission to placate your own sense of paternal control. Kids today, huh? There’s nothing you can hide from them. Thanks for the call.

Sol: But John-

DJ: Our 15^th caller this hour will receive a gift certificate for Café Kuiper, a proud sponsor of this radio program. Café Kuiper, serving great dishes for going on two hundred eons. Nuke, you there?

 

Nuke: Yes, Johnny. I’m here. 

 

DJ: Welcome to Takin’ Up Space. Nuke, I have great news for you. You’re going to Café Kuiper. Bring your appetite and loose belt. Congratulations. 

Nuke: That’s wonderful, but is it a nuclear fusion restaurant? 

DJ: Of course it is. Who you gonna take? 

Nuke: My wife, I think.

DJ: Not your girlfriend? Only kidding, Nuke, stay on hold so my producer can take down all your information. And what’s your favorite radio station?

Nuke: W-G-L-X.

DJ: That’s right. You’re listening to WGLX – rockin' the galaxy since before the Big Bang. Someone in my earpiece is telling me to wish a big galactic hello to several uninvited guests eavesdropping from far away. You know who you are.

*high pitch screech

DJ: How about a song? This one goes out to Carol and Quasar on their two trillionth wedding anniversary. It’s Hubble Melvin and The Blue Dwarfs with their number one hit, “If You Don’t Know Meteors By Now.”

*static static static

DJ: That sure takes me back to another time and another place. Mornings watching Solar Train with Don Cornebulous. Those were the days. Speaking of another place, come on down to Van Allen Chevrolet this Saturday. I’ll be there all afternoon signing copies of my best-selling book, Waste of Space: The Life and Times of a Galactic Shock Jock. Van Allen Chevrolet - the best deals on used vehicles in the observable universe.

 

*faint music rug in the background

DJ: My producers are waving at me. You know what that means. I’ve taken up space this evening. And remember: one if by land, two if by galaxy. See ya in orbit, everybody.

Announcer: Dark Matters with Ray Gamma is up next. Support for Takin’ Up Space with Super Johnny Nova is paid for by listeners like you. 

*more static, beeping, major interference…END OF TRANSMISSION

For Art's Sake

 

I was walking along the Manzanares River collecting suitable rocks for my bathroom fresco, when I came upon an elderly man sleeping by the water’s edge. I almost walked into him, destined to crack a rib or two. I found myself still in a daze from the bathroom fiasco. The contractors I hired were crooks, taking their dulce, dulce time renovating my massive castillo in the nearby town Quinta del Gordo. It was 1819 and I worried that electricity would be invented before the tiling fools finished installing all my wall-mounted candle sconces. 

The old man held a canvas and several paintbrushes under his arm. Presumably, it was a sign he was an artist, or at least worked for one. I tried to make out the image, despite the poor angle. When I did, it was shocking. It depicted a man eating a child, with the untamed fervor of many-a-finger-lickin’ diner at CFC (Cordoba Fried Chicken). Taken aback, I asked him if he would consider repainting it – that I’d make it worth his while (gold had been kind to me). Plus, I had plenty of money that I was planning on not paying the bathroom contractors. There was a possibility, under the arm of a trained professional, to salvage the work. 

Couldn’t the man in the painting be eating a chicken wing instead? There was silence. The old man looked through me, creepily staring into the bottom my soul. How important was this image anyway? Did art lovers really want to see cannibalistic infanticide? I suggested a few alternates. Have the man in the painting hailing a carriage. He could even be singing. If that didn’t work, he could paint the river itself without people. The Manzanares was quite lovely back then.

I stood there for hours, pleading with the man to reconsider. I must’ve named every type of cuisine there was at the time, looking for any replacement. Why did he have to make something scary and weird? Some might say, why was it my problem to fix? I could just paint my man eating a chicken wing and be done with it. It’s more important to get others to bend to your will than to follow your own heart. Just as true today as it was in 1819.

Nothing mattered. I couldn’t break through. Years later, I got Paul Cezanne to reconsider painting fruit after the smell of raw meat began to envelop his studio. Most people don’t realize the great man had a supreme fixation on garden gnomes, believing they possessed mystical qualities and deserved a place on every canvas. It took some pushing and lots of wine, but he came around and left the creeps with the shovels and hoes. But this old man wasn’t Cezanne. He wouldn’t budge. I made the best case I could and had nothing to show for it - not even one altered brushstroke. That his art would hurt people, give them dangerous ideas and might even send them to a gallery’s fresco-less lavatory meant nothing. He didn’t say a word. He hardly drew a breath. Next time you’re in Madrid, you can see the painting in the Prado, horrifying museum goers for two centuries. Whatever happened to painting pretty pictures?

I later discovered that the old man by the river was completely deaf.