The Missing Link

How did we get here anyway? More importantly, how did you get here? There’s no rhyme, no reason to it. On your screen is a scrolling set of unfamiliar images. Suddenly, and without warning, you were staring at a webpage that you can’t quite recall. It’s as if you woke up and there it was, looking back at you. Which is a serious risk, since you never bothered to cover the camera on the top of your computer. They could be watching you, whoever they are.

The morning started normally enough. You grabbed a bucket of coffee from your bathtub and a moist hand towelette (not to be used together, caffeine is not a natural exfoliant as far as I can tell) and immediately found your nearest laptop. On it, you search for anything that piques your interest – miracle cures, fun-loving tales of woe, and embarrassing stories concerning celebrities you’ve never heard of. While it may seem random, what you do, and how you do it is extremely calculated. 

You start on premier news sites (the Yahoos, the Yoohoos, wherever there is brightest font written by the dimmest bulbs) and start the scrolling process. There are browser accidents. It’s called the navigation bar for a reason. But that still doesn’t explain where you are. Reading the transcript for some obscure C-Span call-in show in the mid 90s. I know what you’re thinking, aren’t they all obscure? To a point, perhaps, though this one is worse.

You’re looking for logic where there is none. This page must have a common ancestor with your homepage. But you can’t account for the strange little spongey thing situated between your ears. You’re not in control, you’re only the vehicle. The brain is not you any more than air traffic control is a 747 taxiing before takeoff. 

And if you clear your history what chance do you have to find the missing link? 

Shuck and Awe

To throngs of summer loving automatons, corn is nourishment and nothing more. It’s something to be picked out of one’s teeth using rusty metal skewers, charred and greasy from hours of silent marination. There, atop picnic tables with more than a few visible splinters, we rest our elbows for safekeeping, hoping that with each new bite, our skin doesn’t crack under the pressure. 

Then think of all the bald people struggling with their combovers, picking clumps of hair out of the shower drain, tearing up at ancient photos of their once proud manes. Because what many a college professor and journalist lack on their dome can be found in a large supply on the average cob of corn. There, hair is an afterthought, something to be picked away and thrown on the dirt. 

So here am I, racing through the cornfields in a terrifying maze of maize, calling on all of us to stop ditching these miracle fibers. Have you always wondered what being blonde was like? Did you want a mustache or beard but stopped because of social pressure? Has mesh been a guilty pleasure but you worried about its consistency? Does your bald spot affect air traffic controllers during sunny days, blinding pilots and sending the FAA into a frenzied tizzy? Then it’s time to wrap yourself in corn hair or whatever it’s called. Give yourself a blonde ponytail. Get that mustache you always wanted and fill in the blanks atop your grape. 

It’s almost like wearing a new perfume, too. People will ask, “what’s that smell? It’s interesting. Smells like summer.” You’ll laugh and rub a little butter on your soul patch (you have a soul patch now) as a clever way of giving them the answer. Instead of resigning yourself to salt and pepper hair, why not use salt and pepper in your hair? 

Look, this is certainly nothing to sneeze at. Though the pepper makes that a rather difficult undertaking. 

Modernity Leave

Everyone needs a break. Even as the dog days wind down in favor of something crisper. There’s no shortage of reasons for doing so. Maybe you woke up on the wrong side of the bed – the one that slopes into the floorboards due to an eroding mattress weather-beaten over time and unnecessary rollovers. Or you woke up with a tickle in your throat that requires a steady medley of hot tea and cold silence. Perhaps you drifted off to sleep wondering if the sun would even come up – a dilemma many a medieval farmer dealt with on a daily basis. What then does a person do a cloudy day? When you discover that the sun doesn’t go “up” or “down” at all. It merely hangs there like an enticing pinata. And much like this premier party favor, we’re the ones revolving around it – not the other way around. 

For some, a day off here or there is enough to assuage their innermost crises and moral quandaries. But for others, it’s just a good start. What they want is a sabbatical, a break, a leave. Time apart to contemplate their place in the universe (all while being handsomely paid with benefits to boot). 

Modernity is what sends them into the abyss. Modernity Leave aims to solve that problem. I know, modernity is all relative, all about perspective. I guess. But what did people in the 1600s really have to worry about? It certainly wasn’t the prospect of breaking in a new ergonomic desk chair. Most people didn’t have desks. Modernity Leave gives us the time needed to consider where it all went wrong. Somewhere between the birth of radio and the birth of Snapchat, things went awry. 

Modernity should be novel, weird, and seemingly impractical. Like a late night automat packed with tubed meats or a robot butler waiting to remove your loafers the second you set foot on the doormat.

Employers that permit Modernity Leave gain fresh employees upon their return. These are people who arch their back not like the Pont du Gard but like Saarinen’s greatest monument. They deserve time to think, about themselves and why sunken living rooms haven’t come back. If this doesn’t work, there’s always eternity leave.

Sorry, But That Won’t Fly Today

There are the obvious examples, the ones that first come to mind during any conversation on the subject of what would and wouldn’t fly today. The ostriches, the penguins, the emus. Flightless birds who don’t believe wings are necessarily meant to flap beneath a cool breeze and well above the clouds. To them, these natural wonders of ours, flight is overrated. It’s dangerous. In the old days, the only thing birds had to contend with up there were other birds. Friends, or at least, friends of friends. On the rare occasion that a soused Frenchman with a penchant for buoyancy entered the fray, they might be forced to watch out for a wicker basket attached to a hot air balloon. Hardly the Saturn 5. 

But that wasn’t until the tail end of the 18^th century. Up until that point they’d had quite the run of things. Sure, there were lanterns and other  flotsam, but mostly it was free of nonsense. No planes, helicopters, or beachcombing buffoons wearing baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirts operating a small drone while their family frolics in the surf.

I’m sure there are people, rich people, perhaps good friends of mine, who are right now working on a way to get the flightless into orbit. Don’t they get it? This is a choice. The flightless birds, the kiwis, the cassowaries, the rheas – they are grounded on purpose. They’ve seen the flights in and out of Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport and that's enough to send them into the sand dunes. What? You didn’t think birds understood radar? That was only bats, right? Wrong. The feathered few understood radar when you were still going out with birdfeeders. 

Plus, do you honestly believe that a penguin couldn’t fly under the right circumstances? Of course, they could. They just don’t want to. It’s too crowded up there, especially now and especially in the future. They watch their friends, the seagulls, the pigeons, the geese, maligned by the public for interfering with landings and takeoffs and have made the determination that it’s not worth it. No one wants to be on Sully's bedside - not again. Things are much better on terra firma. It’s a choice, like any other. All I ask is that you respect their choice and don’t place chickadees on a higher plane than the kiwi. Who needs the headache? Not with Musk and Bezos crowding the clouds. Many have taken up swimming to fill the emotional and physical void. Can you blame them?

They are far from the only thing that doesn’t fly today either. Staplers, minivans, Pan Am, to name just three. Before you get all high and mighty pontificating about how this or that doesn’t fly today, think of our flightless friends. Because while they don’t fly anymore, they used to. And who knows, maybe they will again one day when the skies are clearer and the future a bit sunnier. Because it wouldn't be a normal flight without a significant delay. 

Finding a Life Couch

Has life got you down? Good, then you’re closer to solving the problem than you even know. Is life exhausting but you still can’t seem to sleep through the night? Great, then you’re almost there. Trust me, people, trust me. 

What you don’t need, what you can’t possibly afford is a full-time, live-in life coach. Where would you even put such a person? In the broom closet with your extra brooms? The trusty ones you were deeded by your Shaker Great Aunt who left this world without so much as a lacquered rocking chair to her good name. The basement isn’t a safe place either. I know that people are always deriding others for living in basements, but yours is heavy on the radon and light on everything else – including canned beans and jarred nut butter. 

How many of you have hired a life coach thinking it would solve your many problems? I see lots of hands. Okay, okay, put ‘em down.

 

What you need is a life couch, a piece of certified therapeutic furniture that doesn’t judge (lest it be judged). You don’t sleep on such a couch, you pass out after a day of sun-staring or what’s called a heliotropic cure-all. It worked for Galileo, so who are you to argue with those results? I know all about his house arrest, but here’s the thing, we remember GG today, his legacy is secure. There’s not much time spent assessing and reassessing your day. What transpired is done and only thing you are left to troubleshoot is whether or not to sleep on the couch as is or unroll the full-sized mattress stored beneath.

But wait, there’s more.

For a limited time only, we’ll throw in a “friend table” to go with your specially designed life couch. Aren’t you sick of good buddies flaking on you claiming they have better plans? Well, this piece of upholstery is an upright member of the living room. It stays there until you say it’s time to hit the donation bucket. 

Hold on. What’s that? I’m listening to my earpiece. Dave, you can’t talk while I’m talking, how many times have we been through this? What’s that? Oh, great. You’re going to love this, people. That’s right, you guessed it, there’s even more. For the next fifteen minutes, we’re offering an exclusive deal. Order a life couch plus the friend table and we’ll add a brand new “storage advice.” This little piece of hardware may look small, but boy does it contain some real gemstones. Inside is everything you ever wanted to know. Unsure what to tell your teenager about dropping out of high school to join a militant group of traveling carnies? Or maybe you can’t fry an egg to perfection. The storage advice won’t give you options, it will give you decisions – the right one or your money back. 

What do you think folks? They’re flying off the shelves, so you better duck. Life couches sure are heavy. Remember, living rooms are for living. All our lines are open. Talk soon.  

Stress Conferences

There’s some quiet murmuring, mostly chitchat about flight delays and the efficacy of lockdowns. There’s the universal sound of fingers scrolling along smartphones, swiping and swiping without a care in sight. No big bright flashbulbs like in the old days though. The Athlete in question here is the world’s premier bocce player, Fabrizio Scusa. Unlike most bocce players, Scusa is not in his 70s, sipping on dessert wine and smoking unfiltered cigarettes in between shots. He’s much younger than that. He prefers hard seltzer and a fresh vape pod. The news today surrounds his decision to pull out of the latest match, taking away his balls and going home. Journalists are chomping for his carcass, smelling the chum on the court. Bocce didn’t used to have press conferences. Then again, it didn’t used to have fans either.  

“What happened out there? You just got up after a shot while you were still leading?”

“I felt it was time. I’d rather risk humiliation here than humiliation out there.”

“But couldn’t your opponent interpret your decision as a personal slight? As if you’re unwilling to let him beat you fair and square?”

“He can’t beat me fair and square. I was hungry, I was thirsty. I was tired.”

“What about the fans who paid good money to see you perform?”

“I get stressed like regular people, even though I’m not a regular person. Being a bocce boy comes with a lot of responsibility. Bludgeoning is always on the tip of my finger. I don’t want to maim my competitor by accident. 

“What about on purpose?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Rodolfo.” 

“Some people might get annoyed that you’re quitting this match but heading straight to a big photoshoot in Maui.”

“I don’t enjoy photoshoots. It’s just something I have to do. It’s not my fault people enjoying seeing me shirtless and sweaty.”

“When will you play again?”

“It’s hard to say. After the shoot, I’m going to take a few mental wealth days and decide, along with my team, what’s next for my playing career.”

“Mental wealth days? Could you describe what one of those is like?”

“They’re a lot like mental health days, only with a lot more money. When I’m feeling anxious or uneasy in my own skin, I call up my financial guy Alvaro. He lives on Grand Cayman and he reassures me that I have nothing to worry about. He goes over my endorsements and explains exactly how many private jets I’d need to purchase for him to be concerned. It’s way more than you think. Counting sheep helps some people relax. Me? I count money. I recommend it to everyone. It really works. I'm almost good enough to play bocce again. Almost.” 

Without A Net

In my alternate career as an excellent life coach by day and dispenser of wisdom pearls like a gifted oyster shucker standing in broken shells and feeling around for the perfect one by sea, I’m often asked about backup plans. As in, is it important to have one or two in case things don’t work out accordingly? The super successful, the minted financiers, the moneyed mavens, and the well-fed entrepreneurs with their ivory white collars and tax write-offs, like to tell you they preferred entering the business world without so much as a single fallback. They skipped the net, feeling it would only make them feel too comfortable and too safe to stunt their brimming ambition. 

Perhaps, perhaps. If your ambition and drive is so delicate the presence of a net derails it, then it wasn’t that strong in the first place. Are you a better cyclist sans helmet, too? 

Because a strategically placed net might just save your life. Even the spandex-wearing circus freaks, holding poles and walking on tiptoes rarely if ever traipse across without a safety net. They know that one wrong move and it’s into the elephant dung they go – or worse. The clowns and dancing bears below are glad to have the net, since they depend on it as well. 

We’re not all acrobats. We don’t all understand acrobatics. Even professional contortionists and pretzel lovers put a premium on safety during live performances. Yet we’re made to believe that the president of a startup is immune from contingency plans. Don’t believe it. 

Ever try fishing without a net? I’m not talking about the solo fisherman, resting his eyes on a rowboat, hoping for a bite or two before the mosquitos turn the tables on him. No, this is in regards to the career fisherman, the nautical fella whose living depends on each catch. Imagine if instead of a net they had to use a spear or, God forbid, their clammy hands. Fish are slippery little fiends and pretty good swimmers. You think Phelps knows his way around water? He’s nothing compared to those who live in it full-time. At the end of the day, Olympic swimmers are still land mammals moonlighting in liquid for prestige and profit. 

Maybe you’re trawling and trolling, picking up shells, tossing back the broken ones, the smelly ones, the ones that don’t sit right. Imagine looking for bivalves with galoshes but no net. It can’t be done. 

Not having a fallback is a nice thought. But where does it get you in the end? Picking yourself off the pavement is easier the lower you are to the ground. And getting crushed is supposed to happen at the end of your career, not the beginning.