New Year’s Desolutions

We asked morons, managers, and middling marketing-types to cue us in on the wild working world as we pile up the e-papers and e-prepare for another year of e-business. Some are qualified to expound on this subject, while most are not. So we asked anyone we could find, ignoring their “title” or “resume.” What we got is quite interesting.

Teri Devolve, Marketing Airhead

“Too many board rooms are full of smart people. It’s time we opened the doors to imbeciles and dum-dums.” 

Pesky Dogooder, Head of Jargon

“While I’m elated to see certain things set forth in motion by various members of the c-suite, it’s disheartening to realize that what’s happening is neither sustainable nor mission-driven, meaning, the time is now for us to all come together and hold leaders accountable for what they don’t do as well as what they do do.” 

Diane Ferentz, Pardner

“The opportunity to be a difference-maker can make a difference in the lives of others. And to always remember to leave comments in fun colors. Even the cruelest remark, when written in pink or yellow will put a smile on an underling's face."  

Connie Fusion, Chief Chief Officer

“We can tell people what to think. We can tell them what to say. We can tell them how to say it. Like, I was living in France for six months before something told me that the s in “Paris” was silent. Ah, like Perry Como. I caught on quickly, as you can imagine, but I couldn’t have done it without generous boulangerie boys and others wandering around the town square at noontime.” 

Liza Rationale, None

“You hear a lot about karma, but dogma is just as important. I want to see more of the latter and less of the former. Hit someone’s fender while parking? Forget it.” 

Ben Thair, Brand breeder

“What can I say that hasn’t already been said by my esteemed colleagues and rivals? I will say only this: say you’re standing in front of a window in a 20 story building. Don’t press against the glass and assume it's locked. As a student of stained glass, fenestration is awfully important to me. Be careful up there, people.”

Dave, Some Guy

"What was the question again?"

Norm Chomsky, Status Quoter

“I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

John Wasn't Maddening

 

There are lots of ways to be a sports broadcaster these days. Some like to dress the part, wearing a loud suit with a louder tie, even though shots of the booth are rare and often undesirable. You could recite idiotic statistics for the viewers at home to ignore. You could recall inane stories from your past as a way to show you have rubbed shoulder pads with the likes of minor, helmet-wearing celebrities. You could shoutout friends on their birthdays. You could try and predict the plays before they happen as sort of cheap parlor trick – not that anyone asked you to do this. You’re supposed to analyze the plays not guess them.

You could pretend the game on the field is more intricate than the moonshot. That each new play is more complex than anything NASA attempted in the 1960s. That a player’s body is more impressive than the Saturn Five, and much more durable, since those pieces of hardware were used once and then sent into the abyss. You could compare the sideline geniuses with Gene Kranz, likening his white vest with a cutoff hoodie. You could talk over your play-by-play partner, ruining big moments, quiet moments, any moments at all. You could act like your goal is to disrupt the solemnity of certain major events. You could never get excited, treating each play the same, with an unrelenting monotone that puts lots of people to sleep and makes everyone else wish it had. 

You could speak in clichés and use more words than necessary. Saying this player is a real downhill runner, even though the field is totally level and any elevation changes would be a real cause for alarm. Remember the '89 World Series?  You could say the quarterback “fired the football into the open arms of an uncovered receiver, who’s now dancing into the endzone untouched.” You could read ad copy for gambling sites without a hint of irony, even though decades earlier the practice of wagering on games was derided and criticized as the end of professional sports in America. You might comment on the weather, speaking at length about the size of flurries on the field versus what they look like through a standard camera lens.

Or, you could just explain the game as clearly, as simply, and as entertainingly as you can. It’s harder than it looks though. And while you’re at it, cut a holiday feast with your hand instead of a knife. If the meat is tender enough, it shouldn’t be a problem. 

Power Trip

 

This is your captain speaking and I’ll be the one flying today. You? You’ll be sitting when I say and maybe standing when I say it’s okay. Welcome aboard for what should be a brief, yet eventful flight. I don’t have a co-pilot today. Dave’s more like a codependent enabler, bowing to my every whim, caving to my every caprice, and telling me what a great job I’m doing at all times. Plus, he holds the wheel when I'm eating.

I used to be just like you, struggling to buckle my safety belt, wondering what sticky substance was causing my tray table to stay in its upright and locked position during mealtime. Wondering how they made ice cubes look like that. Not anymore.

I’m a pilot. You wouldn’t tell a bus driver how to drive, so you wouldn't tell a man in my position how to fly. You trust me. I get off knowing that without me, you folks would still be on the Oregon Trail, dropping from dysentery, slapping some oxen, sleeping with one eye open, terrified of a sudden Indian attack. Not me. I’m on a higher level. 

I know that you people bought a plane ticket for New York to Chicago, but the route I take is up to me. Look, I will get you there. It might take a little longer than you expected, but that’s why God gave us time zones. I have an extra hour to play with. What are you worried about? You’re not in a rush. I’d like to take a more scenic route, one that makes a few maneuvers out west, show off some of this country’s greatest National Parks.

Robots can fly these planes, that’s no longer even in doubt. But you chose a person, one with his own pathologies and passions. Don't forget, a pilot is a moving object. 

 

My colleagues never believed this day would ever come. Saying that I wasn’t mentally equipped to fly. Too many demerits and HR issues. I’ll show them (right now). Remember: it’s not a hijacking if you know what you’re doing. I’m many things, but one thing I’m not is an amateur. 

 

Oh, one more thing. No talking, no walking, no movies, no meals. No bathroom breaks, no sleeping, no laughing, no squeals.  No sighing, no miming, no barking, no spiels. I need silence to concentrate and minimal distractions. Thanks in advance. 

 

Enjoy the flight.

Kameo

 

Cameo is viewed in certain circles as a sad statement about the financial feasiblity of art. Look at it like this: Here are some of our favorite actors forced to regularly debase themselves for small bills and loose change, reading from a stranger’s silly script, they received only moments before hitting record. These videos show thespians at their most vulnerable, preying on their urge to perform. This desire to find a spotlight, wherever it shines, isn’t the fault of the subscriber, paying good money to see an idol brought down to earth. 

According to a usually reliable source, Kris Kringle has gotten into the act himself, suddenly leery of welcoming scores of children and adults onto his lap. For too long, he let his thighs be the brunt of Christmas shoppers' retail zeal. It’s an odd thing, being extremely fat yet spreading himself too thin each year. Might explain why he never shied away from Mrs. Claus’s serial baking, loading up on cookies and other sweet delights. 

With something other than the Christmas spirit in the air, Kris opted to stay home during his typicaly instense post-Thankgiving schedule. In the rush towards December 25^th, he tried to hit every major mall, as well as working out a deal with law enforcement and local DAs to expunge his record after years of breaking and entering. This year though, he’s too tired to try. 

Can you blame him? So he’s on Cameo for the first time. Bizarrely, few people have asked him for gifts, instead quizzing him on his connection to the Military Industrial Complex and fossil fuels as stocking stuffers. He’s been forced to debate angry carolers, utterly uninterested in presents. Still, fifty bucks a pop isn’t bad for a semi-retired, reindeer-loving recluse. Since they’re literally paying for his time, he has to take it, recording his detailed answers to their meandering questions. 

His job is easier this year. The thought being, everyone else works from home, why should he put himself in harm’s way? It’s dangerous enough dealing with NORAD and air traffic control, occupying evening airspace. He wishes good cheer to those that listen, and to those who don’t? Ordinarly, he would send them coal, a useful, yet rather messy gift. These days, things are different, especially with soaring gas prices. Like the rest of us, he’s gotten into gift cards. 

Old Man Nuclear Winter

 

First of all, he is not to be confused with Old Man Winter. So let’s get that straight right off the bat. He hates the very idea of it. The way Dick York once felt when someone mistook him for Dick Sargent, the woebegone, second Darrin Stephens. The show's loyal audience was hardly bewitched by the latter’s performance. 

Old Man Winter is a seasonal, foulweather friend, turning to hibernation as a form of annual security. This is not the case for the other guy, whose judgment is often mushroom-clouded by external events. Look, Old Man Winter is a sap. He’s overjoyed during mild flurries or an icy road where black ice glows under the morning sun. However, this is a deity without real imagination. The guy can control the weather and he rarely has any fun. He never strays from his comfort zone. When he’s really bored, I mean, completely stuck, he might bring some snowflakes into May – but that’s about it. A few tropical islands could get a sense of what winter partisans are always raving about in the form of a midday snow gust. But most people treat such anomalous weather happenings as comical at best, annoying at worst.

They don’t take them seriously. Not so for Old Man Nuclear Winter. Most of the time, he does nothing. He sits on his throne, knowing that the specter of nuclear annihilation is better for his brand than an actual apocalypse. If there’s no one left to fear you, what good is fear? Old Man Nuclear Winter didn’t first appear on the scene with Oppenheimer, Fermi and the rest of the Nobel savages scurrying around Los Alamos. He’d been around for years.

Ever heard of Vesuvius? Before he was nuclear, he was positively volcanic. His temper has cooled over the years, and those who’ve felt his wrath must deal with the fallout. It’s never pretty. I take that back. It is quite pretty, in a sublime sort of way. 

The two Winters run into each other at holiday functions or in the homes of mutual friends. They share a good deal of acquaintances. If you think the world is small in your little patch of earth? Picture the deity circuit. Everyone attends the same benefits, charities, autograph signings. At least today is the shortest day of the year. As Old Man Nuclear Winter always says, "it's over quick." And it doesn't matter what "it" is. Though considering who said it, safe bet he's talking about  the atom bomb. Just a hunch. 

The Year In Review

At the tail end of another tumulutous year, the tailed and tailless alike prefer to take refuge in the calculated comforts of lists and reviews. It is, they say, furry appendange of not, the only true way to assess the previous twelve months. How’s that? By tallying things that took place during the year. Looking into the past isn’t the same as living there – though it’s unquestionably in the same neighborhood. These people are ones to dwell, at least during the duration of the holiday season. An excuse they never tire of giving more than giving gifts.

Troubling as it may be, most see their duty to rate subjects no one cares about. Books, television shows, movies, music, this is what dominates the end of year. Rightly or wrongly, most assessers choose events that took place in the middle of the year. Whatever happens in January is ignored in the way, standardized test takers get shaken when they fill in too many As in a row. Of course, this is nothing more than ancient superstition rearing its mildly attractive head in the throes of modern times. 

For my look back, I’ve ignored all those things usually focused on, picking people and things too often overlooked in favor of album releases and fillm premieres. Here are the three accolades I have the honor of giving out for 2021  

Best Parking Job: Santiago “Bert Rubber” Trafficante, Bronx, NY

I have often been accused of having an “east coast bias,” referring to large portions of the country as “drive-thru” states, belittling provincial pride belying territorial triumphs. But here’s the thing. Parking in New York City, while fraught with obstacles, requires certain dexterity and self-denial that parking elsewhere simply does not. In parts of the Midwest, a toddler could parallel park a Mack Truck in most downtowns without coming anywhere near opposing vehicles. If the term “wide open spaces” isn’t about parking, I don’t know what is. In New York, specifically in the Bronx, with its topographical variance, the degree of difficulty must be accounted for when reviewing parking. In the old days, this award was given out based on word of mouth. Now, thanks to the surveillance state upgrades, footage of pretty much every parking job from subpar to par excellence is readily available.

Best Handshake: Janice Hartsdale, Norman, OK

After about two years off, Janice returned to manual normality with a good grip on reality. Where most people swapped out pumps for bumps, she went in like a person despearate for human contact. Her handshakes remind me of James Gandolfini early in his career, often shining despite mediocre material. It’s why her partners aren’t even worth mentioning. 

Best Yell: Federico the Howler Monkey, probably Guatemala, but without a mailing address, it’s hard to know

I thought about giving this award to the fine falsetto of a furious activist or someone else within the species at-large. But, time and again, I kept coming across entries from wolves, crows, and monkeys. The problem with people is that they say too much, which is to say, anything at all. Animals, on the other paw, don’t waste a breath on making some clever statement. Their screams are truly primal and worthy of our praise. Maybe one of us can catch them in ’22. 

What's My Crime?

From a stuffy attic somewhere over Grand Central Terminal, amid the mothballs and canned peaches, a little known game show once broadcasted. Its signal is only now returning to earth…

John Weekly: And now, What’s…My…Crime? Brought to you by Bleach, for when your alibi can’t clean up the mess. 

 

*Applause

 

John: Let’s meet our award-winning panel. First up, you know her from police blotters coast-to-coast, the crown princess of criminality, Ms. Dorothy Killsomeone. 

 

Dorothy: To my left, is the punitive and petty young penman, the veritable voice of villainy, Mister Bennett Curfew. 

 

Bennett: Why, thank you. And to my left is a very lovely actress on the stand, having pejured herself more times than I can count, Ms. Arlene Tapdances. 

 

Arlene: Wonderful, just wonderful. According to a recent issue of Wrong Doers Magazine, our moderator was described as having possessed paplable hostility to some of the contestants litany of misdeeds, only able to soldier on after reviewing his check. So to my left is the hostile host of this provocative program, our own angry young man, John Monthly Weekly. 

 

John: Thank you so much panel and good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, were going to begin with our mystery guest. Are those blindfolds and ballgags firmly secure, panel?

 

*Inaudible gasps

 

John: Good, good. Remember to remove the gags when you want to speak, panel, so we avoid last week’s unintelligble debacle. Please sign in on the chalk out line, mystery guest.

 

Guests signs in to a smattering of claps and gasps. 

 

John: For this portion of the show, we dispense with any nonsense and get right down to it. The first question goes to Ms. Killsomeone. Take it away.

 

Dorothy: Mystery guest, did your alleged crime occur on a sweltering day?

 

Guest: No. 

 

Bennett: Did it occur in a city famous for wind?

 

Guest: Yes.

 

Bennett: Were you out attempting to get a latenight snack in Chicago? 

 

Guest: Yes.

Bennett: Was it a famous Chicago style hot dog? 

 

Guest: No.

 

Arlene: Mystery guest, was your food of choice Chicago style pizza?

 

Guest: No.

 

Dorothy: Was it a Chicago style Italian beef?

 

Guest: No.

 

Bennett: Would you describe the food with the words, “Chicago style?” 

 

Guest: No. 

 

Arlene: Was it a sandwich?

 

Guest: Yes.

 

*Applause

 

Arlene: Did you leave this sandwich at the crime scene?

 

Guest: No.

 

Bennett: Mystery guest, I am so curious about your relationship with this sandwich.

 

John: Panel, one more question on the sandwich. Time to move on. This is a live show. 

 

Bennett: Sorry, John. It’s just so odd. Here’s a man, outside in the cold, in a Midwestern city…

 

Arlene: I remember the story, but I can’t for the live of me recall this fella’s name.

 

Dorothy: It’s the strangest thing. I can picture him perfectly well, his face, but nothing about his name or occupation. 

 

Bennett: Me neither.

 

Arlene: Mystery guest, you’re so mysterious. 

 

John: Well, this is a first. Sorry, mystery guest, but it’s time to slink back behind the curtains into relative obscurity. Looks like your time in the spotlight is up. Thanks for coming by. And thank you panel for a valiant effort. Until next time on…what’s…my…crime?