My Inner Child

Too many people have the tendency to infantilize their inner child, plying them with childish things – toys, candy, and coloring books. I don’t do that. My inner child is precocious and wise beyond his years. So I provide him with cartons of unfiltered cigarettes, crates of grain alcohol, and fireworks smuggled in from Pennsylvania. I don’t treat my inner child like a child. That’s my first and only rule.

He understands macroeconomics, microeconomics and enjoys expensive sushi on a semi-weekly basis. The folks always saying that mercury is in retrograde never seem to approve of consuming copious amounts of raw tuna. I wonder why. It’s as if they haven’t thought through their mindless little aphorisms. Well, I have.

I let him drive, letting the local authorities worry about his license and registration. My inner child is a far better driver than most adults on the road. Which, admittedly, isn't a particularly high bar. We have long talks about Kris Kringle and the realities of his arctic living situation amid our increasingly untenable climate situation.

I leave my inner child home alone for days on end, believing he’ll figure out how to cook an egg or order takeout. I trust him not to burn the place down. But if he does, he knows where the fire extinguisher is. I don’t patronize him by using monosyllabic words, but assume he understands long-winded diatribes on current events. I don’t assume he thinks that geo-politics is tangentially related to the Geo Tracker.

My inner child is no stranger to nostalgia, despite his age, which remains indeterminate. I don’t look down on him because of his lack of higher education. A degree doesn’t define a person, I know that. He knows that. You should know that.  

 

My inner child is getting up there, a little long in the tooth. Pretty soon, my inner child will be my inner adult, growing up like anyone else. But no matter what, he’ll always be my inner child to me. 

Fetching Commute

No one wants to go back to the office as much as dogs. They are the one group sick and tired of their masters always being around. Many people used their dogs as a preemptive remedy against pandemic induced insanity. There were reports of some antsy dog owners walking their pets fifty, sometimes sixty times a day. Anything to get out of the house. But a dog is not an anti-psychotic. While people drag their heels, diving beneath the sheets in a cameraless, rudderless profession, their own dogs are looking for jobs. 

Every office needs a dog. For one thing, it gives the dog something to do. Back when this country actually made things, there was a dog in every factory, a dog on every farm. We put them to work, because, like humans, most dogs are lost without purpose. Cats have pretty names that conjure up images of palaces, while a dog is the more utilitarian beast. Retrievers want to retrieve – papers, tax forms, receipts. Shepherds want to shepherd – interns, clients, fire marshals during the annual emergency exit check. Shih Tzus want to...you get the idea.

I don’t understand how people can’t see this. Your dog does not want to be around you all the time. They need to do something with their lives, away from your home and out in the real world. 

So throw ‘em a bone, would ya? 

Slapsticking Points

On the Vaudeville circuit, as much as the often inebriated, often uneducated masses lapped up well-crafted quips, what they craved more than oxygen itself was physical comedy. They wanted to laugh at the misfortune of others. Beaning, whacking, thwacking, tripping, and yes, slapping. For men like the Three Stooges, witticisms were fine as punchlines, but better punchlines always involve the use of one’s fist. Real punchlines are the lines in someone’s face after telling them how you really feel. But this was when those on stage were the aggressors. Much like a punch, not every joke lands perfectly. 

However, pugilistic comedy didn’t start in 20^th century dives. You can go all the way back to Ancient Rome for performances closer to the beginning. That’s all a gladiator fight was, a form of entertainment that got a little out of hand. It turns out the audience enjoyed the orgy of violence more than the clever wordplay in between bouts. If you think puns are funny, then you’ve never seen a disgraced Roman soldier getting stomped on by an unruly elephant at the Circus Maximus. 

As we became a more literate culture, relying on our smarts to entertain, the skill of making people laugh. Is slapping someone across the face all that different from slapping your knees in a fit of unbridled guffawing? George Kennan was wrong – containment doesn’t always work. You need to let your emotions, especially when going for a joke. Plus, if I recently discovered that words are violence, which if my transitive property loving high school math teacher was correct, then acts of violence are mere words. Funny how that works out.

There are a few ways to react to a celebrity sighting. You could ignore them like any streetwise lunatic. You could approach for an autograph, hoping to flip in a quick cash grab. Or you could walk up to them hoping for a more intimate meeting. There are plenty of ways to provoke someone. But it’s more likely the case one of their handler will step in to give you a smack, which is like getting them to also sign your Playbill. In other words, it’s worthless. Should you get a cheeky response from a wild-eyed luminary, then you’ve accomplished something significant. 

 

Now that’s what I call being starstruck.

Pigeon Proposition

Many fed up New Yorkers, when confronted by a soiled windshield, refer to pesky pigeons as nothing more than rats with wings. It’s an odd insult, since adding “with wings” to pretty much anything on earth immediately makes it better. Whether it’s your dog or your friend Dave, adding feathered, perfectly aerodynamic appendages to the equation puts each into the literal and figurative stratosphere. 

 

Yet there are those confused Americans who’d have you believe that one wing is better than the other. That the left wing is all you need to fly. Or maybe the right wing is sure to put you on a better course. When we all know the truth: at best, a single wing will send you in circles, and at worst, into the ground below for an unceremonious crash landing. 

 

Pigeons need two wings. The tension between the two is part of what makes them able to cruise around a bustling city of rats without wings. Equilibrium should be what we’re after. Instead, there are those activist types trying to bioengineer single-wing birds to do their bidding. I don’t understand it. Have you ever seen a plane with one wing? They even have two pilots, just in case one leans a little too much to one side. 

 

I’m not a peacock partisan who’s in favor of adding ostentatious feathers willy-nilly for attracting mates and psychedelic meanderers alike. But find me a good bird and I’ll find you two good wings. That’s a fact. The one exception would be buffaloes. But it usually helps to get some air. And mammals are no different. 

Judgment Day

I know it might not sound like much, but I just found something truly wonderful resting on my doorstep. You probably can’t resist the urge to guess what it is. Most people have a similar sickness, the inability to go into anything fresh. Movies, Mallomars, whatever. But it was not a box of rambunctious kittens, praying for leche. Nor was it a latter-day Moses, one of those fresh doormat basket babies, waiting for someone to school them in the ways of sea-parting and hair-parting. Sand storms ain’t good for combovers, and many an old world acolyte can tell you that. It was not a giant check with lots of zeroes and tricky ol’ cursive. It was a letter from God. Yes, that God. Not J. God Johnson working the graveyard shift at an all-night Dunkin’ on Northern Boulevard. This isn't the other guy, this is the big guy. 

Yet his cursive is not nearly as good as the nice folks at Publishers Clearing House. But he tries.  Any who, he’s invited me to help judge the AICP (The Apocalypse of Independent Commercial Prophets). And oh boy, I am so humbled by the unusual, though not totally unexpected request. You see, he’s made overtures before, saying things like, “when the time comes, I hope you own a gavel.” I actually do own a gavel. It was my grandfather’s. The opportunity to sitteth at his right hand, wow, just wow. I'm almost speechless. The only issue I see going forward is after the end of the world, there aren’t going to be as many job openings with everyone going one of two directions. I’ll figure it out. Lemons, lemonade, you get the idea.

 

As surprising as it sounds, even omnipotent beings need help sometimes. Why do you think Kringle employs elves? Even if one can do everything alone, why would they? It’s more fun to share an experience with good friends. 

 

Don’t forget to send in your entries ASAP. If you have a particularly hard case, it’s important I see it now, ya know, before it stars raining hellfire. Emails are better, given the flammability of paper. The easy thing for me is that there isn’t any middle ground award-wise. Good, evil, next, and that's about it. So I won’t be parsing commandments and handing out complex sentences. This is simple, binary stuff here. Very basic. 

 

My official title is Queens County regional judge, casting aspersions on humanity as people wait for the final judgment. One last thing before I go to this seemingly eternal orientation session. I don’t want to give away the deadline since it should be a surprise. I think it’s better than way. You won’t miss it. It’ll be a real revelation. 

Trust me.

Interview: This Is All Very Meta

I grew tired of interviews long ago. They are not always as they appear in print. Often edited, routinely condensed to a milk-like powder, and sometimes rewritten completely to convey an entirely different impression of the nutso interviewee. If someone appears intelligent, it’s only because clever editors have made it seem that way. As a jaded misanthrope, I came to the realization that there was only one person I could interview and only one subject I could interview them on. That would be interviewing me on the subject of interviewing.

 

MTP: Good morning. Is it morning where you are?

MTP: Indeed it is. Cloudy, but the sun is no doubt somewhere close by

MTP: It’s not the sunless day the druids feared, is it? 

MTP: Is it a “day” without the sun? 

 

MTP: Ask an Alaskan.

 

MTP: What are we doing this for again?

MTP: I wanted to interview you about interviews.

MTP: Interviews?

MTP: Interviews.

MTP: I’m not an expert.

MTP: Neither am I.

MTP: Interviews today are mere shadow of what they once were.

MTP: Care to elaborate?

MTP: Burr v. Hamilton, Weehawken, New Jersey, standing room only. Now that was an interview.

MTP: Duels were interviews? 

MTP: Duels are interviews, interviews are duels. What about this don’t you understand?

 

MTP: I guess I never thought of an interview in those terms

MTP: In what terms?

MTP: Combative ones. Like it’s a contest. It’s not Borg and McEnroe, but two dopes on the beach playing that pointless paddle ball game, desperately trying to keep it off the sand.

MTP: Then you’re dumber than I thought.

MTP: That doesn’t reflect that well on you, now does it? 

MTP: You’re a softball pitcher, hurling in meaty eephus after meaty eephus. This is hardball, pal. Wake up.

MTP: I'm not your pal. 

MTP: Look, you invited me on. I’m your guest, so start acting like it.

MTP: You’re not my guest, you’re me. 

MTP: Distinction without a difference.

MTP: I knew this was a bad idea. 

MTP: What are you so afraid of? That people are going to think you’re nuts. Newsflash: they already think that. 

MTP: How would you know? You deactivated your Facebook account years ago.

MTP: I have my ways. 

MTP: Let’s wrap this up. 

MTP: Finally, something we can agree on.

MTP: Why a blog? 

MTP: You know the answers already. Kinda defeats the purpose, no? 

MTP: But the audience doesn't.

MTP: What audience? 

MTP: Thanks for your time. Where can people find you?

MTP: Take a wild guess. 

MTP: I don't even know who you are anymore. 

Wind or Lose

You arrive at a restaurant and despite having a reservation they seat you right by the door. It’s a cold night and there’s a draft. With every new diner, you and your eating partner get a fresh, frosty gust. The hot food on your table is practically seared with icicles. Instead of catching up on sports or gossip swirling around the federal indictments of former classmates, you complain about the wind. You curse it with each forceful gale. 

This sort of thing happens all the time, and not always inside a climate uncontrolled environment like a busy trattoria. From the safety of a basement dwelling or behind a reinforced steel wall, they’ll decry tornados, hurricanes, and zephyrs. I suppose I understand it. These natural elements can be quite inconvenient or scary. However, a cyclone is only a few notches between a cool breeze. 

All this hot air around wind obscures the point – we need air to live. We’re not fish, okay? And since when can you have too much of a good thing? You want air, then you don’t get to be picky about what form it arrives it. The same goes for dehydrated individuals decrying sudden deluges. Isn’t this what you wanted? You can’t have it both ways. 

Say what you will about a certain type of natural disaster, but to me, it’s mostly a breath of fresh air.