Vladimir Linen

Yesterday, I attended my first baseball game of the season. It was restorative to see that expansive field of green and the drunken malcontents yelling indecipherable insults at the players in the hopes a picayune viral incident frees them from their life of corporate turpitude. But that wasn’t what got me thinking. You see, I used to view the people who dressed up like the players as foolish boobs, deluded they might be given the opportunity to fill the roster in an emergency situation. Then there’s the whole aspect of wearing someone else’s name on your back, a humiliating advertisement for one’s own tolerance for self-inflicted indignities.

Maybe I thought there was more to these sartorially suspect individuals. Perhaps I was the problem, in my crisp blazer and silk tie. Here’s a thought. Sports fans are uniquely enthusiastic and passionate, something that ought to be lauded in a nihilistic society where earnestness of any kind is disturbing.

So I got to thinking. Why don’t circus lovers dress up as clowns for a big show under the big top? Where are the diners donning chef hats for dinner at their favorite new restaurant? Sure, Star Wars fanatics enjoy living in a galaxy far, far away – but most moviegoers wear popcorn instead of costumes. 

I wonder why leaders of countries aren’t more adventurous with their attire. You won, you’re in charge. Why not wear something fun? It’s true in democracies where a suit and tie is the norm. There’s very little room for self-expression. Authoritarian regimes are even worse. Which is odd, since you’d think they’d be the most willing to go a little rogue. But no, they stick to army fatigues and Maoist blazers. Repression in these countries extends to the color spectrum. It’s almost as if the decaying dictatorships believe the world is still shot in black and white. What else could explain a place like North Korea’s aversion to different hues? 

These are hot button issues. I might give a world leader the benefit of the doubt if he dressed more like Liberace and less like Lenin. Throw in some glitter, add a little linen, and sashay across the world stage like there’s no tomorrow. During the height of the Cold War, when nuclear obliteration was never more than a different hot button away, attire rarely reflected that dark potentiality. Instead, people played it safe, going with grays and conservative suits. 

While the Soviet Union was often referred to as the Iron Curtain, ironing was a foreign concept to anyone living behind it.

Ocean PSA

With the beach on the horizon, this is an important message. Although, if we’re being precise, beach season is on the horizon, since what’s out there in the distant sea are mostly mirages and frigates. Scrounging seagulls and lost souls. Stupid boaters and smart sharks. But as many households start buying up swim trunks and floatation devices at an alarming rate, we should extend this conversation well past the tide line. As an institution the ocean has been more of an impediment to success than a facilitator of it. What was easier? For the cave people to cross an ice-covered land bridge or the easily confused explorers bounding across the waves for the possibility of more land? 

Here's the thing. This is not about the ocean. It’s about our standards. When talking about the sins of the Catholic Church, no one gets a pass. Other organizations are endlessly criticized for slip ups and mistakes. Yet, there’s never been a tsunami in human history that’s put a damper on roving bands of beach going co-eds. We look past the obvious, often at our own peril. 

These are not isolated incidents. As much as people want to believe otherwise, with their flippers and swimmies, we’re land creatures. There’s no amount of lectures from a sunburnt surfer that can change that. I can’t be convinced that the sea is our natural home. Walking comes naturally to us (while running and swimming do not). No one teaches you to walk, after all. 

The ocean is painfully and irrevocably problematic. Shark attacks, rip currents, sand storms, and those annoying beachgoers who insist on bringing boomboxes all contribute to the tragic portrait of a terrible place. People only go on the sea to get to other land masses – the goal is not simply to find more water. If anything, the preponderance of water is cause for concern. Whereas, the mere sight of land creates a frenzy on deck. 

Water's great, but not this water. You can't it drink it. It taunts us, daring us to take a swig. Stick with Poland Spring, since there are associated storms to speak of. 

Victory Laps

The first time something of any consequence fell into my lap, I assumed it was divine intervention. I thought it was the Big Guy’s way of saying , “time to fix your ceiling.” What else could explain the ever increasing bits of drywall inserting themselves into my granola? It turns out it was nothing of the sort. The apartment above me had been rented out to a traveling dance troupe, who practiced aggressive samba to the soothing melodies of Antonio Carlos Jobim. The floor would shake, the ceiling would break, and I would end up ingesting more than I bargained for.

The second time anything worth remembering fell into my lap, I was in the park. Which part isn’t important. It was an Olmsted special, you can be sure. That’s when I started to notice an influx of acorns landing nearby. At first, like before, I assumed it was some kind of theological test. As it turns out, it was merely an angry squirrel, frustrated at his lot in life. He spent his time tossing acorns at picnickers, instead of pitching on a professional baseball diamond. For whatever reason, the uniforms don’t get that small or prejudice is still rife in the clubhouse, no team allows squirrels to tryout for the squad. You’d think they’d want the best players, not merely the best humans. They are willfully ignoring much of the global population. So there I was picking tree branches out of my punchbowl. 

Either way, those are first two that stand out. There are growth industries revolving around things falling into one’s lap. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m talking about is the universal goal of falling into one’s own lap. Some say this is nothing more than the fetal position. Curling into a ball is classic coping mechanism, which also happens to be aerodynamically sound. Cannonball, anyone?

A victory lap is not holding down the horn after hitting fifty green lights in a row. It’s dodging projectiles from an ornery ground mammal or googling the best roofer in your neighborhood. At least that’s what it means to me. 

Disney's Grooming Problem

I know it, you know it, even some nearsighted little kid sitting too close to the screen knows it: Disney has a serious grooming problem. Don’t believe me? Just look at their history, objectively and honestly, assessing exactly where these cartoonish arbiters of good taste have lost the plot. 

Mickey Mouse, for all his seemingly rodential tendencies, lacks the avaricious nature and scruffiness of a typical house mouse. Neither he, nor his domestic life partner (mice can’t legally marry in the state of Florida) are strangers to the generous application of hair product, used to smooth out any rough locks. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen a mouse use mousse.

Now picture the big blue Genie from Aladdin. Here’s a guy stuck in a lamp for about 10,000 years, collecting dust inside a stuffy antique, and yet he exits without so much as a single hair out of place. He skips the combing and goes straight to the crooning. Somehow, he’s been diligently shaving inside, watching his whiskers, waiting for the perfectly timed rub of a long-anticipated, much-appreciated release.

Cruella de Vil wears canine coats to complement her inimitable sense of transgressive fashion. Even though “wet dog” is something feared and known the world-over, she perseveres and looks sharp despite it. This is not an unkempt individual sullied by dissonant barking from the fur averse.

And although Donald Duck goes through life pantsless and speech-impaired, he remains a well-coiffed canard, without a split end disrupting his migratory pattern. Flying does a number on visibility, namely hair, but not for D.D. He’s quacking his way to primping bliss.   

This is all to say that what Disney does in the realm of grooming, has helped cultivate a wildly unrealistic depiction of the world. It’s one thing to have a talking dog or a talking mouse or a talking candlestick, but quite another to have each possess the perfectionism and attention to detail of Anna Wintour. From Tinker Bell’s complexion to Simba’s majestic mane, grooming is an obvious, highly destructive obsession with Disney.

Even the aptly named “Goofy” has the visage of someone all too familiar with the trappings of a personal stylist. Who are we kidding? Dogs lick themselves to freshen up. The seven dwarves are comically cute without the expected comb-overs of characters their age. Why else would someone wear a ridiculously pointy hat if not to cover up an obvious, unbecoming bald spot?

Of course, there are a few examples critics point to as proof not every Disney character is the model of grace and style. Bambi’s mother only had a “bad hair day” after getting her head blown off. She’s the exception though, not the rule.

I didn’t make this up and neither did Governor DeSantis. What I’m calling for is a series of unkempt, messy characters to proliferate Disney’s vast fictional universe. Children admire these cartoons. My taste for lobster wasn’t born in the briny fog of a New England shanty, but after repeated viewings of The Little Mermaid. The disheveled haven’t always gotten their due. Though they have made significant strides over the years. 

There are many examples for Disney to model their future, more sensitive projects on. Einstein and counter cultural icon Scooby Doo were both known for their trademark shagginess. And say what you will about The Unabomber, but the man wasn’t a groomer. 

Miss Information

Our next contestant hails from the small town of Mercury Flats, Pennsylvania, legendary for naturally occurring thermometers, found near upturned rocks, not all that far from Main Street. She’s listed as being 6’6” in heels, 7’0” in sandals, and 5’4” “on a good day.” She sang backup for Peter Gabriel’s first solo record and worked on the International Space Station as a visiting spiritual consultant. She’s been known to give chocolate to dogs and garlic to cats, two definite no-nos, but for whatever reason, any legal consequences have eluded her thus far. She claims to be related to both the Rothschilds and the Rockefellers. Let’s welcome her to the stage with a round of applause.

What makes you unique from the other contestants? It says here that you were instrumental in the birth of the Internet and you helped make the first reusable tote bag. Interesting. 

What would you do to enact world peace? You’d tightly control speech and the dissemination of information. I see.

Why should you win this pageant? Apparently, you’ve been ordained by God to win. I want to apologize to all the other contestants who came out here today for a fair competition. It seems as though the result has been decided by higher ups before any of you arrived. We appreciate you coming out but want to let you know…

Put your hands together for Miss Information, your new winner and national arbiter of truth. Don't get on her bad side, people. Yes, I'm looking at you, Miss Steps.

Rising Inflation

Inflation has begun to affect me on a deeply personal level. I used to tell people I graduated from a practically ivy league college with good grades and better friends, lamenting the fact I never once dined in a professor’s home. Now I start by telling people how much literal ivy covered my freshman dormitory. That should count for something, right? Let them figure out it wasn’t technically among the elite Ivy League institutions. My grades have improved over the years, too. How about the time I had a long feast with a group of tenure track raconteurs? I can even picture the evening. There was wine, cheese, and great arguments about the Great Books. 

My childhood, while once quaint enough, now conjures up images of The Beaver. I don’t specify the year I was born, but you can be sure I avoid showing any pictures that aren’t in black and white. I grew up in a ranch house. Now, I lose the “house” part and let people assume I grew up on a huge cattle ranch somewhere in heart of Texas. Why not?

I have never been all that into celebrities or their associated culture, but knowing the cache they possess within society, I’ve decided to recount many seemingly unimportant interactions over the years. There was the time I saw Spike Lee at the airport with his family. I never thought much of the non-meeting – until now. Now I tell people how I instructed Spike to dress more provocatively and be more open about his Knicks basketball fandom. I also gave him a few screenplay ideas and life advice. When he asked why I was doing all this for a stranger, I said, “It was the right thing to do.”  

The sandwich I had last Tuesday was fine. Now I tell people how the good people from the Guinness Book entered the deli wanted to assess its dimensions for inclusion in their next edition alongside my photograph. 

I had always downplayed by role in the end of the cold war, but I can’t ignore it any longer. 

I used to drive a BMW. I no longer specify what make or model, letting people believe it was an erstwhile race car. What’s the harm? 

I once survived a flood by kayaking to safety. My first dog could speak at least as well as the average 3 year old. And my elementary teachers remained standing until I sat down. It was sign of respect. 

Time doesn’t just heal all wounds, it inflates memories, too. 

The Divine Tragedy

 

There are very few truly perfect things in our current climate. There’s the evenly-seeded everything bagel, untoasted, lathered with a reasonable amount of cream cheese, and sliced with symmetrical precision. Then there’s the sense of the sublime which occurs after slipping into a certain breed of parking space, one found in heavy traffic amid a row of frozen cars, revealing itself like a genuine oasis hidden behind an obscuring bumper. And then, there’s Twitter. It’s the closest thing we have to the Library of Alexandria, the nearest thing we have to The School of Athens. It's Pee-wee’s Playhouse without any sniff of scandal, hint of controversy, or musk of outrage. 

Yes, it’s all too true. Twitter is the “paradiso” Signore Alighieri must’ve been rhyming about all those centuries ago. And to think, I thought he was going on a long, stultifying walk through the forest. Twitter is where discourse comes to prosper, where the benefit of the doubt is extended to one and all, and where debate is sacrosanct. Here, disagreements flower like a magnolia in spring. Which is to say, they only last a couple weeks. 

And for all you free speechers out there, please take note. The First Amendment is about the government meddling with free expression, not about the culture formed in a society devoid of context or principles. I bought my pitchfork without a single federal subsidy, thank you very much. Say I’m going to a late afternoon book burning, that’s not politicians getting involved on the local level. It’s simply a group of concerned citizens who care about kindling. Anyone can torch anything during the dead of winter. However, it takes a level of commitment to the cause (and a tolerance for sweat or a predilection for arson) to create a deckle edged inferno in the doggiest days of summer. Angry mobs are a part of any healthy democracy. Otherwise, who would be able to read every problematic cartoon in circulation? Is that a symbol of a hate or am I just watching The Producers with the sound down?

So I suppose the right question to ask at this juncture is: how can Twitter get any better? It’s like asking what makes a sunset more beautiful (which, from my rudimentary understanding of color hues is actually pollution and out of control forest fires, but never mind that). The point is that Twitter is perfection. It doesn’t need our interference. Perfect things don’t get better. They go stale quickly and lose their shine. That bagel you loved so well and so long, but didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to finish? Well, it’s harder than an exposed outcropping of Manhattan schist. Or that parking space which proved the existence of a just and benevolent God? It isn't Sunday anymore and even God tickets on weekdays. 

I suppose Twitter is the next thing to lose its former luster. Profiles have replaced passports and DNA sequences as the preeminent mode of identification. It’s absolutely terrifying to imagine what comes next. There are 44 billion possibilities and I can’t think of a single good one. Can you?