Unhappy medium

 

Many of us wish we had a crystal ball. But the truth is, for those people actually in possession of them, life is anything but a ball. Sure, they know what to expect, but that offers little solace when things don’t go their way.

What is a medium after all? It’s akin to middle management. Some are impressed by the ability to contact those in the afterlife, but it’s never on their own behalf. It’s always at the behest of someone else. They’re like old fashioned telephone operators, sitting in tiny rooms with a flashing, beeping switchboard, inches from their face. They are customer service reps, acting as a go between here and there. 

But what does do for them and their own lives? Crystal balls are a pain to lug around, and you should see the looks the TSA gives when one rolls through the X-ray machine. 

Are there perks? Of course. Celebrities are always calling, on the landline and through other means. But telepathy provides no rest for the weary. You can’t ignore the call or let it go to voicemail. Putting yourself on “vibrate” means something different entirely. You end up bombarded, inundated by requests and demands from seekers. 

Too bad there’s no future in it. 

Ahem to that

 

Look, I realize that this party is dwindling in numbers, with most guests either passed out on a variety of different surfaces or a variety of different substances. However, I thought you should know that I’m leaving, too. While I had my eye on the marble countertop, some unconscious reveler had his face on it already. He beat me to the slab. I heard that the bathroom tile would have been a nice substitute, but the doors have been locked for hours. You might want to call the paramedics. As an animal lover, I could’ve chosen to step inside one of your dog’s spacious crates (who, like Saddam Hussein before him, sleeps in a different location every evening), but I thought better of it. I’ve never liked cages, no matter how gilded they are. 

The problem is, if a person says goodbye and no one’s awake to hear it (or sober enough to remember it), did it really happen? I’ve been wondering the same thing, straddling the doorframe for the last few hours, preparing my exit. The public gave George Washington their undivided attention during his farewell address. Don’t I deserve a similar level of respect? 

I never even wanted to attend this party, but felt it was a good place to make connections. You can’t ignore the many doors that open after a little networking. But that was before I noticed the bathroom was locked. 

I can’t be here anymore. I can’t have people think I’d be associated with an event like this. I mean, it’s nearly December and all the ice in the mixed drinks have melted. That didn’t used to happen. And I can't be around this many empty plates and lukewarm appetizers any longer. 

Like a good wedding or a better alibi, I could really use a witness. Only I’m not sure who will come to before sunup. 

I’ll leave you with a bit of philosophy from my second favorite Tom (after Chapin, of course). St.  Thomas Aquinas argued that once a law is announced, everybody in society must follow it, whether they heard it or not. Ignorance is no excuse. The fact that I’ve tried to promulgate my departure means you have to acknowledge it, preferably to paid subscribers.  

Journalism from A to Z

 

Apocalypse

I’m not religious, per se, but having a rudimentary understanding of the Book of Revelation helps when putting current events in a broader, biblical context.  

 

Boring

What readers should feel when consuming the news. 

 

Clicks

The answer to every version of “why was this published?”

 

Duh

The proper response to a big story. 

 

Evidence

What’s that? 

 

Free

What most newspapers ought to cost.  

 

Gotcha!

Journalism.

 

Housebreaking

What most newspapers ought to be used for. 

 

Ideas

Good ones aren’t necessary. 

 

Jargon

No article is complete without a healthy amount of. 

 

Kabuki

Type of theater favored by most journos. 

 

Lawyers

Thank God for them. 

 

Malpractice

Not just for doctors.

 

Narrative

Making sense of reality.

 

Obvious

The subject of most editorials.

 

Pretentious

How to stay ahead of the audience. 

 

Quit

The world would be improved if many did. 

 

Repeat

There’s no such thing as saying the same thing too many times. 

 

Sensationalism

The tone.

 

Tact

It’s unheard of. 

 

UFOs

The stories that get pushed aside in favor of nonsense. 

 

Vacant

The minds of most columnists.

 

Wit

Mostly absent.

 

X-Rated

Yeah right.

 

Yack

What regular people want to do after watching TV. 

 

Zombie

The equivalent charisma and uncanny resemblance of most cable news hosts. 

The Dick Caveat Show

Before we get started, there a few things you should know. In the event of a fire, your seat cushion is extremely flammable. There was a sketch last week which demanded we flood the entire studio with gasoline. I can’t remember the reason, but Exxon gave us a lot of money, so we did we what we had to. You can probably still smell it. That’s why there’s no smoking in the studio, despite my nostalgia for the nineteen fifties. 

I know that most of you were told your ticket was free of charge. While this is technically correct, since tonight’s show is overnight and ends early tomorrow, we'll need to collect an occupancy tax. Of course, this doesn’t mean you need to sleep, but you certainly can. And based on our recent ratings book, you will. One of the producers is passing a collection plate, which I pilfered from the Lutheran church around the corner. They have gone cashless and weren’t using it anymore. I know it’s a sin, but there was no place to confess, not being a Catholic church and all. What goes into this plate is not the same as the tax. Think of it like a tip. Based on how much is there, I might have a fancy dinner tomorrow. We’ll see how much of the crew gets to tag along.

For a variety of complicated and, frankly, boring reasons, tonight’s program will not be broadcast anywhere. Not over the air, not on streaming; nor is it being recorded for posterity. But there is a man named Barry in the green room with a long string and a couple soup cans doing his best to share it with the world. So you can’t wave at your family and friends watching at home. Feel free to wave as long as you believe in the power of prayer. 

Many of you are here because of the celebrity guest. Well, there’s something you should know about that. I can tell many of you were expecting Taylor Swift. However, this is a lesson in close reading. If you notice on your ticket stub, it says, “Tailor Swift.” That’s a mister Aubrey Swift, "tailor to the stars since 1972™", with a modest shop right over on Sunset. It’s never too early to start wearing expensive Italian suits. 

The applause sign is broken, so we’re going to have to come to an understanding. Whenever I say anything remotely intelligent, I need you to respond in kind. 

One last thing. I’m not Dick Cavett. I’m a well-paid impersonator. Mr. Cavett is comfortably ensconced in his palatial home on the eastern tip of Long Island. I’d say he expresses his sincere regrets at not being here tonight, but the two of us have never actually spoken. 

With all that out of the way, enjoy the show.  

Runoff

 

 

Ask any farmer and they will tell you that runoff used to be a much simpler problem to contain. Sure, it happened after it rained or a big thaw. It was old-fashioned pollution of the sort our grandfathers understood. It’s what destroyed the New York harbor’s veritable bivalve paradise, where scooping up oysters from the river was a time-honored midmeal pastime. Not happy with the restaurant’s oyster offerings? Then go find your own mollusk, free of charge. 

Things are different now. Runoff isn’t just a stormy byproduct of a sudden weather event. It happens when two imbeciles talk too much. We can’t act like this is something that only affects farmers, as much as we wish it were the case. Whenever there’s a buildup of nonsense and stupidity, this is what you get. Trouble is, there’s no simple way to get rid of it.

This is the runoff we deserve. My only recommendation is to wear tall boots, thick socks, and ear plugs. The beauty of having a brain injury is two-fold. For one thing, you don't know you're a moron. And you aren't ashamed for being a moron. You're only interested in votes (and paying off impregnated women).

Castropub

 

A “Castropub” is not the same as a gastropub, though you’d be forgiven for thinking so. However, being forgiven still means you can be sent to the gulag after an expeditious show trial. Our cadre of investors noticed an uptick in “red sensibilities,” as we’re deeming the communistic resurgence among the younger generations. So we decided to do something about it. 

Prices are more fixed than a fancy French restaurant. No forks, spoons, or knives here. Just miniature hammers and sickles. You’ll find the former incredibly useful when we lock the diners inside. It’s standard dining procedure to surrender your passport to the Maître D’. You aren’t considered done with the meal until everyone is. Dining is a communal experience, and this is all about the collective’s overall satiation. 

There is only the illusion of choice here. But we know what’s best for you, since you clearly don’t. You ended up here, didn’t you? We offer plenty of clothes since our dress code is rather strict (Soviet chic). 

You’re free to read (the literacy rate of our diners is approximately 100%), however the only permissible reading material is the menu itself. nothing that isn’t specifically mentioned on the menu. There are no specials.

The colors of the décor, as well as the dishes, are appropriately drab. Like we always say, “the soup should match the drapes.” In our case, it’s a deep military green. When the food you just consumed inevitably rebels, the color barely changes. In fact, we are so committed to revolution that we believe in the right of your food to self-determination. We believe that the only rival to a fiery political tract is a digestive tract.

Don’t worry about tipping, given that we’ve frozen your bank accounts and seized your assets. You’ll find that many of your personal groceries will end up in the kitchen. 

Diners of the world unite.

Chappelles and Oranges

I have a wonderful, one-of-a-kind sense of humor. When people meet me and discover what I find funny, it’s akin to uncovering a rare jewel. Not something they come across every day. And like a jewel, it’s worth a ton of money. I’m in the process of turning my unique sense of humor into an NFT. A little early Christmas present to myself. 

I can get behind mockery and ridicule of every stripe. Especially when it’s tinged with intelligence and a dollop of mean-spiritedness. 

The thing is, despite my world-class sense of humor, I tend to take things personally. But only those things that I deem unfunny. It’s not like I take funny things the wrong way. That would be offensive. I can tell when a joke isn’t a joke but rather, a statement. Sadly, not everyone has that ability. 

There are some things you can’t ever make light of. What are those things? Good question. Whatever I say. Some people laugh or don’t laugh. I laugh or contact nearby defamation league for financial and moral assistance.

Have I mentioned that I’m a putz?