Lego Trip

 

As a boy I was the rare child who played with Legos. Most children my age found other uses for the little Danish blocks. Perhaps because a Danish ought to be edible, many preferred to eat them, while others enjoyed shoving them up their nostrils. 

 

Now for those unusual kids like me who built things, few did it with my understanding of history. They followed the directions. I did not. My connection to Legos was an unsubtle commentary on gentrification, architecture, and urban sprawl. I didn’t need to read The Power Broker because I had already built plenty of castle moats to fully appreciate the importance of boundaries. Plastic supremacy was something most children took for granted. Not I, understanding the short shrift given to wooden blocks. Remember when toy soldiers were made of lead? That sure raises the stakes for playtime.  

 

I came to learn about destruction and the strange joy in razing beautiful structures. Playing is a fraught word to use when discussing what I did with Legos. The trouble with play is that it implies fun. I never had fun in this context. I was too busy trying to become a better citizen, embracing my role in man altering a once pristine landscape. 

 

Kids shouldn’t play with toys, they use toys to practice becoming better activists. Whether a Lego brick, a plastic dinosaur, or a Barbie.  

With A Little Help From Man’s Best Friend

 

Many humans need animals to assist them throughout the day. But it’s not just blind or crazy people anymore bringing a working pet into a place of business. The truth is, the rest of us could sure use a little help. 

 

Unemotional Support Dog

Like it’s opposite, this particular beast is meant to roust you into clarity, ignoring your concerns, dismissing your fears, and not really being there. 

 

Spiritual Support Dog

Not all dogs are religious. The Catholic Church still won’t let dogs become priests.

 

Paranormal Support Dog

Goblins under your bed? Ghosts in your closet? Throw this pup a bone.

 

Financial Support Dog

Making a living isn’t easy. Sometimes you’re not the breadwinner and neither is your significant other. In such a situation, you better hope your dog is. 

 

Artificial Support Dog

You think it can’t happen? 

 

Athletic Support Dog

This should not be confused with an Athletic Supporter Dog, a canine used in place of a padded jock strap. These pooches are often better sports than most of your peers. 

Looking Fly

 

 

Going to the airport used to be a time to grab the iron from the closet and a spiffy new suit. Not anymore. Today, looking like a jet setting schlub is the platonic ideal of air travel. Why look good when you can feel comfortable? 

 

To me, the airport is a measly extension of my living space. I am living there, and it is space. I spread out, dress in loose-fitting pajamas. I wear a robe and carry a ceramic coffee mug with me to the gate. I even wear yoga pants without feeling the urge to do yoga. 

 

Some people think by carrying a neck pillow they have cracked the code. They haven’t. I tug along a rollaway bed. It’s not always easy getting through security, but it always pays off during a delay. Plus, no one seems to care what “group” I’m in during the boarding process. Is buying a bed every time I travel expensive? What do you think? However, if you spend more time at the airport than your home, you might be able to cut out rent altogether. I don’t wait in long cab lines after landing. I find my bed and take a quick nap. 

 

The big question is does this put me on some sort of list. I haven’t seen it. 

 

Everyone should accommodate you when you’re traveling. They are lucky to have you. At least that’s how I see it.  

Migratory Patterns

After a combination of healthy deliberation, tedious meditation, and the occasional grilled crustacean, my wife and I decided it was time to leave Queens. Apparently, many New Yorkers agree, packing up their lives for the gator-infested swamplands of the alleged Sunshine state, famous for rain and rodents. We have rats, they have cartoon mice. So we headed south with the birds – pigeons, not geese. And not to Florida, but to Brooklyn. Where else?

Fare Fight

 

In the early seventies, the actor Klaus Kinski performed a one man show as Jesus. He’d yell and scream at the audience, giving the Lord a level of intensity not usually found in the scripture. For those in the audience, it was a harrowing experience that changed the course of their emerging religiosity. Interested Berliners had to buy a ticket to witness such a spectacle.

 

Which brings me to the news that New York City will soon be increasing the transit fare. Many are up in arms, legs, and other unmentionable extremities. Not me. You see, I don’t go to the theater all that much. But I do ride the subway nearly every day. For a relative pittance, I can see variations on the Kinski theme. Lunatics pontificating, nutcases gesticulating, and wackaloons simply doing their thing. It’s theater of the absurd in the purest sense. This isn’t a parade of Julliard trained thespians embodying the tortured souls of a crazy person. This a crazy person monologuing, occasionally dialoguing with the public. No Improv troupe in the country can compare to the maniac’s version of “yes yes yes yes yes yes and.” 

 

Considering how expensive it is to see a Broadway show, the subway is a great deal. The entertainment is so enticing that many are willing to jump the turnstiles to appreciate it. Enjoy show. Just don’t ever turn your back, close your eyes, space out, or sit down without carefully examining the seat. 

What the Duck

 

When sending a message to a friend or enemy, many people are sent into a fit of rage when a certain expletive autocorrects to duck, ducking, or ducked. Instead of cursing the Gods about this supposed era, perhaps it’s worthwhile to interrogate what the smartphone is straying to tell us. Duck isn’t the only word with perfect profane rhyming. Yet, no one complains about the annoyance of dump trucks, tummy tucks, or sawbucks.

 

What if all this ducking wasn’t a mistake at all and just our way of reembracing our softer side? Ducks exist in myth and memory, in cartoon strips, on television screens, and sprawled across dinner plates. They’re daffy, sitting, and Donald.  

 

Why swear when you can fondly recall the relentless wing flapping of an iconic mallard? Now, I could be mistaken. This could all be just another canard. 

What’s up, docu-series?

Please watch my totally objective docu-series, where I let the filmmakers work their magic as I, the subject, hovered above them during the entire process. Did I wield editorial control? Some might say, not enough since a few unflattering moments somehow got through. There was the time I sent back my hot dog because the cheese wasn’t gently melted. I said gently melted and it was at one with the frank, achieving rare meat-cheese symbiosis. I didn’t want that. I wanted a hint of color, a tinge of heat. Nothing curling or pulverized. I kept this moment in the doc you show my human side. They see enough of the robot side. 

I want the public to see the real me. Not the authentic me or the behind closed doors me. Not the true me or the in front of windows me. But the carefully crafted real me, who wears layers of thick makeup, showers six to eight times a day to stay fresh, and never ever uses profanity near a recording device. 

I wanted this docuseries to portray the person I want to be. In other words, the person people think I am. I watched as they cut together pieces of my life and career, telling them where they were going wrong. Who knows me better than me? Not them. Not you. It’s why in some cases I had to remind them who was paying for this entire enterprise. They understood and quickly got with the program. 

Some people say, why didn’t I just write an autobiography? Because no one reads anymore. What about an audiobook? No one listens anymore. I want a documentary people can watch while scrolling on their phones and still take away the high points of me. 

It’s not that different from Rembrandt painting those portraits of moneyed Dutchmen. You think they were all that good looking? Rem knew who his benefactor was. Lucky for them, there was no photographer at the time.