Geezer Wars!

Somebody asked me, “How old do you think I am?” I was both rude and prudent. I flatly refused to answer. “I’m not answering that,” I said. Isn’t there some age beyond which you got nothing left to prove? I guess not. I’m hearing now about people exchanging organ recitals; that’s where they try to top each other with their lists of the afflictions plaguing every single part of the body. So there’s always something to win at. I wonder if the second-oldest person in the world spends a lot of time checking the obituaries, hoping for that big break.

put out a tip jar

Worried about what’s happening to the American middle class? Maybe it’s a little late. Years ago, you might have checked for a union label before you picked up that six-pack of t-shirts. You could have voted yes on that school bond issue. But don’t beat yourself up about it, it’s just bad impulse control. It’s that moment when you realize you’ve filled up on bread. And there’s an obvious solution: Uber. I see a future where we survive entirely by driving each other around. But trust me. It’s not a gig economy until you’re told to enter through the kitchen.

this machine kills fascists

I was hearing about how some popular musicians are using their high visibility to inform and inspire their listeners around critical issues confronting our culture, our civilization, and our species. This is a powerful historical moment, potentially a game changer. There are precedents. Nobody who was alive in the early ‘70s can forget how Charlie Haden’s Liberation Music Orchestra recorded “Song for Che,” thus bringing an end to American imperialism in the Western hemisphere. Oh, by the way, for all my readers who are corner office executives: Wednesday is Administrative Professionals’ Day. So tell your secretary to buy some flowers.

Look how objective I am.

Why are we proud of stuff we can’t control? Maybe, like me, you’re tall and you feel good about that. Maybe you’re rich, or smart, or have nice shoes. Maybe a team in the town where you live is good at the game they play. It’s all just luck; should you take credit? What about kids? A couple told me their first grader was reading at a fifth grade level. I agreed that it was exciting and pointed out that if this kept up, by the time she was 40 she’d be reading as well as a 44 year old.

Read 'em and weep

Poker is the game and they say take a seat. I say how about I just hand over my wallet and the last of my self-respect. I say I don’t gamble and the fella says what about craps isn’t that gambling and I say not the way I do it it ain’t. See, I was running a crap game and a guy shows up from Stockholm with a big gray donkey. And he says he hasn’t got a solitary dime but can he wager the animal. And I say – get this –  I say, you bet your Swede ass you can.

Wax nostalgic

Too many people spend way too much time searching for happiness when all they have to do is remember what it felt like to open a new box of 64 crayons. I can smell it now. You can take your meditation and your Caribbean cruises and throw them out the window; all you need is that box with the built-in sharpener and a fat stack of manila paper. And then, for some reason, the machines at the Crayola factory make way too many brown crayons. They melt them down and that’s where we get those really terrible chocolate Easter eggs.

Despite the title,

I don’t actually rant much. There’s plenty of cranky guys with bushy eyebrows cracking wise about how peaches aren’t delicious anymore or what’s up with those little buns on bearded guys. That only works if deep down you have a heart of gold, which I don’t. The Ambrose Bierce trajectory, leading inevitably to a mysterious death whilst hanging out with Pancho Villa. Sure, I have my pet peeves, just like anybody. But they’re so prosaic. Like, who hasn’t wished there was black dental floss? Or wondered, when opening a new deck of cards, why they’re so stingy with the fours?