At The End Of The Day, It’s Tomorrow

No Rundown? No problemo!

I begin this trip by saying thank you to everyone who gave me love for my Friday morning fixture which recapped all the news that was print in fits. I’ve said it more than once, but the only reason it worked was because of you. And hey, it’ll be around from time to time . . . same as Taylor Swift revenge songs. Only smarter?

In the meantime, I got some iffing and riffing to get to . . .

It’s so easy to criticize everything and everyone from the wheelhouse of your S.S. Twitter page. Which is what happened this week when a bunch of twits (the official-ish term for twitter trolls) railed on about how the league should have called Monday night’s game between the Bills and Bengals sooner. Methinks these fools are barking up the wrong tree. NFL executive Troy Vincent refuted the claims that the league had ordered the players to start warming up after Damar Hamlin was carted off and I believe him. The league is many things, but impetuous ain’t one of them. They dealt with an incredibly difficult situation best they could and in the end, they left the decision as to whether to continue the game in the hands of the coaches and players. As it should be.

Kevin McCarthy scored the Speaker’s gavel on his 15th try, which is more strikeouts than you’d get from the Yankees lineup in a typical nine inning game. And the only reason KMC clinched it before Memorial Day is because he made more concessions to his junior partners than a Los Angeles Dodgers hot dog vendor. Watching this guy win his loss was akin to playing the movie Fargo backwards, and it’s a better than butter bet that his rule is going to require a hostage negotiator before too long. Somewhere, Kari Lake is getting drunk on Jack and Charlie Daniels whilst crying “How come I couldn’t do that?!”. And while I am certain Trump is taking credit for this extra-innings escapade, nah. Anyone who wants to stay the course with Florida Man, be advised . . .

When really smart guys in the know like former Google capo Eric Schmidt warn us not to get too drunk on the idea of artificial intelligence, we really should be taking notes. It’s one thing to ching your way through the Target checkout line with a robotic merch machine and quite another to trust AI when it comes to policing and warfare. Limiting the loss of life is always the goal but when you start bringing robots in to take care of the dirty work, guess what happens? Yeah, more dirty work. Because when you give the bosses a reason, they’ll take nine more. Killer machines will provide them an EZ-pass with which to justify deadly force and problematic invasions in faraway places. And you best believe they will make moonshine out of the setting sun until the day comes when we can’t get back to even.

The Dodgers did the right thing in cutting bait with former Cy Young winner Trevor Bauer. The dude has a live arm but it happens to be attached to a genuine creep. And seeing as how this loser doesn’t play football, there’s no chance the Cleveland Browns will sign him!

A hat tip to the lovely Dale for filling me in on the kitschy little tradition they’ve got going at Lake Superior State University. They rolled out their forty-sixth annual list of words they believe must be banished from the Kingdom of Common Sense. I’ve attached my thoughts to each of them.

1. GOAT- Anything that rids us of more Tom Brady is okay by me.
2. Inflection point- It sounds like a movie you’d see on Amazon Prime, and as luck would have it, I banished the streaming service and picked up Paramount Plus!
3. Quiet quitting- Miami Dolphins fans understand.
4. Gaslighting- Johnny Depp could not be reached for comment.
5. Moving forward- Wolf Blitzer got rich on that shit.
6. Amazing- This word was ruined by Zoloft popping HR directors.
7. Does that make sense?- See #6
8. Irregardless- Stop it before you hurt someone, please.
9. Absolutely- Not.
10. It is what it is- Fuck. You.

Full disclosure; I’ve used both #5 and #6 while under the influence of a highly proofed medicinal. I’ve also dabbled in “no worries” and “wait, what” because I’m both understanding and not so understanding. Alls I know is I plan on submitting a name I feel should be banished in 2024.

He lives in Mar-a-Lago.

 

 

Let’s Have Fun With Words!

Bradyfullitis: A moderate to serious condition that affects the central nervous system. This comes about as the result of extended periods of exposure to Tom Brady. This condition affects more than ninety percent of the American football viewing public, with the exception of Tampa and New England. 

Electoral Dysfunction: A sign of a psychological dysfunction which is the result of acute megalomania. Symptoms include an inability to face reality or deal with its consequences. Those who suffer from this malady will create scenarios in which they imagine they have won an election they actually lost quite handily. Those most susceptible to contracting the sickness are Caucasian, entitled and delusional.

Kardashian-isms: Phrases that have no basis in self-awareness. Some examples (but are definitely not limited to). ” I’ll cry at the end of the day, but not with fresh makeup” and “The bigger the hoop, the bigger the ho”.

Swifteritous: The inability of a pop singer to come up with lyrics that do NOT involve an ex. 

Applebees-wax: Listening in on another person’s conversation while seated at a chain restaurant.  This comes about as a result of having to wait on your order for an hour, after which it’s too late to take your business elsewhere.

Wine-ification: The ability to rationalize your way through an entire bottle of wine. Those who engage in this behavior reason that once the cork is popped, the contents will go to waste unless they are properly imbibed. 

Google-octomy: Removing the urge to consult a search engine for answers. This procedure is oftentimes temporary in nature. 

Twitterology: The language of regret. Said to occur when a high profile personality hits “Send” on a particularly controversial topic. This behavior is immediately followed by a public relations created apology which begins with “If I offended anyone . . .” .

Campbelling: When a head coach plagiarizes “Dawn of the Dead” at his introductory press conference in order to show how tough he is. This will be followed by, you guessed it, more inept football by the Detroit Lions. 

Joe Exotica: Art that is intended to arouse an individual’s desire for trashy, exploitative nonsense. And yes, I watched all eight episodes . . .

 

 

 

 

When actions speak louder than words

There used to be a charm to how we messed with words. If you’re of a certain age that didn’t involve Google, then you can relate to that musical rite of passage in which you reworded the lyrics to a favorite song. To think, there was a time when people used to believe the Beatles were singing I wanna hold your ham. And Jimi Hendrix was saying Excuse me while I kiss this guy. And Elton John was singing to his man-crush with Hold me closer Tony Danza. 

Nowadays, we have the dictionary police repossessing words that weren’t really in need of a reboot in the first place. These efforts in bougey bombast are meant to bring harmony and fair play to words that might be considered impish or downright ignorant.

Case in point, the Berkeley City Council. These peeps decided to go on an ordinance orgy, with words acting as the scapegoat in the latest episode of Ray Bradbury Theater. If their measure on gender-specific pronouns gets the green light, “Manhole” will become “Maintenance Hole” and “Police Man” will become “Police Officer”. Changing the latter is redundancy at its finest, since most adults already refer to the Po Po as officers. But was there really a burning need for maintenance holes? As a man, I took no offense to being named after a cast iron plate that gets driven over and spit on daily.

Council members also want to make sure nobody uses he or she when they should be using they or them. And I think that’s neither here nor there. Human interaction is the broker of ignorance or understanding, and if we start using a government handbook as if we’re American tourists lost in Paris? Well, there is a dystopian punchline to such a conclusion and it ain’t the least bit funny.

Maybe it’s just that the city council people of Berkeley have spit and polished every last genuine concern into memory and now all that’s left to vote on is stuff that ain’t worth the ginger ale in a Mary Poppins Martini. As such, they explained their decision thusly.

“Amending the municipal code to include gender-neutral pronouns by eliminating any gender preference language within the municipal code will promote equality,”

N’kay. But really, how’s about legislating that every homeowner have an emergency chopper in their driveway in the event an earthquake provides the Pacific Ocean with the world’s largest Big Gulp? Or hey, why not make it illegal for citizens of Berkeley not to own a Panda? Or maybe just this. What if they tried to come up with some long term solutions for the homeless, seeing as how Berkeley is currently sitting at twice the national average. I mean, unless the city council is hell bent on handing out demerits to all those five year old kids who will continue using the term “Police Man”.

I know you’re probably saying, But Marc . . .governmental bodies have a pristine track record of never fucking shit up. If they perceive an inherent flaw in our language, then it’s a good bet they’ll fix the problem quickly and efficiently.

Of course, what was I thinking?

 

Three Days In Woodstock

Woodstock is a study in the principles of freedom.

Settled in 1787, the town was carved out of the base of the Catskill Mountains and its winds still breathe the fire of that hard earned place. By the nineteenth century, artists were flocking to a place that knew and loved them for the color they brought to a mostly colorless world. By the early twentieth century, Woodstock was hosting festivals that would make the three day concert in Bethel almost look tame in comparison. And starting in 1967, a series of “Sound Outs” were held on a farm just over the town line in Saugerties. Richie Havens and Van Morrison were among the musical luminaries in attendance, years before those three days of peace and music changed the world.

Whether you are ‘down’ with this kind of groovy vibe or not, you can’t help but respect the fact that, from its birth, this summer arts colony has had a personality all its own.

It understands itself.

The more you learn about the town of Woodstock, the more you come to realize they deserve to be synonymous with the epochal music event of the twentieth century. Never mind that Bethel is the actual home of the three day festival, and never mind that almost sixty miles of country roads separate the two towns. Because while Bethel took its sweet time in owning the three days of history after those half a million peeps left town, Woodstock never flinched. They were plenty fine with the idea of shacking up with the counter cultural movement. They didn’t mind owning the reputation.

There is no pretense, no bullshit to the place. Even the touristy gift shops possess a uniquely original flavor to them that you won’t find on Amazon. And so, the cosmic happenstance of our thumbtack possibilities just so happened upon the perfect place for me and Q to come together. Because, as it happens, we don’t rely on pretense or bullshit either. We are a bare boned truth of a pair. Special friends who understand the pulse of a righteous harmony and the blessings of its soulful words.

After settling into our first floor cottage apartment, we made way for the grocery store a few miles up the road to forage for the evening’s dinner. Hannaford was reminiscent of a supermarket out of some Stephen King story, and it’s probably because it’s a chain that serves upstate New York and New England. It’s kitschy yet cool, it’s got a modern shine and yet it feels very much like a neighborhood stop. I let the Chef from Quebec proper do her magic as per our grocery list and then we headed back to our home away from home.

This is when Q took my virginity, medicinally speaking. She introduced me to a Bloody Caesar; which is an oh so cool take on the Bloody Mary. In honor of Woodstock, she tossed this tasty proposal with vodka that had been marinating in vegetables from her garden. She married this smooth, velvety goodness with some Clamato, hot sauce and Worcestershire and rimmed the glasses with steak seasoning. And then she followed up that good news with some more.

“I’m starting dinner,”

I stayed out of the way, pulling up YouTube on the flat screen and settling on a mighty river of Woodstock tunes and short documentaries that dovetailed beautifully with the conversation we had going. And then a second round of drinks, and then the steaks were ready and willing and then I popped the top on a couple of frosty Presidentes for good measure.

Our dinner talk availed itself of the education we were busy fixing on as we scarfed down our steak salads and toasted to chances taken. We watched and listened, we chatted and hummed. We learned about the festival and the world; our lives and each other.

Those three days of peace and music were testimony to what dreams can look like if they are allowed to breathe. Woodstock was born inside a world full of graveyards, and it grew flowers. It was told that war was the answer, and it offered love. It made music out of the damnation, it made home out of the hopeless void.

January of 1968 began with the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces launching the “Tet Offensive”. The surprise attacks produced heavy casualties for U.S. and South Vietnamese forces and are widely regarded as the turning point in the Vietnam War. Months later came the “My Lai Massacre” in which 500 civilians were killed by U.S. troops.

With President Lyndon Johnson swimming through a sea of hurt in which his own party was turning against him for escalating the U.S. involvement in Vietnam, he announced he would not run for re-election. It seemed that LBJ would be the bridge built over Camelot- from Jack to Bobby- and nothing more than that.

Little more than a week later, Martin Luther King Jr.-the leader of the Civil Rights movement- was assassinated in Memphis. His murder sparked nationwide riots. Riots gave way to unrest on university campuses state side and around the world as the televised agony of a senseless war dragged on. And with June came the postmortem of Camelot when Robert Kennedy Jr. was assassinated at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles after winning the California Primary.

The death of heroes and the specter of perpetual American imperialism abroad led to the chaos that was the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Activist groups and enraged demonstrators descended on the city and provided a ball-peen hammer response to all those silk pens that had signed off on a decade’s worth of death and destruction that seemed to have no end.

Me and Q talked about that world and the one that came along later. We searched for answers to the questions we did not provoke. We agreed wholeheartedly to the fact that we hadn’t started the Goddamn fire . . because really, it had always been burning. And we talked about how Woodstock was an oasis in a desert of wrong turns, but how it wasn’t the end of those dark and tumultuous times. Woodstock was simply a lusty breath, before the world got going on bad conclusions once again.

And there we were, arriving forty nine years late. And yet, to us?

It was right on time.

 

 

The Danger In Economizing Words

Can we stop being so easily offended by everything?

Why is it becoming increasingly difficult to behave like a normal human being when it comes to simple language? Why is everything we say put under such a brutal microscope, whose magnification transforms the ‘perpetrator’ into a Machiavellian figure? Can we stop that, please? Because it’s in the sharing of our thoughts that, yanno . . we learn. For the good and the not so good of this thing called life. We’re not control subjects after all, we’re people. And it’s a rather unscientific fact that we all say stupid shit from time to time.

Expecting perfection from a human being is like believing the tides will take a cigarette break. It’s never gonna happen. And I not only don’t mind that fact, I take a measure of comfort in it. What use is a world where passionate discourse and raw honesty are curtailed by individuals posing as behavioral scientists? Will we reach a day when people parse and examine every word they say for fear it might be deemed a crime against humanity? Thing is, when we start asking for perfection from a human being, we’re setting the wheels in motion for an Orwellian scenario in which human beings behave very much like mannequins.

If we attempt to erase our flaws, all we really do is invite more sinister conclusions. Because in case you haven’t noticed? We have an abundance of individuals in this world who know how to lie, really well. And it’s the people with sway and say- the people with money and power and political connections- who stand to gain the most in that kind of world. And maybe that sounds like some really stupid conspiratorial shit, but I ain’t apologizing. Seriously . . that would be counterproductive to this post.

All I know is I don’t want to live in a world where language is screened and tested and altered until it is unrecognizable from its original shape. Hell, we’re already living in a world where the majority of the people are more apt to forgive Wells Fargo and Facebook for fucking with their financial and personal information than they are a simple individual who behaves like a human being. Is it because ordinary human beings don’t have the ability to create those cozy little thirty second spots in which they dress up their ‘mistakes’ with actors posing as moms and dads? All that stupid shit I was saying earlier . . about the people with say and sway, is not quite so stupid if you stop and think about it.

Listen, I’m not saying that everyone should be allowed to go around speaking like gutter tramps. It’s just that, I just can’t warm up to policing an individual’s thoughts when educating and communicating with that individual is so much more sustainable.

There has to be a happy medium where we can coexist peacefully enough. Imperfectly, yes . . but truthfully. Or would you rather have it where dialogue becomes a thoroughly manicured endeavor in which people simply learn how to lie magnificently?

If we’re not careful about what we’re wishing for, we just might get it.

 

Excuse my French, but the (Pre)fix is In

Some words have all the luck.

If you shout “Fire! in a crowded theater, you’ll soon find yourself all alone. But if you shout “Bacon” in an empty kitchen, you will instantly achieve the opposite effect. No one likes a “headache” but everyone loves “chocolate”. And while “water” is great, it doesn’t elicit the same passionate response as “wine”.

And speaking of passionate responses, is there a better example of how a simple word can take our hearts hostage than the word “French”? If you live in the lower forty eight, the answer is non. Which is French for hell no.

White bread is popular, but French bread is the belle of the bread ball. And Vanilla is just a plain Jane until you give it a makeover by placing the word French in front of it. And everyone loves onion rings, but they place a distant second to french fries. If you’re a restaurateur, feel free to add a couple bucks to the menu price by calling ’em frites. Which no doubt means “swindle” in French.

It’s no wonder French is called the language of love. I actually have video footage of me in the first grade. I was talking about kissing girls with some friends of mine in the cafeteria when these two older boys brought up the subject of french kissing. Take a look . . .

Yes, I had facial hair in the first grade. Which is why I was able to inquire as to the finer points of the french kiss. Before too long, I was learning about the history of the french braid and french twists from the greatest teachers imaginable. Girls. They introduced me to hair styles that effectively transformed thousands of years of same old into something provocative and sophisticated. It was the best education, ever.

Upon graduation from first grade cafeteria talk, I learned first hand all about the french manicure. It’s not just any old manicure, nope. Whereas the typical manicure refinishes the cuticles and then dresses them up, the french manicure lets them go nude. Sold!

The alchemy of this lovely word turns plain old toast into a gloriously rich and sweet breakfast treat. Whereas I can eat a piece of toast on the run, I feel the need to commit to French toast. And once married, it spawns such glorious children as butter, maple syrup and yes . . . bacon!

And let’s be honest, would you eat anything called a cruller? It sounds like something that was dredged from the bottom of the ocean. But hey . . put a French in front of this unfortunate sounding word and you have something that was dredged from the bottom of your heart. And if you want to experience what the power of the press really means, add a French to it and enjoy!

This power of the prefix is the result of the romantic entanglement we’ve always had with French. It’s so powerful a thing that the word doesn’t even have to make the scene in order to get its point across. Guldens is a spicy mustard you pass down the seats at a baseball game. Grey Poupon is a dijon mustard you pass from one Rolls Royce to the next . . . ’nuff said.

Horn is to traffic what French horn is to music. Maid is to Roseanne Barr what French maid is to Marion Cotillard. Dressing is to morning rush what French dressing is to kicking back. And while we need windows and doors, we luxuriate in French windows and doors. I mean . . it’s really not fair.

It’s like Napoleon’s Revenge, in that battles were lost in order to win the war of words. Because all this time later, we find ourselves under French rule when it comes to the most important things. Words!

Losing never sounded so good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s Something About Mary- A Prompt Challenge

Welcome to Sunday, and a brand spanking new prompt challenge entry we like to call “Word UP!”, on account of the fact this ain’t no ordinary prompt challenge.

Back in the day (a couple weeks ago) we used to host prompt challenges that involved a single word. And then the Irish Mafia (Karen Craven of Table For One) made the decision to expand the business. She joined forces with the Queen of the North (Dale Rogerson of A Dalectable Life) and the prompt challenge would never be the same.

Me? I’m just the intrepid reporter who was recruited by these lovely word bosses, and Imma do my damndest to keep up. Same goes for Frank of A Frank Angle, who shattered the last prompt challenge by delivering up all the words in half the count!

This particular prompt came about out of an email exchange I was having with Karen about water and Twinkies.There are eleven words involved; one for each commandment and a bonus power-ball word. They are as follows . . .

Jesus, holy water, drive-thru, twinkies, wine, dinosaurs, passion, busybody, clubhouse, cross, absolution

Posting this on Sunday just might make me a heathen, but I don’t think God is going to be scoring me based on a silly old post. Not when he has the likes of Pat Robertson and Joel Osteen to deal with. Those peeps best live it up on God’s dollar while they can, because if there is a judgement day to be had . . well, it ain’t gonna be pretty for ’em. Anyways . . here’s my story.

                                       There’s Something About Mary

Joe wanted absolution. Having his good name stapled to a cross ever since Conception-Gate, he figured it was time. Being the ‘earthly’ father to Jesus Christ came with more pitfalls than disputing the existence of dinosaurs at the Smithsonian.

The kid from Nazareth knew a thing or two about turning water into wine, having transformed his passion for carpentry into an online goliath. His marriage to the Virgin Mary- her rapper name- was holy water to the unwashed masses who loved their busybody news served up in drive-thru fashion, and they made news right out of the clubhouse.

Post-divorce, Joe lost the spotlight while Mary partied with Joan Osborne in the Hollywood Hills and Jesus sat court side at the Garden. Now, Joe was writing a tell-all pilot for Pontius Studios.

Joe always said life was like a box of Twinkies. The stories are tasty and the guilt immaculate.

Dear Merriam Webster, Could I Have a Word With You?

To borrow a favorite word of mine, I am bemused over this week’s big reveal of Merriam Webster’s Word of the Year. The peeps at M. Dub went with Feminism and all I could think was . . . n’kay.  Before you start throwing email F bombs my way, lemme just say that I have zero problem with the word. It’s just that, feminism (the word) had its day in the sun, a generation really. It’s time to give other words a shot.

My issue with the Word of the Year is the process whereby it is chosen. I happen to believe a word should be recognized for its aesthetic qualities as much as anything- the way it rolls off the tongue, how it makes you feel when you say it, the respect others bestow upon you for using the word. Further, the Word of the Year should be selected by a committee of peeps who understand the importance of our language- teachers, librarians, writers and Vin Scully. The popularity of a word in a given year should only be a part of the equation, not the whole enchilada. This isn’t American Idol or even a political contest, it’s much more important than that.

Kristine Phillips of the Washington Post believes Kellyanne Conway was the unwitting matriarch of this reboot of the old Gloria Steinem standard because she threw shade at the movement every chance she got. The thing about KC is, she ain’t caring about movements so much as she’s caring about getting paid. Her Cersei girl act got Twitter and Google doing all manner of Twitter and Google things, and by the time the search engines rolled to a stop . . game and set had met its match.

The wild popularity of the movie Wonder Woman is said to have contributed to the spike in searches for the victorious word as well. And I for one am all about that, because I support a woman’s right to dress herself in metallic leather. And while I realize my support of the women’s movement is indeed compromised by my inability to distinguish artful verve from sinful curve as per the lovely Gail Gadot’s turn in the blockbuster flick, I am well aware she is not really an Amazonian gladiator with superpowers. I learned her bio long before this year ever happened, thank you very much.

Now, for a look at some of the runners up for WOTY:

Complicit– If this word was a person, it would be a finely tailored hottie. It deserved a better fate than a distant second place finish. It was Dictionary.com’s “Word of the Year”, which is akin to being the NIT champion in college basketball.

Recuse- Another solid word that deserved better than the short shrift of history’s scrabble pile. If this word was a person, it would be a policy wonk who works long hours and never gets laid.

Empathy- This word would be a dead ringer for Alanis Morissette.

Dotard– Why in the fuck are we letting Kim Jong-un dictate words too?

Syzygy– If this word was a person, I would have zero fucking idea who it was.

Gyro– It’s about damn time this delicious lunch time grab gets noticed.

Federalism– If this word was a person, it would look exactly like Lindsey Graham.

Hurricane– Imma take this opportunity to wish “The U” muy buena suerte in their upcoming bowl game vs Wisconsin. Go ‘Canes!

Gaffe– If this word was a person, it would look and sound exactly like this . . .

I’m happy for Feminism– the word. I’m nothing if not a good sport, which is why I will celebrate the WOTY this weekend with a few beverages of choice; since, yanno . . . I was going to imbibe anyhow. But I feel as if a top five list of words I would have liked to have seen nominated is in order.

1- Erudite- For one thing, it’s an adjective. If adjectives were human, they would be the coolest peeps. Erudite has a beautiful child- erudition. Amazing parents (Born of the Latin Eruditus). It keeps solidly synonymous company with Scholarly and Literate. Hell, even its antonymous adversary- Benighted- is some cool shit.

2- Bacon- It’s the Lebron James of words. MVP . . every single year.

3- Quixotic- Every time I hear the word, this is me.

4- Luminous- Okay, I chose this word for one simple reason. It’s a beautiful word you never, ever hear. If your posse uses it frequently, can I hang out with y’all?

5- Ethereal- This word is out of this world. No seriously . . . look it up.

So that’s my list. I could have gone with a top 100 and not even skimmed the surface, but as my high school English teacher once opined . . . Brevity is Godliness. Ms. Doepfner introduced this boy to what a real woman was all about. She was the smartest person in any room, with a quick and biting sense of humor and a sex appeal that wasn’t concerned with the reactions it provoked, but rather the action it engendered in her mighty knee high boots.

Go girl.