American Fez

Red Star Over The Smutney Turnpike Shopping Plaza

Dinner at my local Chinese restaurant, Tiananmen Table, where, as usual, I order the Chairman Mao's chicken (gray tofu stir-fried with little red bok choy, smothered with a re-educated sauce, then long marched from the kitchen to your plate). For dessert, an apricot smog rounds the evening off nicely.

Dragons on the walls, plinky-plonky music, extravagantly named food, a thimble of tea and a fortune cookie at the end. This is exactly what I want from my ersatz Chinese-American dining experience. Except, of course, these days you can't count on the fortune cookie containing an actual fortune anymore.

In the good old days, a fortune cookie might make all kinds of inscrutably bizarre predictions about its devourer. They were confusingly Confucian in an entertaining manner that, when the MSG count was particularly high, was often the highlight of your evening. The modern cookie, however, merely offers a simple factoid or at best a tedious quotation. Devoid of arcane wisdom, imagination, whimsy, and even the slightest hint of clairvoyance, it has become just another burden that arrives at the end of your meal along with the bill; another collection of worthless crumbs to swept from the tablecloth after the guests have left.

I fully intended to raise this important matter with Chinese President Xi Jinping during his recent state visit to this country. Alas, I was not invited to any of the official functions and so was unable to speak with him. No doubt he and President Obama discussed economic stability, climate change, global peace accords, North Korea and all the other usual nonsense. Who will give the common man a voice?

The Olde Bagg.

On my way to work this morning, struggling with an errant satchel strap repeatedly slipping off my shoulder, I passed a man with so many possessions stuffed in his pants pockets it was as though he suffered from elephantiasis of the thighs. I may have looked like I had a nervous twitch, but at least my legs looked like the sculpted limbs of Mr Universe in comparison to his deformed appendages. Each to his own, I suppose.

I once owned a beautiful Filson book bag made from dark green canvas: small enough that a slim volume of Blanchot was not lost in its confines, yet large enough that it could simultaneously carry an extra sweater, thermos flask and an (admittedly concise) edition of Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. Suffice it to say, the strap never slipped from my shoulder and I could stroll down the street with twitchless insouciance.

Alas, this precious holdall finally fell victim to the ravages of time: years of inclement weather, the strain of toting weighty tomes, careless thermos leakage and the cumulative pungency of being used to convey a ripe banana to work every morning for two decades. It needed to be replaced and sent to Bag Valhalla (which is apparently in our basement if my wife's colossal collection of retired handbags and designer clutches is any indication)

For some reason, it seems I can no longer afford to buy anything made by Filson. Perhaps they have raised their prices considerably since the nineteen-nineties? Perhaps I have less disposable income to spend on quality products these days? No doubt a combination of these factors is responsible. At any rate, I was forced to buy a much cheaper satchel manufactured by a less celebrated brand. 

Not only does this new, unsatisfactory bag slide off my shoulder every five seconds, the banana smell emanating from within is already quite offensive. Indeed, you could be forgiven for thinking I work in the shipping department at Chiquita whenever I open the top flap. And that's just three days' worth of bananas. God knows how awful the stink will be by next September. 

But slipping strap and stench aside, the worst aspect of this bag must surely be the fake brass buckle closures over the two front pockets. Although they have the appearance of being working buckles, they are mere decoration and facade disguising a nasty, modern press-stud fastening system. Why?

I suppose the bag's makers believe snap fasteners are easier to use and more durable. But the bag is so horrible I frankly hope it doesn't last very long. The thing will go straight into the garbage and not the basement afterlife, that's for sure. Of course, I could donate it to the guy with the Elephant Man legs, but that would be like giving Canadian quarters to an American panhandler.

There was a moral to this story when I started writing although I've forgotten what it was. I should have made a note of it, I guess. But of all the things I carry in my bag -- iPhone, wallet, keys, Swiss army knife, aspirin, banana -- the one item I don't have with me anymore is my old-fashioned moleskine notebook. That too, alas, has gone the way of the quality Filson bag.

Dollar Store of the Future

There were few approved grooming supplies for men when I was young. Unscented soap, obviously; full blast aerosol antiperspirants; Old Spice pre and post shaving lotions; perhaps a dab of trial-sized Aqua di Parma cologne from last year's Christmas stocking for special occasions. But that was about it. Even hair gel would be remarked upon and mocked if visible to the naked eye. I would sometimes, I admit guardedly, sprinkle a tiny amount of talcum powder on myself after a bath on Sunday night. 

Nowadays, a bewildering array of tonics, ointments, moisturizers and balms are available for the hygienic male. No longer limited to sandalwood and bay rum, he can swan around town reeking of exotic African spices and rare Peruvian fruit. And, bizarrely, he is more likely to be beaten up by street thugs if he does not smell like a pampered popinjay. Even ranch hands and road workers apply a small amount of eye cream each night to prevent crows feet. And who can blame them? "Designer" stubble is fine and dandy, but when unkempt and combined with flaky skin and blotchy flesh tones is considered a sure sign of secret and unhealthy vice ... such as, horror of horrors, being an old-fashioned regular joe. 

Once upon a time men simply went to bed. Now we have a nighttime beauty regimen. This is why I'm creating my own exclusive range of male grooming supplies called Testicolo, which is the Italian word for testicle. The Testicolo brand will feature exciting and original products such as holistic nasal bulbs, buttock varnish in a variety of rugged finishes, personal toenail lathes, scalp scrubs and scrapers, auto-deodorizing armpit balloons (imported form Turkey), and our signature line of cooling scrotum salves. These groundbreaking products might seem somewhat obscure at first glance, but I call it thinking outside the Drakkar Noir gift box.

I'm conjuring with the idea of David Beckham being the face of Testicolo. Actually, it's between him and just anyone who looks really clean when photographed in black and white wearing only a pair of underpants on a beach. It's difficult to come across as sexy with a pair of nasal bulbs stuck up each nostril, but surely a gentlemen with clean, dry noses are more appealing than any aquiline nosed hunk dripping snot everywhere.

Of course, there is always a chance my innovative products will end up on the dollar store shelves rather than in a locked glass case at Saks Fifth Avenue. Alas, such is the fate of many pioneers in the masculine bath and body business. But I'm well-coiffed man enough to take that risk. Although, to be honest, the margin on a dollar for a bottle of buttock varnish is still pretty good. Roll on profits, in more ways than one!

Ye Sundrie Expenfes

'Doest thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?'

Alas, all too often in my business the answer to this question is 'aye.'

This is especially true when the Malvolio in question is an overly officious number-cruncher: a yellow socked and cross-gartered chartered accountant, if you will, who believes you've been wasting the company money on unwarranted frivolities.

Never will you empathize with Toby Belch more than when such an abacus-brained office gnome scrutinizes your (very reasonable) travel expense forms. 

After all, subsidy of two cask conditioned beers and a plate of fish cakes is not much to ask when I've been forced to languish in the basement ballroom of a Marriot all morning, listening to a verbose dullard drone on and on about his conventionally inadequate and hopelessly unfeasible ideas for stimulating "productivity." 

Some are born bored, some achieve boredom, and some have boredom thrust upon them. Welcome to Business Buffoon Expo 2015

Good Lord! Surely I can be forgiven expensing a few ales to drown my sorrows.

The Squirrels of Olde England

I came upon this lucky fellow one fine morning in Holland Park; the inheritance from last night's human revelers clasped tightly in his claws and nibbled greedily, as though it were the last blueberry muffin on earth; a half-full bottle of flat champagne, also, provides the consolation for another day of not being born one of the park's famous pheasants.

Nearby, an over-indulged child wearing a Harry Potter cape over a Spider Man shirt was experiencing a meltdown. Apparently the formal gardens, koi pond and crumbling Jacobean house of Holland Park did not excite his juvenile senses, no doubt blunted by flashier attractions found further east. He stomped around and yelled until his exasperated parents each took a hand and led him away in the direction of Kensington High Street. Still nibbling the remains of his prize, the squirrel watched them go as peace and calm returned to his domain. I think he might have even belched.

Special Vocabulary Forces

I've invented a new method of torturing language terrorists. It's called Mayonnaiseboarding.

Mayonnaiseboarding is particularly effective in the re-education of those language terrorists who say "sammich" when they mean sandwich.

I contacted the CIA about my invention but they weren't interested. I told them they could substitute mustard for mayonnaise in the boarding process if that condiment was more to their taste. I even suggested they could apply "the works" to especially tough cases.

Alas, nothing doing. I guess this means I'll need to redirect my efforts to lobbying for pre-emptive strikes against the next edition of Merriam-Webster's dictionary.