American Fez

Olfactory Observations

When I was much younger, albeit, with a predilection for appearing to be much older, I decided the scent of Bay Rum cologne suited my particular sense of style. I say "style" but of course it was really adolescent affectation born of daydreaming an urbane existence with undefined tropical dimensions. Something along the lines of Andre Malraux vacationing in the Caribbean, sipping pastis in a rumpled linen jacket beneath palm trees and a stormy sky. It worked for me at the time, as far as I can recall. 

Later, even my callow nose became aware that no two brands of Bay Rum cologne smelled alike. Not just slightly dissimilar, they were so different they might as well be the odoriferous equivalent of chalk and cheese. Some I liked and some I definitely did not. Imagine the bottled stench of boiling cabbage and the aroma of sizzling bacon both confusingly being called Eau de Kitchenette. Sometimes such various strains of Bay Rum weren't even spelled the same, as you could buy 'Bay Rhum,' an archaic conceit too much even for me to consider.

These days, having finally reached the age I once impersonated, I no longer buy Bay Rum cologne, finding contentment with the cheaper aftershave varieties whose weak scent dissipates within a trice of application. And whatever affectations I entertain evaporate in similar instantaneous fashion, losing their pretentious appeal mere seconds after being brought to mind. In fact, I can barely remember to buff my armpits with sports stick deodorant. But that's probably too much information.

Clean Money

Money reminds me of a bar of soap. Like soap, money is slippery and hard to keep hold of. A satisfying amount held in your hand shrinks to almost nothing very quickly. Watch it literally slip through your fingers. And in times of desperate need, that little sliver of money you were saving simply cannot be found. Furthermore, the process of earning money is like intimidating men dropping soap on the shower room floor then asking you to pick it up.

Rich men never buy soap, collecting sachets of designer soaps, sandalwood and Presidential musk, supplied for free at boutique hotels. Poor men, on the other hand, must spend precious dollars on family-size blocks of soap, antibacterial and deodorizing, from the supermarket. A good lather is free for those that can afford one and very expensive for those that can't. But whatever your financial situation, when it comes to soap, neither a borrower nor a lender be, as Polonius said. You don't want to be walking around town stinking of bad credit. 

Intimations of the Thurberesque

I often think of myself as a cartoonist who can't draw and this blog as a series of single panel scenarios, sketched in words, concluding with a pithy punchline in the last paragraph.

If were a clever man, I could transform all my written cartoons into a collection of enlightening aphorisms. What are La Rochefoucauld's maxims, after all, if not a book of po-faced comic strips? Who is Seneca, if not Charles Schulz wrapped in a blood-stained toga?

But I'm not a clever man, unfortunately. If only I'd paid more attention during the weekly art lessons in high school I might be drawing for the New Yorker.

Our teacher once asked the class to paint a picture on the theme of The Rummage Sale. So using the biggest brush available, I covered my paper entirely with yellow acrylic, which I then emblazoned with the memorable statement "Rummage Sale This Saturday 10 am" in blue letters. I claimed to be a conceptualist but still only received a F grade. 

They kicked me out of art class eventually and I was banished to the library. This was rather embarrassing as I was already forced to spend the duration of French class in the library, having refused to answer to the name 'Etienne,' which is what the French teacher decided I would be called for that hour.

Describing that bookish exile now, I recall myself as a morose, sailor-suited child, helpless and alone, like a character drawn by Charles Addams or Edward Gorey who doesn't need a caption to explain his amusing plight.

The Case of the Recycling Bins

I am always waiting for the big recycling scandal to break, when concerned citizens will be shocked to learn their municipalities don't actually salvage paper and glass but merely dump it in the same landfills as the regular waste.The sinister Department of Public Work's time, money, and labor saving equivalent of sweeping inconvenient refuse under the couch instead of disposing of it properly. 

My local recycling center certainly seems more like a distracting pantomime of green-fingered effort rather than the serious environmental operation it claims to be. Hence my suspicions that it's all an elaborate ruse by City Hall to keep the ecofriendly voters happy. The employees even dress in a uniform of brightly colored overalls and jaunty baseball caps, as if they were cartoon characters in a child's storybook about sharing the world responsibly with tree spirits and talking squirrels. I just want to drop off my empty bottles and cardboard boxes, not take a tour of a rainforest theme park.

But I suppose it's a dirty job and somebody's got to do it. At least, it would be a dirty job if I didn't have to rinse out those empty bottles before handing them over, and crush the voluminous square cardboard boxes into flat brown oblongs that can be sandwiched together. So I'll be thrice annoyed if it's discovered they surreptitiously bury this stuff when my back is turned: once for poor old planet Earth, once for my property taxes, and once for my aching bones.

Save The Aisle Seat For Somebody Else

If you mix up the titles of current movies, they actually sound like something you might consider leaving your home to watch ....

Black Tonya
I, Paddington
Jumanji: Welcome to the Darkest Hour
All The Commuters In The World
The Shape of Ferdinand
The Greatest Mary
Star Wars; the Phantom Thread

But that's just me: thinking outside the Box Office as usual. Surely it's about time the Hollywood studio bosses got smart and put me on retainer? I think I could revolutionize the industry with my irresistible titling prowess.

Inequality of the Future

My latest meal kit has arrived from sunny California. All the ingredients plus instructions (oven not included) for making Moroccan mint stuffed mushrooms. And that's just Tuesday's vegan theme dinner. Wednesday is chicken, couscous and cauliflower. Thursday is the full carnivorous bloodbath of beef borguignon and bacon browned broccoli. This fantastic gourmet service is only $120 per week with free dry-iced shipping. From farm to table via supersonic jet and diesel powered truck(wine pairing recommendations sent separately to your smart phone upon request). 

Ah, the wonders of modern life. Soon we won't need to leave our houses at all because anything we desire will be sent to us by drone or robotic courier. James from HR, an unmarried colleague of mine, recently boasted that the mail order bride company to which he subscribes are offering overnight delivery and unlimited free returns for unsatisfactory matches. He has already dispatched three women back to Thailand. Apparently his third wife was found wanting because she made poor meal kit choices.

Technological innovations in the workplace mean that James can work from home, too, so he has not left his house since last June. Yesterday he texted me a photograph of the new Amazon Alexa he has installed in his bathroom, explaining that he can now verbally re-order his favorite roll-on deodorant the moment he scrapes his armpit on the empty applicator. Now that's what I call space-age living.

Of course, such technological progress also illuminates the problem of inequality. There is economic inequality, racial inequality, gender inequality and all the combinations thereof. But the the type of inequality that almost everyone will eventually suffer from, regardless of sex or age or color, is what I call "inequality of the future." It's the idea that most people won't be able to afford the same future as the rich folks who live in the climate-controlled bio-dome city on the hill. Will we still think it's great not to need to leave our houses when the super-wealthy are escaping the toxic, frozen Earth in their private rocket ships? Maybe, as long as the latest meal kit recipe is something hot and spicy and we can binge watch Game of Thrones while we eat. 

Winter Blues b/w Stir Crazy

Perhaps you are familiar with the old Eskimo jazz standard, Inuit Or Inu-ain't My Baby, made famous in the mid-forties by Frankie Nanook And His Shivering Greenlanders. It's not the most romantic of ballads. The vocalist regales his lover with vivid descriptions of how she must skin and gut an entire sperm whale, making use of almost every part of the unfortunate mammal. Meanwhile, he will build an igloo suitable beneath the light of the midnight sun. Apparently, the lyrics also contain fifty different words that mean "blubber," although these words might also be a kind of Eskimo scat singing. It's hard to tell from the ancient, scratchy 78 RPM recording ....

Apologies for the culturally insensitive whimsy above. I've been a snow and icebound recluse for several days now.

Nevertheless, my shut-in rambling recalls to mind those high street record and CD stores specializing in what aficionados once called "World Beat," a catch-all category encompassing practically any genre of music originating outside the Anglo-American melodic sphere. Chansons danced cheek to cheek with bagpipes and African drumming within such environs. If the soundtrack to a Maori coming of age ceremony was required, then inspiration could be found in the stacks. You might arrive seeking a CD of German drinking songs but leave with vinyl album of Venezuelan wedding anthems. It was like the Age of Discovery, except in a retail space rather than a sailing ship.

Ah, such were the joys of brick and mortar shopping for physical objects, provided the weather was warm enough to go outside, of course. Which it isn't today, unless you're an Eskimo.