American Fez

Specious Offers

Somehow, despite all my digital defenses, a spam email written in block capitals and italics wriggles its nefarious way into my inbox. This very vulgar communication promises that, with the sender's expert assistance, I can become wealthy by investing in Boston real estate. A tempting proposition except you have to be extremely wealthy already to afford even a single square foot of Boston property at current market prices, so that counts me out.

I can't imagine a more redundant and inappropriate proposal except perhaps spamming Priapus with penis enlargement advertisements. Besides, I've never wanted to be a real estate magnate or even a well-endowed Lothario for that matter. My ambitions in both those particular spheres are far more modest, namely a room with a view and underpants that don't chafe. In fact, there is nothing I want from the spam emailers and advertisers other than to be left alone.

Ah, to be left alone. The dream of dreams. These days, even an off-grid, misanthropic hermit living in the deepest cave atop the most inaccessible mountain can only forlornly hope that the marketing messages won't find him. Because they certainly will. They'll carpet bomb his mountain with colorful brochures and catalogs from J Crew and Banana Republic. They'll hire a team of crack German yodelers to sing into his cave twenty-four-seven until the hermit realizes he must switch to Liberty Mutual to get the best home insurance deals. 

The Bloating World

We've come a long way from the days of Jack Sprat who could eat no fat and his unnamed wife who could eat no lean. Nowadays, eating disorders are as common as the common cold, and medical science apparently has no cure for peanut allergies and lactose intolerance either. A modern day Jack Sprat and their, we'd better call them their 'partner,' are only going to lick the platter clean if it's a portion-controlled serving of soy-based protein and macrobiotic rice the couple can share. I don't mean to make sport of such people. I'm related to some of them and such dietary restrictions are obviously no fun at all. But I wonder if these diagnoses are occasionally more the result of loosely interpreted tests and psychosomatic illness than actual issues with specific foods, and I especially wonder this when forced to eat gluten-free birthday cakes at family functions.

Recently, when attempting what is now the Herculean task of ordering just a regular coffee at a hipster cafe, I stood patiently in line while the customer in front of me asked the weary barista to recite what types of "alternative milks" the cafe offered. These included almond, oat, cashew and the ubiquitous soy. Decisions, decisions.  Almond has a weird aftertaste, oat has an unpleasant mouthfeel, cashew is too buttery, and soy is passé. Eventually, the customer decided against coffee altogether and purchased a raspberry flavored soda water instead. As far as a sensitive stomach is concerned, I suppose dairy discretion is the better part of caffeine valor. After all, no gastroenterologist wants their patient abusing antacids for the sake of a mid-afternoon energy boost. When my own chance to order arrived, I briefly considered jokingly demanding a list of the various percentages of fat in the milks available: fat-free, one-percent, two-percent, whole-fat, half and half, and so on. However, a rather disturbed look in the barista's eyes persuaded me against any form of levity.

After requesting a regular, whatever that might turn out to be in modern cafe speak, I returned to my office carrying a coffee topped with milk of unknown fat content. I wasn't going to ask and the barista certainly wasn't going to tell me. I have no problems with lactose as far as I know, but the thought of nut-based creamers does make me vaguely nauseous. Fortunately, none of my colleagues had asked me to fetch a specific fat content or alternative milk laced coffee for them, so at least I would not be responsible for anyone else's dairy induced aggravated bowel condition.Nevertheless, seated at my desk, cautiously enjoying my beverage, I quickly updated the Jack Sprat rhyme thus: 'Jack Sprat passed excessive gas, his wife was constipated, and together both they looked up the symptoms of peptic ulcer.' Surely we will be hearing that echoing around the school playgrounds of America before too long. 

Smoke Blackened Ikon

Last night, the Greek Orthodox church around the corner caught fire. Two alarms and many sirens. Perhaps a forgotten stick of still burning incense escaped from its censer, fell into the anointing oil which got knocked over and ignited the recently dry cleaned liturgical vestments. Or maybe, more dramatically, a lit candelabra crashed to the floor when nobody was watching. Either way, God seems to enjoy a good conflagration in His house from time to time: a celestial warning, one thinks, that the Patriarch probably shouldn't smoke roll-your-own non-filters with a bushy beard like his, unless of course he employs one of those long, antique cigarette holders like a Byzantine Noel Coward. 

Personally, I've always been afraid of fire. The thought of waking up amid a midnight inferno and running into the street in my dressing gown is the nightmare I have when I'm sleeping. Had I been the stone age man responsible for technological advances the human race would've sat in our caves in the dark for the duration. There would've been none of that dangerous rubbing two sticks together on my watch.To be honest, even the sudden blue heat of a lit gas ring makes me think twice about cooking dinner. I am quite happy with a green salad and cold cuts. I don't know whether they have an icon of Saint Florian, patron saint of firefighters, in my local smoky Greek church, but if they do I'll gladly wipe the ash away from his picture if he continues to keep me safe from the flames.

Month To Month

September, first of the reshuffled and misnumbered months of Autumn and Winter. Surely it would have made more sense to rename these divisions of the calendar after the emperors who succeeded Julius and Augustus? Then kids would return to school in Tiberiust and 'Trick or Treat' their neighbors at the end of Caliguly. Thanksgiving would fall on the 25th of Claudich and Christmas be celebrated in the festive season of Neroary. Those sound like much more fun dates than the dreary and inaccurate Sept, Oct, Nov, Dec sequence we are stuck with for the rest of eternity. Imagine if New Year's Day was the 1st of Unober and St. Valentine's Day was Dueary the 14th. All the romance would evaporate from our almanacs and diaries.

Not that I hold any particular torch for the long dead despots and fallen idols of ancient empires. The world can rename all the months after more modern deities for all I care. I'm quite happy to take my summer vacation in the sweltering heat of late Obamaber and go skiing in early Pricessdianary before the snow melts. Just don't rename my birth month after any popular entertainers, that's all I ask. Imagine having to say something like "I'm turning sixty-five in mid-Beyonce, so nearly eligible for retirement," or "I was born on Elvis the 23rd which puts me on the cusp of being a Virgo." But I have a terrible feeling that is exactly what might happen. You can never trust the shapers of the zeitgeist, especially these days, so perhaps it's just best to leave the calendar as it is, even if it doesn't make numerical sense.