Rated T for Teen. Comic Mischief, NYPD Habits, Consumer Revolts.

1. Kokomo

Not literal Kokomo.

These titles normally click at the end, long after the paywall. Making sense is a subscriber bonus. But the Beach Boys’ favorite island is beyond my budget and interest. “Kokomo” has played on loop in my brain for about four months, and tiptoed onto the playlists I curate in place of an internal monologue.

I’m serious about the internal monologue. My head’s silent as a judge’s conscience. I’m told that’s strange, or proof I’m missing a few screws. That’s fine. Personal narrators sound maddening. I can barely deal with the imaginary cohost here.

Kokomo. Keep up.

And Brooklyn, where I perfected my brooding routine. It mixed classic Wayne moods with new school Parker wit. Almost like a Ennis-era Castle, but on different lists. And miles ahead of any given Spawn. Sadly, there weren’t any gargoyles in Owl’s Head Park. Just an owl statue. You can’t brood on an owl statue.

I noticed the invitation at 3 AM. It was sent at a sane time, two days earlier. But I haunted Owl’s Head after hours. Business email felt more palatable by the trees and ramps, and Meta apps went under business. After all, Zuckerberg read along. I looped a surf soundtrack, like a dozen other identical nights. With some other flavors.

The habit started with “Economy of Death,” the psychic opposite of “Kokomo.” Then the Spotify robot pulled up “Kokomo.” Don’t ask me why, the machine’s whims drift further from apekind every day. Maybe I needed pacification after The Refused, to avoid canceling my membership or slandering my representative. Ironically. Comedian slander’s ironic.

From there, I was hooked. A full surf rock binge, a genre that turned out to be less malt shops and Batman dances, and more street racing and crabs. Who knew? The milkshakes and Batusi were fun too.

I’ve been training. Focus on the forward story, it has better questions. What kind of invitation was it? How can I spot pebbles at 3 AM? Was I listening to “Kokomo” at that literal moment, or was that an MFA lie?

Mostly rich kids. How else would they learn to write dick jokes? Reading better ones, from more successful clowns? That could take weeks. I had powerpoints. We’d have enjoyed them more if the NYPD hadn’t maced half the campus. The half that talks in class, no less.

I didn’t predict that, as far as stressors go. I knew there’d be email, politics, minimal pay, email, commuting, email, student breakdowns, faculty breakdowns, and email. I was already in the doghouse for unrelated drama. Yet the NYPD piledriving the anti-cleansing club wasn’t on my bingo card. My mistake. Whatever you’re up to, bet on Eric Adams’s kids ruining it.

Not that I hated the NYPD. But for the sake of good officers, reforming the—Sorry, those are my New Yorker notes. I hated the NYPD. More than before, which defied conventional physics. I should’ve emailed CERN, that’s valuable data.

I was drained. Wrung out. Fried. Trespassing like a child, to escape failing the children. Maybe deadbeat dads felt that way all the time. I’d have asked mine, but his number just led to screams and a smell like brimstone. And he couldn’t write dick jokes, so what did he know?

In the park, I could train myself for a change. You have to train to survive. Dorks love Dragon Ball because it’s nonfiction.

A bachelor party, which I normally deleted on sight. Reaching 30 summons gender reveal invites from everyone you know, and 40 people you don’t. If you shared a math class, a postcard’s coming for a wedding in Antarctica. But this invite was from Donatello. A friend that deserved more attention than I’d given. Nothing erodes your rules like a guilt complex.

I thought about it, decided I was busy, and went back to carving.

The surf-nonsense shifted to Daikaiju. An instrumental metal/surf act with songs named after mechs and Godzilla rivals. The most laser-targeted entertainment I’d found in years. It had all the specificity most gender reveal invites lacked.

You can cheat at home.

Granted, not the groom’s style. Another mark against leaving my gargoyle. Fireworks were part of the stock deal. Was there a point without a family court afterparty?

And I don’t remember TV. Something had to lose the war for my time. The tube’s dumber than books and duller than games. Though I did remember MTV’s bachelor party pitch: one last sprint at fun before love became terminal. Obvious slander by Big Fun. Love’s great. Few manifesto authors feel excess love.

That occurred to me around 5 AM. Long after I’d tired myself out, and finished half a Chainsaw Man reread. I hadn’t seen the sane side of the sunrise in weeks, and tonight was no exception. But this time I noticed.

I clearly wasn’t busy. Might as well do nothing on an island.

2. PHL

I’d heard Philadelphia was beautiful. With a 5 AM flight, I took that on faith. Donatello’s travel agent must have sniffed out my insomnia, or a discount for vampires. I sped past American history by train, noting that somewhere beyond the glass sat a cracked bell. Unless they’d replaced it with a CVS. You know how developers are.

I found Philadelphia International Airport less beautiful. Not hideous, but sterile like all functional airports. Good. Proper flight’s dry work. Airports with charm should, by and large, be avoided. Their flights had higher chances of ending in the water. Diving’s much more fun at twenty feet than twenty thousand.

I’ve heard that one. I think crashing’s the problem.

I imagined that plunge with a smile. We still hadn’t boarded an hour after departure time, per Frontier Airlines tradition. More idealistic passengers grew antsy. I chewed a protein bar, and imagined the Luke Cage powers the non-meal would grant. I could survive a Boeing special. Assuming I ever got on a plane.

Two Barebells later, the flight was formally delayed. Passenger chatter picked up an edge. I ran out of Barebells. Either curiosity or Maltitol withdrawal set in, and I paid the agitated chatter more attention.

“I need that margarita,” noted a spiritual Jimmy Buffet. He was dressed for the part. “There’s a tall one waiting for me in Punta Cana.” His kids, twelve-ish, agreed. Maybe they had margaritas waiting too.

“Can you believe they’d do this?” said half a pair of Disney tank tops. Her mood didn’t look very magical. “Can you believe they’d do this?!” she repeated more loudly. Murmers of assent. She gradually drew a crowd of agitants, while her boyfriend adopted a vizier role. I was witnessing a society’s birth.

And enjoying it. People-watching, like Warhammer, thrives off its environment. I’ve abused that metaphor before, and I’ll use it again. Wargames, like high school, make a fantastic lens for life’s highs and lows. That’s why we mostly play them in high school. Or forever.

Six frantic travel agent texts told me to stay put. As if I’d leave before the punchline.

Deferred passengers formed lines, which devolved into clans. Frontier reps faced siege from a thousand ravenous, hideously sober enemies. Making the next bit of news even less welcome.

“The 5 AM to Punta Cana has been cancelled.”

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Rated T for Teen. Fantasy Violence, Crude Humor, Comic Mischief.

1. A Dull Boy

“Send me your wish list. A real one, I want options.”

This again. What was it? The sixth time? I took a screenshot–my ritual for reminders. It seldom worked, but felt active.

The sender read “Mom.” A volley from my sister, who kept Mom’s number after the wake. I couldn’t critique that: I still hadn’t updated the contact. It’ll say “Mom” when I’m sixty, and the Eagle Imperium starts mopping up writers. Hopefully my heirs keep me as “Dumbass” long after I’m gone.

Blitzen’s third yuletide text (yuletext?) had mentioned Black Friday sales. Her next two efforts abandoned the civilized afternoon, and entered the forbidden “AM.” The dark hours of my old commutes. Blitzen said wake up by yelling wake up, a technique developed across countless Sunday mornings. Adult Swim’s midnight anime block had doomed my soul years before fossils. A loss she aimed to overcome with bargains.

In my defense, most fire sales were a crock. Every year, videos of $20 price tags becoming $30 Black Friday specials went viral. The logos changed, but the content rhymed. Somehow, the companies charging for acid rain lacked Christmas spirit. Strange.

That’s the December brain rot—

The hell? We’re in the opening. What the fuck are you doing?

Christ.

Well, there’s more to it. Grinch Mode combines complex forces.

…Materialism?

Capitalism? Imperial decline?

Work! There it is. I was doing important work.

Multiple threads of work. Four deadlines competed, and they all played dirty. I’d earned more ghostwriting KY Jelly jingles, but now I cared. I smiled when pieces survived. I’d even developed a teenage addiction to virtual praise. After decades heckling influencers, I knew my metrics by heart.

It raised health questions. How many all-nighters canceled out sobriety? Insomnia would, at some point, hit harder than tequila. At least tequila made for fun dates, instead of mock job interviews. HR people had, for mankind’s sake, stopped asking “Where do you see yourself in five years?” But that was the Manhattan Hinge “Hello.” My best answer was “destitute, insane, and wanted.”

Easy. What I wanted. Whatever that was.

Carols made the concept clear: family and capital ignited joy. I didn’t plan on flying, or even walking off of my block. That’s where dragons hid. Goods had to carry the team.

I was a normal person. I wanted things. I wasn’t just a punchline AI, or the world’s most acerbic Magic 8-Ball. My fingers just had to catch up.

Have fun. Don’t ask where it sees itself in five years.

I stared at the screen. What did Blitzen want? Why did I have to go first? And didn’t trading gifts just leave two adults poorer?

Too much thinking. A new Godzilla movie had emerged from the sea. I grabbed my unfortunate Shonen Jump skateboard and searched showtimes.

Godzilla.

2. Transition

Alamo Drafthouse had the closest showing with a decent seat. Rich for my adjunct blood, but this isn’t Budget Evil. And this branch was near Wall Street, the throne of greed. Responsible writers don’t walk away from natural material.

Or see Godzilla Minus One. I rolled out of my cave, betting on the rain giving up. If it hadn’t, my board’s anime decal didn’t match my age anyway. I’d miss it, but friends standing near me wouldn’t.

One side effect of endless typing: my step didn’t have much spring. I almost nodded off three stops from the theater. Tough task on the 2, where every train car comes with a DJ. The music was solid this time, but last week’s fumes were running low. I needed to double my intake of preworkout or sleep.

I’d been up past 6 AM, begging Adobe for a truce. Photoshop was my worst relationship, bar none. Our goals clashed: I wanted to edit images, and Adobe wanted to eat my wallet for free. Last night, Photoshop had the advantage. Forgettable images of Beetleborgs took more effort than I’d put into undergrad. Only resentment got it done.

Two stops.

And fear. Each pitch felt like my Waterloo. The day I’d join the list of safely ignorable writers. I often cited ambition or Jamaican/Sardaukar conditioning, but paranoia was my rocket fuel. Fear of falling off a balance beam I’d picked at fourteen. And had slipped off before.

Or two, or four. The MTA should have banned me ages ago. I’d spent more late nights coating cars like this in nonsense than heading anywhere productive. In days I’d be at it again.

One stop.

I left my seat for a senior with enough luggage for a new life. She kept standing, and swayed less with the 2’s jackknife turns than I did. A teen with a Schwarzenegger build took the seat. I couldn’t judge: only God knew how many plates he’d survived today. His knees could be worse off than my shoulder. If that was possible.

No stops.

A radioactive, Christmas-colored energy drink sat in my jacket pocket. I abandoned smuggling it into the Alamo, and drained it on the platform. I’d have to trust surround sound and fanboy spirit to carry me through the film.

Easily done. I liked monsters better than people, and barely understood why Godzilla films had casts. I darted out the station on borrowed time.

3. The Bull Returns

Back on the surface, the Financial District was dead. Like a real kaiju had stomped through, leaving the ruins to roaches and cinephiles. I spied an opportunity.

In my short, myopic life, two hobbies had reshaped the world: wargames and skating. 40k turned every book and apple core into a playground, and skating did the same for sidewalks. Actual playgrounds remained off-limits: I wasn’t good enough to dodge curious toddlers. But tipsy investors were expendable.

The impromptu tour took me past the Charging Bull, a two-time Extra Evil guest. I didn’t dwell on it then, but feel deeper today. Is there a better American kaiju? The market flattens nations, while Kong can’t finish off a city or get over his ex. It helps that a brass bull recalls ancient torture devices. Name a tougher American monster.

Fair.

The bull’s usual tourists were absent. Something about cold and darkness puts people off. To any impressionable children reading this–don’t skip your 10 PM coffee. You miss out on the real fun.

At night, the corporate plazas and smooth concrete were perfect. Including the concrete garden above the theater. That diversion burned my C4 energy boost within an hour, and robbed me of the previews. I could forget chasing or running from anything, or that I’d even planned to forget. I almost missed Godzilla’s first rampage, but my inner nerd was larger, stronger, and armed with atomic breath.

That, and I got my seventh text. There’s a rhythm to these things.

4. The Band Gojira’s Great Too

My shit.

Well, not precisely. The previous movie, Shin Gojira, was my shit. “Disaster satire via kaiju” was even on my to-do list until then. The best review I can give any art is “ruined my personal plans.”

Godzilla Minus One was someone else’s shit, artfully executed. Around the same letter grade as Shin Gojira, with the black comedy and mass death replaced by human emotions and mass death. But the mass death is shot differently, to keep things fresh.

If that gets you to see it, sure.

Godzilla Minus One highlights the human cost of imperial ambition. American audiences might not relate. The golden age of the eagle has never ended, and never will. The joy of the new Pax Americana brightens every conversation.

I’ve made it sound less politically charged, and that doesn’t even orbit the truth. Godzilla Minus One directly attacks dying for your country/honor/sports team/mood, and you’ll see how closely I relate to that in How to Dodge a Cannonball. For now, let’s just say I dig it. In fact, to be clear: I wrote and sold that book in mid-2023. I only rob Neal Stephenson. And Paul Beatty. And Terry Pratchett. And my bosses at 1900HOTDOG. And–

I was an easy mark. Alamo’s pre-movie sketches pandered to my disposition, which I welcomed after a sleepless year. Besides, it’s charming to see Minilla in 2023. Minilla’s like disco fashion: he sucks, but in a disarming way. I’ll try hypocrisy and call it nostalgic. If you’re unfamiliar, think Scrappy-Doo via practical effects.

The half-full crowd on opening night gave me pause. The headlines about foreign box-office records weren’t out yet. Some egos like feeling ahead of the curve, but I want good things to succeed. In my perfect world, everything I rate above a C would be utterly oversaturated. That fuels more material like it. I welcomed Pickle Ricks, since they cited a fine episode of television.

As for the menu? No idea. I had a coat full of protein bars. Even if macros hadn’t taken over my brain, I can’t surrender to twenty dollar burgers yet. Not while life with two roommates on the edge of nowhere costs more than a building in a sane city. Again, I’ll need a new title if I move. Or when.

I still left satisfied. A walking apocalypse is hard to get right.

I watch a lot of movies in December. Another leftover habit. Mom’s birthday was a heartbeat after Christmas, and her parties never left the house. They featured a long movie, a human-sized glazed ham, and a blind eye to whatever sugar/skinner box game/liquor I was hooked on at the time. For my money, Jesus couldn’t compete. In case the first round of pork wasn’t enough, there were stew peas. Jamaica’s greatest blessing to the tongue and curse on the aorta.

Hard to beat, so I don’t try. Consciously, anyway.

5. What Do You Want?

Never came. I got out at 1:30 on a weeknight, when civilized adults dozed. The party circuit’s schedule sticks with you, long after Last Call. Post-kaiju energy and a loud shoulder ache left me wide awake to dwell on my unread texts, and lack of spiritual worthiness for an MRI.

I’d worked like a grown-up, played like a child, and vegetated before a screen like both. No procrastination formats were left. I sat down on a curb smoother than my apartment floor, and tried to remember what I wanted. Then I opened a blank note and started spamming text.

Christmas Wishes/Dreams/Demands

• Mechanical pencils.

• Paint pens.

• Retroactive art training.

• That Total War game set in Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

• A self-feeding cat.

• Painless shoulders.

• A letter telling teenage me to stick with guitar.

• That new Spider-Man game.

• A PS5 for said Spider-Man game.

• Time-management skills.

• A working sound card. My laptop’s the opposite of a cheap car with futuristic speakers: it’s a supercomputer for the deaf. Only wireless headphones (sometimes) work, and I don’t have long until the rest breaks down.

• Money.

• To understand how war twisted otherwise sane humans into fanged three-headed parodies.

• To instantly gain or lose ten pounds.

• Super-speed. Other powers are stronger, but none are more fun.

• A one-bedroom apartment walking distance from Columbia.

• A one-way ticket to Osaka.

• Immunity to vandalism charges.

• No really, money.

• An award.

• A rematch with Dad at our current ages and weights.

• Air flares.

• Nine new judges.

• Ten minutes with the authority and ethics of Robespierre.

• Less judgement for my go-to bagel order.

• Blank decks to write in-jokes on.

• Perfect pitch.

• A newsletter network with a few less eugenics fans.

• An autographed copy of The Iliad.

• To tell my real, insane, and hilarious Damien Echols story without being sued into oblivion.

• Tickets to Eric Adams’s arraignment.

• A button that summoned a medium-rare cheeseburger with caramelized onions and sriracha.

• A twenty-dollar Dave & Buster’s gift card.

• Entrance music.

• The wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, laser flips, the courage of Achilles, and the speed of Mercury.

• A fissure in the Earth to swallow Healthfirst headquarters, with every soul still inside.

• A Gojira tattoo (the band).

• A Gojira tattoo (the monster).

• A Gojira tattoo (some clever fusion of band and monster).

• 2014 OkCupid.

• Fifteen minutes in the ring with a Times opinion editor. Texas Deathmatch rules.

• Lindt truffles.

• More Lindt truffles.

• To get past the hell-ape in Sekiro that summons a second hell-ape to punish you for ever putting your arrogant mortal thumbs on a controller.

• Is money still on the table?

• Something that numbs the fear.

• A joke better than “bullet control.”

• Necromancy, so that I could teach skeletons windmills.

• Necromancy, to send a few world leaders a message.

• Necromancy, to talk to Mom.

I deleted the more insane and abstract entries, and forwarded the list. Eight hours later, Blitzen asked for a printer. She’ll outlive me.

Thanks for reading. Getting this and the prank done before the obvious deadline took some dark magic. But hopefully you enjoyed it. Share it or I turn to stone.

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PART 0 - The Conversation(s)

“I’m not fucking going.”

“We only get one tenth reunion.”

“I’m not fucking going.”

“Our friends will be there.”

“I’m not fucking going.”

“You can write about it.”

PART 1 - The N-Word

Not much. Just a little reflection. You into history?

Yeah, they were fine. “ASS” remains the five-borough Galaga champion. But let’s talk about another reign of terror.

After winning Rome’s annual power struggle, Sulla’s team subsidized victory orgies by rounding up unlucky nobles. Traitors don’t need savings or heads. Rough for the people losing weight, but a predictable outcome of betting at the imperial track. As Sgt. McGruff once said, “If you gamble with life, you can lose it.”

It happened in China too, and every other empire I can think of or spell. But the American ego loves citing Rome, and I’m not immune. Nero’s the biggest poster on our dorm room wall. Next year’s Fashion Week is all togas and knives. We’ve absorbed their full timeline, and none of its lessons.

Not quite. But that fourth idea’s money. Here’s another.

Tip for whoever wins our lazy civil war: pillage Princeton. You can spin their CNN neutrality into tacit support for the enemy, and improvise from there. Your worst vizier will complain, but the windfall’s worth it. There’s gold hiding behind Princeton’s walls, and diamonds hiding behind the gold. Half the campus looks like Vatican City, and that’s the fixer-upper. It’s a living monument to education as enterprise, and you’d be mad to ignore the opportunity.

Another time. That game’s a known quantity. You can always beat 40,000 if you’re awake and unimpaired. I sleepwalk through the day, and ASS still reigns through muscle memory.

My point: I can’t tell you where all of Princeton’s gold comes from. That’s a web of dark money and 18th-century oaths Neal Stephenson would spin. But I know multiple nations’ worth comes from nostalgia. Alumni grasping at the ghost of a feeling. Tired adults that wish they weren’t.

Consider descriptions of Disney World. Not Disney Adults recapping last week. Dead-Eyed Adults (I enjoy Disney Adults’ enthusiasm) describing their distant childhood. Plenty, maybe even all, of their story happened. But it’s merged with the brand over time. The further back the vacation, the closer it is to the Disney monomyth. Barring a distinguishing tragedy, nostalgia’s stronger than memory. Much stronger. In comparison, memory’s CM Punk in a UFC ring.

Making Princeton’s reunion big business.

The same. It’s the best place to see a lobbyist crash a golf cart into a hedge fund pirate. Or a Rumsfeld crash a golf cart into a Bezos. People really like stealing golf carts, and hate braking. They call it Reunions, with a capital R.

Pardon?

Have you seen my credit?

Interesting rumor. It would explain riding peak NJ Transit again, uncoerced. My old Rutherford commute put me in Poseidon’s hands every morning. Whatever destination I wanted, NJ Transit had fresh ideas. It’s almost half as broken as the MTA.

Orange beer jackets dotted Penn Station. A bit like SantaCon, with the flow of traffic reversed. The dots drifted together, drawn by camaraderie, day-drinking, and the n-word. Some kept confused families in tow.

I didn’t have a beer jacket. Mine lived with my sister, so she could skim drinks off of alumni events. But my scent marked me as a vampire: an orange scarf sniffed me out.

“What’s your year?”

“2013,” I answered, straight. You might expect more wit, but I’d cut back on harassing strangers. I still drank, so this was my main self-improvement project.

“Your tenth! That’s the best one, until your twentieth.”

I nodded–she could be right. But my freshman year cameo was a blur, save geriatrics swerving carts through human traffic. I doubted the compromise years between brownouts and joyrides could compete.

My guide described her tenth reunion in the same high, hazy terms as the promo email. Had she written it? Absorbed it? Did all Ivy memory pull from one hivemind? I chewed a protein carcinogen and listened, wondering if traffic cone-colored shoes sold well anywhere else.

Part 2: The Orange Planet

I had my notes this time. The schedule promised three events just for reactionaries, and I wouldn’t miss that for a solid gold motorcycle. Even if a Bezos offered one. I was on duty, “in service of humanity.”

Slogans channel an organization’s sins. WWE has “Then. Now. Forever. Together.” Reflecting a century of poisoned labor, unconsenting referees, and glittering Saudi propaganda. Princeton University has “In service of humanity,” which has nice world-domination flavor. But that one’s new and informal. The old Latin line is “Dei sub numine viget,” which Wikipedia translates as “Under God’s power she flourishes.” If that doesn’t terrify you, it was fun seeing you at Reunions. Did you like my coat? I think white works on me.

I’d packed the pad for quick notes. But this section wrote itself, and refused to let go as people I definitely knew stopped, waited, and moved on. The best lesson of my education was “never walk away from a hot pad.” I got it from a Luke Sullivan book, three years after Princeton. At Princeton, I learned less. Mostly ire.

That major includes Michelle Obama, Bruce Wright, and everyone glaring in the corner of admissions photos. Some observers might notice a link. That’s culture war brainwashing. Princeton punishes square pegs of every shade. Ask Fitzgerald. 

Mostly Gondor.

At least the southwest corner. Avalon, if you’re more old-fashioned. Hogwarts, if you’re only literate in the dictionary sense. There’s plenty of newer buildings and heavy construction to the south, but none of that occupies mental space. When you enter, imagine, or type about the campus, it’s Aragorn’s hometown.

As for the people, orange.

I mentioned beer jackets, but everything was glowstick orange. Jackets, shirts, signs, tarps, face paint, tattoos, umbrellas, action figures, condoms, dental dams, pacemakers, kidneys, whatever you call those hats that look like deflated fedoras, and golf carts. There’s some black accessories to go with it, but they’re all swallowed in a hurricane of Cheeto dust. From above, the campus looks like it’s been shelled with Tang.

And then the reunion arrives.

I finally shut the notepad, and searched for a line.

A queue.

Standard EDM festival rules applied: you needed the right wristband to stand anywhere. Without one, you met a polite student. If you ignored them, you met Blackwater alumni. I hadn’t won a fight since 2002, so I’d need a few wristbands.

I got the idea, but they had trouble. The hockey rink sent me to the gym, who sent me back to the hockey rink, who sent me back to the gym. The last loop made the supervisor nervous–one angry Cruz or four angry normals, and she’d be sent to the pits. She called for a golf cart, making my afternoon.

Theme parks have wonderful transitions. Disney rides and shows are alright, but the monorail ride between them sticks. I think. Again, nostalgia. In any case, a cart ride without an injury,  hijacking, or osteoporosis was a treat. It outshone my expectations for the event itself. I watched orange Nikes, dress shoes, and flip-flops walk, like savages. Half of them were faster than the cart.

My driver, a nervous cloud of strong cologne, kept apologizing. I’d just rewatched Death Race 2000, so we’ll call him Frankenstein. I liked Frankenstein: he took alcoholic hospitality seriously, lending him instant Don Quixote charm. All student workers are expected to do is avoid puking on anyone important.

“Sorry about all this,” he repeated.

“What? Did you hit someone?” Death Race 2000 had a scoring system for that.

“For the delay.”

“The cart ride’s more important.”

“Oh. I get it.”

He didn’t get it. But Frankenstein took my obvious insanity as amicability. I scribbled notes, as normal people do in normal conversations.

“The first Reunion without lockdown craziness. It’ll be legendary.” 

“Yeah?” The plague had eaten his peak tank top years, so saltiness was fair. I wasn’t over losing my late twenties, and those years don’t make it into well-edited memoirs.

“Legendary,” he repeated, letting each syllable shine. We snaked another cart.

A junior engineering student, Frankenstein already looked backwards. Figuratively, or we’d have died. He critiqued every building we  passed younger than the president, preferring Dorian columns to Sulla’s Ionic nonsense.

“I hate the construction,” he noted. “You don’t have to change just to change.” We sped through the Gondor quarter.

“Mrmph,” I agreed, struggling to chase human speech by hand. I needed to start wiring myself like a police plant.

“Ye college doesn’t feel like Princeton,” he lamented, sinking with disappointment. He’d be a donor.

“Why not?” I asked, imitating Michael. The practical side of being a little nicer: more material. My hand cramped up.

“Princeton’s classic. You can’t just…add stuff.”

For once, no. I underlined that sentence. It could still be comedy overwriting the rest of my brain, but I’m the only narrator we have.

We parted after some pandemic talk. You know the conversation. Frankenstein made a vague promise to meet in the tents, and I promised to follow up. A traditional tandem lie.

After the wristband line, I stood in line for a tent, then in line for a drink. I stared into a reusable “Eco-Cup”—a thousand others coated the grass. It held Milwaukee’s Best, which was almost beer. I almost enjoyed the first sip.

This was taking too long. Wasn’t this what I did? Arrive first, drink first, pass out last? D-Day sometimes meant Dennard, often meant Doomsday, but mostly meant getting bombed.

I dumped Milwaukee’s pride into a bush. Maybe it was a wine night.

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The windup’s free, and the pitch is paywalled. Throw in for fun with folding chairs.

Dedicated to Tommy, who sees most twists a year before I do.

Rated T for Teen. Cartoon violence, crude humor, cartoon humor, and crude violence.

Miss me?

True! But America loves fraud. After ages pushing Huck Finn’s personal growth, we’ve embraced Tom Sawyer’s easy answers. The law simply hasn’t caught up yet.

Jump in. Charlatans don’t need second acts: their first rarely ends. Why sabotage your odds of a glowing New York Times profile? Or an credulous New Yorker profile? Step on enough lives, and someone, somewhere (Manhattan) will wash your feet. Praise the vampire.

What mood? I’m great. Tom proved winning’s easy. Life as a whole, if you avoid tragically-named felons. Why paddle upriver when tryhard’s the insult of the decade?

Fine personal picks. But they’ve already hit self-identification. From there, it’s a short journey to t-shirts and song titles. Plenty of sober adults would get them tattooed. No one you’d hang out with, but functional minds. Every insult ends in Odd Future’s “nigga” hat.

Besides, they have political baggage. Only half the country uses them at a time. “Tryhard” is a toy for everyone. An inclusive jab at effort beyond breathing or PPP loans.

That’s not you, is it? Painting Tom’s fence? That’d be embarrassing.

Well-played.

I invented new insults on the ride north. Subway DJs invite them. I should be better, but anyone that can enjoy 2002’s worst music through 1965’s worst speakers belongs in the Peace Corps. You’re a giving soul, to a resume-freezing fault. As a low-tier humanist, I had to focus on my ticket. It promised a less annoying future.

It was time for Friday night action. And a Thursday. I made do, which is the spirit that elevated GCW from backyard wrestling to ballroom wrestling. Though ballroom wrestling is mostly backyard wrestling with high-definition cameras. I let two cans of lightning summon my weekend persona. After 400 milligrams of caffeine, I found love for “Crunk Ain’t Dead.”

Ballroom wrestling isn’t standard slang, in case that’s unclear. I’m watching out for that, after it killed an ex’s career. Or at least her vocabulary. She mixed my free-association nonsense with standard American pidgin.

“Nothing you say is real,” she explained. “I said Nguyen Special at lunch, and they thought it was a slur. I should smack you.”

She was right. You should adapt for an expat willing to sit through Birdemic 2, or at least make a glossary. But I had punchlines to hit. Hopefully, enough people now appreciate James Nguyen’s anti-brilliance for her to communicate. On the other hand, she might repeat “gunpowder suppository” at a gala.

GCW: Fight Night wasn’t a Nguyen special. It’s the most targeted fun I’ve had since escaping the apartment.

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Rated T for Teen. Comic mischief, community love dolls, and sleep deprivation.

Security guards have changed.

It’s not just fitness, or the death of the Segway. The spark is gone. We used to have something, and now they just shuffle through the motions.

The Koch Theater gendarme didn’t even give chase, or flail a flashlight. He just watched me pass by, like a childhood dream.

Blame the Museum of Failure. Three minutes into my visit, I realized I’d forgotten my field notes.

You may have noticed tiny notebooks in the wild. They open like flip phones, and are equally obsolete. Reporters, comedians, and others more interested in describing life than living carry them around. They serve two purposes: portable navel-gazing, and warning potential suitors. They’re like spots on a frog, or skulls outside a pirate’s lair.

Without mine, I was nude. Unmoored. A Texan without a rocket launcher. I’d never make it into the boring part of The New Yorker now.

“Don’t sweat it. That’s perfect,” said Octavian. “It’s the Museum of Failure. Stuff should go wrong.”

His name isn’t Octavian, he just has a real job. While I’ve given my life to the black altar of public opinion, I’d rather not get any friends fired. Especially the eight or so I like.

Octavian shares the same school, state, island background, and anime fandom. Which makes it unfair that he’s better adjusted. Not even one secret marriage or public divorce. I think he does it to spite me. If he starts writing, I’ll have him poisoned.

Hold that thought.

I stopped fretting about notes, and started rationalizing. These were arch exhibits, with arch write-ups, in a museum pitched as a rib. Only an idiot would write comedy about them. Better to just enjoy the museum like a human being, and find another strip show for the column.

“We encourage experimentation,” said the greeter. Genuinely affable, implying either passion or edible use. “There’s no set route.”

Then he set us loose in the Museum of Failure. The Dayle family’s ancestral homeland.

That only goes back to triangle trade. Historically recent, despite the Florida curriculum. Now failure? The first Dayle stumbled into the forest, tested the wrong mushrooms, and lost an arm to a sabretooth. Dayles try things, and one in twenty work. And if I can say one good thing about my father, it’s…uh…

Hold on.

I’ve got this.

Give me a bit.

Anyway, our reach often exceeds our grasp. The museum’s a natural fit.

The Museum of Failure isn’t new. Like most American culture, it’s been airlifted from Europe and stuffed with Big Macs. From Sweden, specifically. The current tour includes Industry City, a Brooklyn mall that pretends it’s not a mall. Which is ideal, since I like malls. There’s even a manga store, where I degrade the word “professor” weekly.

The concept’s simple: preserving and honoring human failure. Narrowing it down sounds like a challenge, but that challenge lets curators retire early. Or earn their own exhibit.

“Cool setup here,” noted Octavian, enjoying life like a nerd. He pointed out the Wall of Failure, which sounded like a new chamber of Congress. Instead, multicolored sticky notes described visitors’ greatest failures. Golf pencils sat beside blank pads, inviting the brave.

“Out of the box idea,” added Octavian. “And they don’t have to worry about it going wrong. Any flaws fit the premise.”

“They could get away with anything,” I admitted. “A cave-in would be on theme.”

No one checked the ceiling. But it’s fun to imagine.

I brainstormed my contribution. I had a few too many options: A record-breaking sprint through marriage. A dozen dead manuscripts. Breakdancing my way to tendinitis. My abortive podcast. My entire Princeton run. Comic collabs that died before they could fail publicly.

Then my inner writer, the demon that’s haunted me since birth, piped up. I could have field notes after all. I just had to hoard two field trips’ worth of sticky notes.

“What’d you write?” asked Octavian. I stuffed four pads into my pockets.

“A bit of intro dialogue, and a title.”

“On the wall.”

I hadn’t put anything. I tapped the golf pencil against my forehead, saw a flash of pure satanic red, and scrawled two words. I stuck them between a student’s GPA and a parent’s failed business.

“Let’s go.”

Hold that thought too.

The museum was a genuine joy. I’m a tough comedic customer, and the exhibits delivered. A barrage of high-profile brain farts is easy to love. Take the monoski:

You see the problem. If you can’t, look down at your favorite kneecap. Now imagine it backwards.

I’m reaching–monoskis aren’t (much) more dangerous than other extreme sports. But the aesthetic appeal is gone. It’s the same problem as the segway–which had its own exhibit. But the monoski burned more calories.

Of course, you don’t have to go outside to fail. Homebodies invented the “Shared Girlfriend:”

Rentable love dolls lasted about a heartbeat before Beijing shut the company down. Just long enough for every tabloid on Earth to get their licks in.

That’s the thing about Information Age screwups. You can’t face-plant in private anymore. Multiple conglomerates depend on footage of your worst day. Live, if possible. It’d be a crisis, if we weren’t born with a vampiric thirst for fame.

Aspiring conglomerates have a tougher road:

While the private sector entertained, I had a soft spot for military failures. Global stakes elevated prosaic fuckups into true clusterfucks. Take Project Habakkuk:

If you’re a fellow public school graduate, this might be your first time seeing it too. Project Habakkuk had a simple concept: “Ice hard. “Hard boat strong. Ice boat strongest there is!” Half-ice aircraft carriers could save the British Empire from the fate it imposed on others.

It melted.

I have sympathy for the engineers. They joined to design better sedan chairs for well-dressed warlords. After the blitz, they were in charge of fighting younger, spryer imperialists with superior amphetamines. That’s like learning about your dissertation a week after it’s due. I imagine similar tension at DARPA today.

That said, I didn’t agree with every exhibit.

MoviePass wasn’t a failure. It was a gift to a dying world. Mugging venture capitalists by watching B-movies was heaven. I’ll watch every rom-com ever made if Peter Thiel pays. I know this after seeing every rom-com released while Peter Thiel paid.

Speaking of the wannabe Wehrmacht, there’s an entire section dedicated to presidential cockups. Not all of them. Just one.

I exhausted my last Apprentice joke in 2019 or so, but this wall’s worth highlighting. It’s the only one Trump built. For some forces of nature, failure doesn’t take vision or hardship. It’s enough to simply be.

After the spray-on condoms and Elon Musk infographic, I’d absorbed enough failure. It was time to nod through a Hinge stranger’s life story while thinking of Project Habakkuk. For me, at least. Octavian’s into those stable relationships from the movies.

On the way out, I eyed the Wall of Failure. It’s satire in miniature. Disappointments, pratfalls, humblebrags, resentments, accidents, vendettas, and dreams, collected in digestible jokes. My handwriting didn’t stand out, but I could spy my entry from another state. Two simple words:

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Rated T for Teen. Suggestive themes, crude language, misuse of hardware.

Around 3 AM, I realized that a nonfiction section’s the only thing between me and stardom. Why hold back? I owe myself creative momentum, exotic STIs, and pre-death retirement. The Republic has two good years left. No point languishing in the undercard.

It has to be nonfiction. Unlike my made-up stories about maladjusted black guys in declining empires, these’ll be real.

People like real, unless they have Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure tattoos. I have both a Jojo tattoo and a Hunter S. Thompson bobblehead, so I’m neutral. Advertisers (me), academic refugees (me again), and news people (does fashion count?) kidnapped and replaced that word decades ago. But real still pulls readers that run screaming from WW3 footnotes. I’ll be the Elvis of real, turning another culture into my mansion.

I’ll call it Expensive Evil. Half for flavor. Half for New York pricing out non-Waltons. And a third, final half for it being a paid exclusive. The first taste’s free, to lure customers and keep the cops off my trail. Next, slowly but surely, I’ll poison the community for profit. Then finally, BAM: WW4 footnotes.

Perfect.

Nothing’s realer than a joke.

I’m leaving the apartment.

I write in the apartment. I lift in the apartment. I eat, sleep, watch The Raid, procrastinate, read, game, drink, drunk text, roll around, argue, break up, make up, rewatch The Raid, and break up again in the apartment. I step out to make rent, and then go back to the apartment.

I wrote off a year to the public good, and another to shellshock. After that? Habit and brooding, with the aftertaste of fear. A colorful loading screen between levels of life.

I’m leaving the apartment.

This is a series about leaving the apartment.

Unfortunately, I chose this path ten minutes before slamming a trendy oversized skateboard into my ankle. It wasn’t impressive. Whatever slice of vice I chose, I had to limp through it. No dancing tonight.

For me, at least. A heavy metal burlesque show was running downtown. Or uptown. Whatever you call “northeast” in Brooklyn. I know developers renamed everything around Target “Downtown Brooklyn,” but that’s a trick to get adults into a mall.

“Metallic Mamas” didn’t need a trick. If it was bad, I’d have my party anecdote for 2023. If it was okay, my bloated sense of irony would carry the ball home. And if it was good, my shred-loving heart would grow three sizes.

Let’s start with what I knew about burlesque:

That joke, like most nonfiction, is a lie. Half a decade ago, my friend performed at The Box, the kind of rent-erasing nightclub with a name like The Box. Naturally, I couldn’t afford it. Or most food. But when you stand next to someone important, security assumes you are too. That night’s spectacle stuck with me.

The Box evoked Eyes Wide Shut on purpose. An early triumph in antagonistic marketing. It aspired to look like Epstein’s power lunch. Which made me resent enjoying the show.

Three standout acts:

1. A burly man wearing a stuffed bear head—a bear playing a bear—swung his biggest limb in a circle to Ke$ha’s “We R Who We R,” and then danced with an elderly couple until dawn. That wasn’t my friend, but this would be a better article if it was.

2. Later, a silent woman slid needles through almost every body part, including the one you’re thinking of. That wasn’t my friend, or I’d have passed out. Or proposed.

3. Finally, a breakdancing Rapunzel parody, where two bboys competed to impress a gogo dancing princess. My friend was in that, and did perfect windmills. His character won Rapunzel’s heart, a fact recited often and enthusiastically.

Performing’s fun, from a distance. I avoid making a scene.

The point: Metallic Mamas had a lot to live up to. My ankle screamed murder in three languages, so it wasn’t looking good. Sure, I had the master’s degree to appreciate art school stripping. But my sex drive wasn’t louder than pain. Or benefiting from it, as some do.

I hit Metropolitan Ave—aka the NYU Alumni Association—in a foul mood. The kind that makes you write “foul mood” in your field notes. I hopped into Ethyl’s resenting myself for leaving the apartment. Why two-time a loyal copy of Guilty Gear Strive?

It didn’t help that security half-clotheslined me on the way to the bathroom. Karma for The Box, perhaps. I’ve run some heists in my day, but I wouldn’t sneak into a pro-am bar show. I know what it’s like to make pennies doing what you love. Or nothing.

Cool spot.

It was very red. Or just brown with nice lighting, my mind’s eye is colorblind. Ethyl’s hit the retro dive look that only clean-cut nostalgia can achieve. The crowd averaged out to my age. Otherwise, I’d have left. I’m not fond of looking like someone’s father or sugar baby.

The soundtrack was on point, and there was an amusing 70’s action flick on the television. That might not sound important to day-drinking or night-grinding, but I’ve done reluctant shots to abcdefu before. Ambiance is half the battle. The other half is keeping landlords from turning your livelihood into a Shake Shack. 

The main floor’s split into two big rooms, separated by clear beads and notably touchy security. In hindsight, I get it. I don’t sleep, and a burlesque show’s problem customers probably have the same sunken look. I let it go–the disco ball did a good job of waking me up. I’m much nicer after I perk up around 10 PM or so.

If you live in Eric Adams’s urinal, I should point out that Ethyl’s and Young Ethel’s are two different adult daycares. And yes, I almost went to the wrong one.

Happy?

Brilliant, actually. Likely better than that, since I came in pissed.

“Boys, girls, and girls that are gonna grow up to be boys,” began the hostess, juggling raunch and politics. A feat on Hipster Island.  “Secure your tits and wigs. The show is about to begin.”

I’d misplaced both, but hung around. The opener was a flexible gogo dancer. As in kick-the-ceiling flexible. Not quite a metaphor, since she kicked the ceiling. She made a lot of money, because very few of us can kick the ceiling. While she stood on the bar, it still counts.

Our host, one Tiffani Monroe, returned. The reddest human I’ve seen outside of Carrie. Tiffani wielded a giant red feather dress over a red bikini in a red-tinted room. She was a full third of a flag-themed USO show. I felt very clever writing that down. Tiffani, like any human that can wear that uniform, had charisma.

She introduced the plot, which I’ll try to recreate: in 1969, a time machine breaks and tumbles through early metal and disco highlights. Only throwing money could save us from a Doctor Who apocalypse. Which was a long, winding way of saying “Don’t worry about it. Here’s someone dancing to ‘Rasputin,’ dressed like Rasputin.”

That was my favorite act of the night. She committed with a full friar’s robe and taped-on beard. If someone asks why I don’t drown my landlord and move somewhere the trains work, I’ll say “Rasputin.” The Mad Monk also had charisma.

That I could tip more if I was a doctor.

“Who here has a hidden talent?” asked Tiffani. “Let’s get three volunteers.”

That’s a high risk move anywhere. Sometimes, the talent is scripture, or robbing the venue. Or, worst of all, nothing. Audience plants are viable, but it’s awkward when people see you high fiving over shots after the show.

Because of my hate for attention, my hand shot up. I can’t explain it. Maybe all the diet coke. I was first of the chosen three.

“What’s a fun fact about you?”

I plugged the book. You know me.

“‘A writer, okay. What’s your special talent?”

I mumbled something about breakdancing, to infinitely more fanfare. I think she’d smelled comedian on me, and worried I’d try to wedge in an allure-killing tight five. I’d never do that, now. Growing up is learning the difference between headspin night and airline food night. It’s never airline food night.

Tiffani played what we’ll call a breakbeat, and said to strut. I came unstuck in time.

Sure.

Back in undergrad, I was embalming my brain. Princeton’s writing major had rejected me twice, and I liked talking to Jim Beam about my feelings. If I couldn’t compete with Atlas Shrugged fanfiction, I was cooked. I spent a lot of time in my room.

A friend—let’s call him Jim too—asked to meet in the cafeteria. Upon arrival, I found him squared off against the entire scramble band. Including two shirtless, gyrating drummers. I’d walked into something deeply stupid and at least half over, on the losing team.

A fight would’ve been easy. Jim explained that he’d challenged the scramble band to a 2-vs-2 strip-off, and accepted on my behalf. This was the kind of thing Jim did. Which, by extension, made it my problem. The honor of the breakdancing club was at stake.

What?

If you say so.

Snap back to Ethyl’s. Another contest. Another crowd. Another general expectation to lose clothing mid-backspin.

I did the same tricks at Metallic Mamas. Darkhammers to headstand-twerk isn’t dignified, but it’s effective. The masses approved. They also smelled comedian on me, so I was overperforming.

My ankle, which I’d forgotten, went from screaming to crying. But I felt much better about life.

Every narrator has flaws. Especially real ones. If money, jail time, or child custody are involved, consider it high fantasy. There will never be a memoir with the detail, clarity, or emotional honesty of The Two Towers.

But no.

Tiffani called two more attention-vortexes to the stage. The circus acrobat Amadeus, and the notably drunk Princess Pat. Pat stood out, and not because of the safety-orange jumpsuit. She had killing intent.

If you watch more anime than news, you’ve heard chatter about pressure. Weight. Power level. Princess Pat had a high sideshow powerlevel. You could detect it in each refill. This article exists because of her.

Tiffany jumped into her lines. “What’s your hidden tale—?”

“I’m Princess Pat, and I’m a pain-proof individual. You about to see some shit.”

True. This part isn’t family-friendly.

“I need a screwdriver.”

Princess Pat received a screwdriver from the bartender, and frowned. “I normally use a bigger one,” she noted.

She did nothing for about twenty seconds. Again, drunk. Then she feinted a front-end insertion, feinted a back-end insertion, and said we’d have to catch her show for that. Finally, she put the screwdriver in her left nostril. And kept going. I don’t know how far into her brain she got, but she might not remember Napoleon.

It was a hit.

Amadeus and I slid offstage. Flips can’t compete with a screwdriver.

In that moment, I was a threefold failure. I’d shamed Jamaican rhythm by losing a battle, Jamaican fundamentalism by headstand-twerking, and Jamaican frugality by tipping. My left ankle was more prop than limb. I hadn’t written a word all day.

Perfect.

Thanks for reading. If you like air and water, share it. If not, welcome to Earth, noble alien overlords. Bonus shoutout to everyone that performed that night. And to “Jim,” who has a sixty percent chance of seeing this and learning that stuck with me.