Now, I know what you’re wondering. Who the fuck is Spencer Pratt? I had to Google him too. Turns out, Spencer Pratt became “famous” on a reality television show called The Hills, which ran on MTV from 2006 to 2010. Spencer played himself, which is to say he played a low-information, high-anger douchebag. I didn’t watch The Hills, because I get my kicks watching shows about high-information, low-anger mensches (and the women who love them). But a lot of people did watch The Hills, and they tried to warn us. They’d write things in online forums like:

• “Spencer Pratt is a human paraquat. If he ever gets into local politics, LA is screwed eight ways to Sunday.”

• “I know we’re not supposed to post about politics in this forum, but I don’t care. Spencer Pratt can never be allowed to serve as mayor of Los Angeles. The city has enough problems without that fuck-stick running the show. (Totally understand if you need to delete my post, per forum rules).”

• “You know that thought experiment about Hitler and the time machine? Well, Spencer Pratt is the LA version of that hypothetical. I’m warning you guys, he’s gonna run for mayor one day, and you’re not gonna like it. Trust me. I’m Spencer’s mom, so I know what we’re dealing with here.”

Obviously, nobody heeded the warnings. That’s why we’re in this mess. Which is why, against my will and better judgement, I’ve been thinking a lot about Spencer Pratt lately. Because unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, you know damn well that when reality television stars become elected officials the shit hits the fan.

Before I go any further, I should note that this isn’t an endorsement of the other candidates. Nobody seems to like Mayor Karen Bass, and yet somehow councilwoman Nithya Raman, who is running to the left of Bass, is in third place behind the mayor and Pratt. There’s also a tech founder dude in fourth place, but nobody knows who he is, and I’m too busy to Google his name. To channel the wisdom of Richard Pryor’s titular character in Brewster’s Millions, the best option is none of the above.

Unfortunately, Rush was correct when they sang, “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.” Which means, we have to pick someone, Los Angeles, and whatever we do, that someone shouldn’t be Spencer Pratt.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why shouldn’t we choose Spencer Pratt? Are his ideas bad? Is he unlikely to deliver on any of his promises? Will his mere presence degrade the already degraded institution that is local government in Los Angeles? The answers are yes, yes, and you bet your ass. But don’t take my word for it. Listen to the people who famously do their own research, and then for fucks sake, do the opposite of what they recommend.

Which brings us to the dipshits, wing-nuts, and buffoons, i.e., the key building blocks of Pratt’s winning coalition. The paradox of Los Angeles politics is that in a town where fame is the ultimate currency, elected officials aren’t the stars, they’re the extras. The reason is simple: Corruption thrives in darkness. Casting a star in the role of an elected official would ruin everything, because their star-power would shine a bright light on City Hall, forcing Angelenos to do the unthinkable — confront the downtown graft-labyrinth where thieves, pimps, and scoundrels run free. In theory, a celebrity could provide the antidote to the closed-door corruption and backroom dealing, but in practice Pratt isn’t famous enough for anyone to care, and in truth, celebrities have a lousy political track record in California. (See: Ronald Reagan, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Clint Eastwood.) Regardless, Pratt is an outsider, and as an outsider he can’t rely on established coalitions. He needs to build a new coalition, which is where the dipshits, wing-nuts, and buffoons enter the picture.

The dipshits don’t know any better. They’re dipshits, after all. They can be counted on to parrot the dumbest talking points, which seems like a liability, until you realize that the electorate has the collective IQ of an ostrich on meth. The wing-nuts are the people who know best. That is, they rate their intelligence so highly that they’re convinced that the bizarre ideas they champion are brilliant, despite the fact that everyone else knows those ideas are painfully stupid. Actually, that’s not quite right. Wing-nuts see the establishment’s criticism of their ideas as proof of their intelligence, which makes them more dangerous than the dipshits, but a lot less interesting than the buffoons. Unlike the dipshits and the wing-nuts, the buffoons truly do know better, but nevertheless they can be counted on to back the worst people for one simple reason: the lolz. On their own, these groups are irrelevant and (sometimes) entertaining. Collectively, however, they’re lethal, as the cacophony they produce is the political equivalent of the Sirens’ call that fucked up Odysseus’ shit.

As far as I can tell, Spencer Pratt has already locked up the dipshit vote. Birds of a feather, as they say. Initially, the wing-nuts were wary of Pratt, but I fear that the YouTube algorithm will rally them to his cause. You see, one under-reported aspect of the Pratt campaign is his use of AI to make videos so stupid, so cringe, and so lacking in production value that only the wings-nuts can see their brilliance.

In one video, Pratt portrays himself as a Jedi determined to save Los Angeles from Emperor Palpatine (Gavin Newsom), Darth Vader (Karen Bass), DSA stormtroopers, and woke zombies. I swear, I’m not making this up. You can watch the video for yourself, but if you’re low on brain cells I urge you to proceed with caution, as the side effects may include stupidity.

In another video, Pratt adopts a lighter, Latin vibe as he takes out the trash, aka Karen Bass. For some reason, however, the music sounds Cuban by way of Miami, so I’m not sure Pratt understands the Latino vote in Los Angeles. Nevertheless, Pratt’s demonstrated ignorance is catnip for the dipshits, wing-nuts, and buffoons he needs to win.

There are hundreds more videos out there. The Pratt campaign shits them out faster than ChatGPT can spit out the wrong answer. But I’m sharing one last video called Pratt Summer, which is a play on Brat Summer. In this video, Pratt is a DJ, superhero, and guy with great abs who has the rizz to return LA to the glory days captured in the MTV documentary The Hills.

At this point, you may be wondering if I believe these videos will convince Los Angeles to vote for Pratt. The answer is no. These videos are too dumb to persuade regular people, even if regular people are dumb as dog shit. What these videos do is build community. But not just any community. A community of dipshits, wing-nuts, and you guessed it, buffoons. If you haven’t been paying attention, that’s a huge fucking problem.

As of this writing, things aren’t going well in the city of Los Angeles. But the worse things get, the more low-information voters start paying attention. The trouble is, it’s the dipshits, wing-nuts, and buffoons who are most likely to capture that attention on behalf of the Pratt campaign. In other words, the worse things get, the worse things get. It’s what political scientists call a death spiral of stupidity. And we are spiraling.

Is there a way out of the stupidity spiral? Sadly, there isn’t. Like all slow-motion train wrecks, the only way out is through. Which is to say, Pratt will likely make it to the general election, and once it’s down to two candidates he’ll be able to draw a bright red line separating the dipshits, wing-nuts, and buffoons from everyone else. The trouble with that is that everyone else will be in the awkward position of defending a status quo nobody likes, and that kind of lackluster vibe is no match for a Spanish-speaking Jedi with killer abs who takes out the trash.

You’re covering local politics now? Isn’t this a humor newsletter?

Yes. And yes. But requested more coverage of local politics, which just goes to show you that your voice matters, at least if you’re Sara.

My head is spinning. I need a strong drink and a good book.

I got you. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here. And Ride/ Share can be purchased here.

IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. Why do the Russians get their own version of roulette? Explain.

2. The Pratt campaign seems to believe, incorrectly, that zombies are part of the Star Wars universe. Is this disqualifying?

3. Fuck, marry, kill — but your choices are dipshits, wing-nuts, and buffoons. Choose wisely.

4. Christina says I’m being unfair to Ronald Reagan, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Clint Eastwood, and that many people think they were mediocre / solid / good elected officials. Is she right?

5. Did you watch The Hills? Tell your story.

Leave a comment

“Yo kid, there’s a line here.”

The girl turned around to look at me, shrugged, then went back to making whatever lame soda concoction kids drink these days.

“Do you believe this shit?”

I wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, but the woman behind me in line answered anyway.

“Kids don’t do manners anymore,” she said. “Society is screwed.”

How could I argue with that? I couldn’t. But after the girl finished, I took another shot at common decency, mostly for shits and giggles, but also because, as George Costanza famously said, “we live in a society.”

“Didn’t you see the line?” I asked.

“No.”

“OK, well a half-dozen people standing in a row, waiting to use the soda fountain is what a line looks like.”

She didn’t respond, just gave me that blank dead-inside stare all the kids have because TikTok has fried their brains and sucked the marrow from their souls.

“Maybe you should apologize for cutting in line,” I suggested.

The girl didn’t apologize.

“Or, you can go through life fucking around, until one day, you find out.”

She walked away without saying another word, which is to say she’ll continue to fuck around, and if there’s any justice in this world, she’ll eventually find out.

Speaking of fucking around and finding out, it’s almost time to vote in California. If you hate democracy, this is an exciting time, because these days every election brings us one step closer to the gangsta’s paradise of authoritarianism. I love democracy, which means it’s time to panic, because the options, as any political scientist will tell you, blow ass. I’m not kidding. There are 61 candidates running to be the next governor of California. To simplify things, CNN let only seven candidates on the debate stage. In no particular order, the debaters were:

1. Steve Hilton, a Fox News host and former David Cameron aide who loved the idea of Brexit so much that he became a Californian.

2. Tom Steyer, a billionaire who will spare no expense to lose an election.

3. Antonio Villaraigosa, the former mayor of Los Angeles who was widely believed to be deceased.

4. Xavier Becerra, the frontrunner for reasons nobody, including the Becerra campaign, can explain.

5. Chad Bianco, the Riverside County Sheriff and a real reactionary. Also, a proud member of the Oath Keepers, which means that after he loses, a mob of armed dipshits and low-information freedom fighters will likely attack Sacramento on inauguration day.

6. Matt Mahan, the San Jose mayor who was just happy to be there.

7. Katie Porter, a minivan owner and white board poet.

I’m voting for Porter, because accountability is my kink (see the soda fountain episode above). She’s going to lose, according to Kalshi, one of the leading gambling platforms where you can bet on all kinds of real life events — wars, sports, the crazy shit reality TV stars will say next, and elections. The smart money is on Becerra, though I wouldn’t call him the smart choice. Some gamblers believe Steyer is viable, but hopefully none of them are betting Steyer-level money on Steyer to win. Finally, Hilton (no relation to Paris) is the long shot, which is the preferred shot for dumb money, degenerate gamblers, and inside traders.

If you’re guessing that the debate was a shit show, you should open a Kalshi account, as you might already be a winner. I’m kidding. Everyone on Kalshi is a loser. Except the inside traders. And the house. The house always wins. Unless the house is owned by Donald Trump, in which case it declares bankruptcy.

Nobody is going to win this election, however. It’s a jungle primary, meaning the top two candidates advance. Sort of like Survivor, only the stakes are the state of California.

The weird thing about California politics is that a lot people, on both sides, are obsessed with national politics, but have zero clue about state or local politics. I know this because people I love, on both sides, text me when they get their ballot to ask who I’m voting for and what my take is on all these ballot measures and propositions. When I ask them why they trust me, they say things like, “you’re a guy who knows stuff, you follow the local news.” Which is true. I do know stuff. And I love local news. I listen to LAist with breakfast, check the LA Times at work, and try to catch the local news at 10pm. (Semi-pro tip: The best life slices are found on local news.)

Lately, I’ve been watching the local news on YouTube, because the actual broadcast has been degraded to the point that it’s mostly just teasers for the weather report, followed by the weather report, followed by a teaser about a potentially alarming weather event that they’ll cover in the next weather report, right after the commercial break. It’s a weather report doom loop, similar to the movie Groundhog Day, but with 100% fewer jokes and 50% more cleavage. If you like thirst traps, the current iteration of the local news is your jam, but if you love local news, the decline in quality is depressing, though not in the tropical sense.

The upside to catching the local news on YouTube is that I can skip the boring stories. The downside is the algorithm. After watching a report about how the Los Angeles mayoral race is a three-way fight between a mayor nobody likes, a former reality television star nobody believes is capable of doing the job, and a progressive city councilwoman who thinks the other two candidates are colluding to keep her out of the general election, I felt nauseous. When I got back from the bathroom, the YouTube algorithm had autoplayed another story about the LA mayoral race, but this one was produced by The Free Press — a media outfit that isn’t free, but is part of the press, because in the age of social media, everyone is press.

The reporter began his story with a hypothesis: Voters in low-income areas are more concerned with economic issues that impact their quality of life, while voters in wealthy areas care more about “luxury” political beliefs, which he defined as “transgender issues.” I braced for impact.

The reporter spoke to a dozen people in Boyle Heights and another dozen people in Brentwood. To the reporter’s surprise, poor Angelenos had the same concerns as wealthy Angelenos. The city, everyone agreed, is in terrible condition. The roads are covered in potholes. Copper wire theft has rendered street lights inoperable, and repairs have been too slow. Also, crime is a problem.

The weird thing about The Free Press report, other than the failed attempt to make the LA mayoral race about trans people, is that the reporter wasn’t surprised that wealthy people and poor people had no idea who they were going to vote for, but were nevertheless leaning in the direction of the status quo, despite deep misgivings about … the status quo.

“I don’t know why anyone would even want the job,” an elderly woman from Brentwood told The Free Press. “As my husband says, it’s like choosing who’s next at the gangbang.”

To be fair, that kind of quote would never make the local news. They produce a family show, except for the weather report, which is basically porn with a chance of precipitation. But what was unfair, in this viewer’s eyes, was that the reporter didn’t have any follow up questions, not one. I would’ve asked:

1. Does your husband have a lot of experience with gangbangs?

   1. Aren’t all gangbangs the product of bad choices?

2. How do you (or your husband) choose who’s next?

   1. Is it like a deli counter where everyone takes a number, or is it more like a baseball team’s batting order?

      1. Is your husband a leadoff hitter, or does he bat cleanup?

3. Are you speaking in literal terms, or is the gangbang a metaphor for the multitude of ways so many Angelenos are about to be fucked?

   1. If so, doesn’t that mean the voters are next and the politicians are doing the fucking?

      1. Explain!

         1. Everything, lady. Seriously. Explain everything.

Needless to say, I had more questions than answers. But as the saying goes, all politics is loco.

Which brings me back to that teenager who cut the line at The Stand. Seeing that girl navigate society — and society acquiesce to her disregard for norms and other people — made me feel like Walter Sobchak.

Which isn’t a good feeling. Because I am not Walter. I like to think of myself as The Dude, or El Duderino, if you’re not into that whole brevity thing. But in a world that’s gone crazy, where parents can’t / won’t hold their kids accountable, where voters can’t / won’t hold elected officials accountable, where elected officials can’t / won’t hold anyone accountable, and where everyone is a member the press, but too busy manufacturing wedge issues or doing the weather to hold power accountable, the only sane response is …

Great. Now I wanna read a hilarious gangbang scene.

I got you. Not Safe for Work has that and a whole lot more. It’s available at Amazon and all the other book places.

And if you’re looking for more vulgarity wrapped inside a comedic crime story, Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

No, dude, I just like slice of life humor.

No problemo, amigo. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up your copy here.

IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. Should Stephen King sue The Stand? Explain.

2. In a world that’s gone crazy, are you the line-cutter, Walter Sobchak, or a bystander? Tell your story.

3. Are you one of the 61 people running to be the next governor of California? Unhinged answers strongly encouraged!

4. Are gangbangs the right metaphor for politics, or is politics a metaphor for gangbangs? Go deep (but make sure you get consent).

5. Bowling anyone?

Leave a comment

Noteworthy

Coda

The plumber told me he never wanted to be a plumber. He learned the trade from his father, before embarking on a career as a sound editor.

“I used to do small jobs on big movies and big jobs on small movies.”

“Anything I’d know?”

He named a few films I’d never heard of and a few more I hadn’t seen.

“Back in the day, I worked on the DVD for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.”

“Which one was that?”

“The second one. But they’re basically all the same.”

I’d only seen the first movie in the Pirates franchise, but by the plumber’s logic I’d seen them all. Talk about efficiency.

“That movie was still in post, so they gave us access to all the files so we could make the DVD. One day, we had some downtime, and we figured, why not watch the movie?”

“Yeah, why not?” I said.

“I’ll tell you why: piracy.”

“Huh?”

“Somehow Disney found out we were watching the movies, and the FBI showed up.”

“They’ll show up for anything,” I said. “If they’re not holding the current director’s feet while he does a keg stand, they’re indicting the old director for taking pictures of seashells on the seashore.”

“No, no. This was back in the day when the FBI was a no-shit operation.”

“I dunno, dude, you were just saying they showed up at a post-production house. Not exactly going after Mr. Big.”

“That FBI warning they used to put on tapes and DVDs was no joke. They thought we were pirating the movie.”

“Kind of ironic, pirating Pirates.”

“Yeah, well the FBI does not do irony. We’re sitting there with popcorn trying to explain how we’re watching it, which we’re sorta kinda authorized to do, but not really, not like for fun with popcorn. I mean, it’s funny in retrospect, because they were basically like ‘get back to work.’ But man, I’ll tell you this: The FBI will mess up your day.”

“So is that why you switched to plumbing? The heat.”

“Heck no. I love sound editing, and I still do it. But it’s more of a side hustle at this point, sadly. The work situation has gone down the toilet.”

Was that a plumbing joke or a sad commentary on film and television production in Los Angeles these days? Maybe both. It’s a shitty all around, that’s for sure.

“At first, it was all outsourcing. Some guy in India can do it on his laptop for a fraction of the price. That’s how corporations think, man. If you’ll do it for a buck, they’ll find someone who’ll do it for fifty cents. And look, I don’t blame the guy in India. Not anymore anyway. I used to be mad at him. But then they started with this AI shit. So now, I’m fucked, but so is the guy in India. We’re all fucked.”

“I guess it’s good to have a skill that can’t be outsourced, or done by a robot.”

“Damn right.”

He took his wrench out of his toolbox.

“Now, let’s fix this leaky faucet.”

“Great, it’s driving me nuts,” I said. “All day long, I hear a drip, drip, drip... I can’t hear myself think, can’t concentrate. It’s like I’m a character in some French film about a couple of professional killers and a job that goes bad because the hero loves too much and the woman he loves doesn’t love anyone as much as she loves her cigarettes. But really, the film isn’t about that at all, because it’s all a metaphor for how we’re all just killing time, waiting for a dream to turn into a nightmare. That’s the drip, drip, drip. Sure, it’s a clumsy metaphor, but the sound … it gets in your head.”

The plumber looked at me sideways.

“That’s a lot of story for a leaky faucet. Let me guess, you’re a writer?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you write?”

“Whatever pays.”

“So … no movies, no books.”

“Correct. I ghostwrite opinion pieces.”

“Opinions about ghosts, or for ghosts?”

“Neither. I’m the ghost, I think. My gig covers a lot of ground, but basically I write about current events.”

“So AI?”

“Yeah, that’s a popular topic.”

“Well, is it gonna take our jobs, or is it gonna kill everyone Skynet-style?”

“I have no idea, but I’m rooting for Skynet.”

“Really?”

“No. But that sounded like a funny thing to say, but now that I’ve said it, I realize that there’s nothing funny about the apocalypse, unless you’re Stanley Kubrick. That guy could find the funny in the darkest of places.”

I rambled on about Dr. Strangelove, which turned into a rant about how nobody worries about nuclear annihilation like they did during the cold war, even though shit is just as deadly as it was then, and likely even more deadly. And then, perhaps because I’d brought up the cold war, I gave the plumber my unsolicited opinion about the movie War Games, which I believe everyone should watch, because, if everyone understood that the only winning move is not to play we’d probably play chess instead of going to war, which would be a big improvement, because chess is fun, and war is messy and people die.

“Let me guess,” the plumber said, “you work alone?”

“How’d you know?”

“It just seems like you don’t talk to a lot of people.”

“Not when I’m on deadline. Usually, it’s fine, but that drip, drip, drip is making me a little twitchy and weird. Sorry.”

“It’s OK. Listen, I can fix the faucet, but you gotta make your peace with whatever is going on upstairs, amigo.”

With his wrench, he pointed to his head to clarify what he meant by upstairs.

“You’re right. Sorry it got weird.”

“No worries, amigo.”

“Truth is, I don’t mind the noise, I just wish the home office soundtrack sounded a little more like a Spaghetti Western. Like, wouldn’t it be really badass if all the sounds in the house combined to make the music from A Fistful Of Dollars? That would really raise the stakes for when I confront the blank page, or make a cup of coffee.”

“I hear you. Morricone was the GOAT.”

“Exactly.”

“And that would be a pretty badass work soundtrack. Way better than dripping water.”

“Thank you.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t bring Pro Tools to plumbing gigs, so you’re shit out of luck.”

“Was that plumber joke, or a sound guy joke?”

“Both. These days, you gotta have multiple gigs.”

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That was funny. I need more laughter.

I got you.

My novels will amuse you to death life. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

My slice of life humor will change your life. Seriously. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. What’s your hustle? What’s your side hustle? Does your side hustle have a side hustle? Dish!

2. Are all the Pirates movies the same movie? Wrong answers encouraged.

3. Wouldn’t you prefer a good game of chess? Explain.

4. What’s the soundtrack to your work day?

Leave a comment

Passing Notes

Coda

The cactus in question was on our property, so there weren’t any jurisdictional issues. That was a relief, because the last thing I wanted was a pissing match with another amateur detective. But that’s where the good news stopped. This was an election year, after all, which meant that if I didn’t clear the Bread Cactus case ASAP, the pencil-dicks downtown would be all over my ass. So I quit gawking and radioed for backup.

“Is that a half-eaten loaf of bread in our cactus?” Christina asked.

“You don’t miss much, babe.”

“What’s it doing there?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

My plan: Roust the usual suspects and beat the shit out of them until they told me what they knew. But Christina said we needed to do this one by the book.

“Remember what happened last time?” she asked. “You figured out who ate the last slice of pizza, but the DA had to drop the charges because you beat the pepperoni out of the suspect. Also, you were suspended without pay for three months, and you couldn’t afford any pizza at all.”

“Fucking pencil-dicks downtown,” I seethed. “This town is fucked eight ways from Sunday.”

“Settle down, Serpico. Let’s take some pictures of the scene, and we’ll go from there, OK?”

After we took pictures, I asked Christina if she had an theories.

“I think a giant hawk picked up the bread, maybe at Whole Foods or that Israeli bakery that has terrible parking.”

“Hawks eat bread?”

“No. The hawk was like, what am I even doing with this bread? Yuck. I’m gonna stick it in this cactus.”

“But why? Cui bono? Who benefits?”

“The hawk. Duh.”

“How?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

Christina sighed.

“It’s bait.”

“For who?”

“For anyone dumb enough to take that bread. As soon as they do, the hawk swoops in and eats their ass.”

“Ass-eating hawks? I didn’t know birds were so kinky.”

“No, I mean the hawk eats them, like for breakfast or dinner, depending on what time of day it is.”

“Oh…”

I didn’t buy Christina’s theory, and I told her so. It seemed ridiculous. Also, why put the bread in a cactus, which is difficult to access, when you could just drop the bread on the lawn, swoop in, eat some ass, and fly away?

“I think our suspect is a human,” I said.

“Boring.”

“Maybe so, but I’m making a list of suspects.”

First on my list was our gardener Raphael. I liked him for the Bread Cactus job for a few reasons. For one thing, the cactus in question was a few feet away from our green garbage bin. That told me Raphael had opportunity. Also, there’s a small chance our gardener is an assassin, so he basically had a record in my book.

“Bread? No, no … I don’t know anything about bread.”

I studied Raphael’s eyes as he spoke. In my unprofessional experience the eyes always give it away. The trouble was, Raphael was wearing sunglasses. He was playing hardball. I’d have to try another way.

“Look, I just need some information, OK?”

I held up a crisp $100 bill. Raphael snatched it out of my hand. Now, we were getting somewhere. Or so I thought.

“Raphael, I give you the money, you give me the information. That’s how this works.”

“I thought you were paying me for last month.”

Shit. I had forgotten to pay him for last month.

“Just give me something I can use.”

“OK, the cactus …”

I leaned in, eager for a lead that could break the case wide open.

“… the cactus does not eat bread, Michael.”

The cactus doesn’t eat bread!? No shit. That information was about as useful as a solar-powered flashlight.

Next on my list was our pool man, Carlos. He didn’t have a record, as far as I knew, but like Raphael he had opportunity, because he discards leaves and other crap that lands in our pool into the green bin.

“Someone is sending you a message,” Carlos said.

“But it isn’t you?” I asked.

“No, I text you for messages.”

“Any idea what the message is?”

Carlos looked up at the sky, made the sign of the cross, then looked back at me and shook his head.

“Some mysteries are better left unsolved. Forget about it, Michael, it’s … the Valley.”

The way he said that spooked me. Sure, I’m easily spooked, but why had Carlos crossed himself before giving me his version of the famous line from Chinatown?

I was in too deep, and I knew it. Also, I was out of leads. The bread had appeared on a Sunday, so that ruled out our mail carrier. And since we hadn’t received any packages that day the UPS/FedEx/Amazon theory was also toast. I was desperate, so I did what desperate people often do these days, I turned to social media.

My first social media stop was Nextdoor, the internet clearinghouse for security camera footage of package thieves, aka porch pirates; trespassing wild animals, i.e., four-legged content creators; racism; listings for household items that are so shitty they can’t be sold at garage sales; gardening advice; and miscellaneous nonsense. Unfortunately, my post kept getting taken down. Evidently, the moderator in our area was gluten-free, online and off.

Reddit was no help either. My posts in the subreddits for bread, unsolved mysteries, and the San Fernando Valley, weren’t removed, but they were mocked. In retrospect, that was entirely predictable, since Reddit’s motto is: If you can’t be helpful, be an asshole.

Speaking of assholes, I thought about turning to Elon Musk’s and Mark Zuckerberg’s social networks, but then I smoked some meth, smashed my face with a hammer, and came to my senses. Like Mulder and Scully, I believed the truth was out there, but I knew it wasn’t on those fact-free platforms.

I was officially stumped. Which happens. Last time I checked, my clearance rate was around 14% — far higher than the LAPD’s rate for solving similar cases. Although to be fair, the LAPD also handles major crimes, whereas my beat is minor mysteries.

Who put the bread in the cactus, and why?

I had no fucking idea.

But I knew one last way to get an answer, even if it was of questionable provenance. So I typed up my notes, and uploaded them to Claude. Then I told Claude it was the best detective in history — more determined than Harry Bosch, more fucked up on mind-bending drugs than Doc Sportello, and more of a menace to society than Frank Drebin.

Claude spat out an answer, which I’ll summarize, because it was way too long:

Unfortunately, none of this was true. Claude was hallucinating, possibly because I’d told it to channel Doc Sportello, but more likely, because that’s what AI chat bots do. The thing is, I wanted it to be true. I wanted answers. I needed closure. That’s appeal of mystery fiction. In the end, a mystery story is supposed to restore order to a fictional version of the world, because we the real world is a fucking mess.

Or maybe, as The Dude said, my thinking about this case had become very uptight. One possibility was that the bread put itself in the cactus. Another possibility was that the cactus uprooted itself, called an Uber to take it to the bakery, and gave the Uber driver half the loaf as a tip. In other words, it was possible this whole thing was a wild sheep chase, like a Haruki Murakami novel, only shorter and with better jokes.

Or, maybe this story was just a futile attempt to find meaning where there was none. That’s probably it, to be honest. But I can live with that. As Albert Einstein said, “The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science.”

I want a mystery with a damn ending. I need closure, Michael.

I got you.

My novels don’t end well for some of the characters, but they do end, and they do provide closure. And some laughs. And something to ponder. And maybe even the feels.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

Are your novels any good? Don’t lie.

Yes! But you don’t have to take my word for it.

Novels are too long. I just want something I can read on the crapper.

Again, I got you.

Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

Answer questions, or take the fifth

1. Who put the bread in the cactus and why? Explain.

2. Are you the type to ignore life’s little mysteries, or do you Philip Marlowe the fuck up? Dish.

3. Do hawks eat ass? Wrong answers strongly encouraged.

4. Your keys are missing. Do you hire Harry Bosch, Doc Sportello, or Frank Drebin to find them? Choose wisely.

5. Why is it always an election year?

Leave a comment

A noteworthy note

Coda

I needed a quart of yogurt, so I went to the market. Correction: I wanted a quart of yogurt. I could’ve eaten my muesli with milk, but yogurt sounded better, and it’s fermented, so yogurt was the gutsy move. I also needed wanted muesli, so I threw a bag of that in my cart too. I got iceberg lettuce for a taco salad and some taco seasoning because after meal-prepping tacos for the coming week, we were running low on taco seasoning — an emergency in my book. Also, I got another carton of milk, because I didn’t want to make another trip to the store twice in the same week. In the check-out line I grabbed a bag of sugar-free, fake-ass Swedish fish for no reason at all. Actually, that’s not true. It was an impulse buy, and I swallowed that sugar-free bullshit fish candy hook, line, and sinker.

The checkout line wasn’t moving, so I took out my phone and read the news. Things weren’t going well, but that wasn’t exactly news. I put my phone away and thought about another impulse buy. Was I in the mood to read about meth-addicted celebrities performing autopsies on aliens, or was I hankering for Cheetos? Why had I framed the choice as either / or? Wasn’t this a classic yes / and situation? The cheap tabloid paper could absorb the neon orange Cheeto residue from my fingers, while I read the news that wasn’t fit to print. That felt like a win-win to me. But then the woman ahead me asked the man ahead of her if he was going to the Dodgers game this afternoon, and I forgot all about Cheetos and tabloid journalism.

“No, I’m not a baseball fan,” the man said. “I just really like peanuts.”

I looked at the conveyor belt. He wasn’t lying. The man was buying six giant bags of peanuts and a bottle of Diet Coke.

“I’m a Dodgers fan,” the woman said.

She sounded like she’d been smoking cigarettes since the late seventies. I put her at around sixty years old. She wasn’t interested in the peanuts. She was there to talk Dodger baseball.

“We’re hot,” she said. “We’re gonna win another World Series.”

I hoped she was right. I bleed Dodger blue. But I’m also a realist, which is why I don’t even start stocking up on fucks to give about baseball until July 4.

“Three in a row,” she said. “Never been done before.”

“The Yankees did it,” the man said.

For someone who said he wasn’t a baseball fan that factoid seemed to come out of left field, but I let it slide.

“They just win because they’re rich,” he said. “They buy championships.”

“Damn straight,” she said. “Best team money can buy.”

The man said something about money ruining the game. That made think he was an erstwhile fan — one of those people who say the game was better before free agency, without acknowledging that Curt Flood’s fight for free agency was as much about economic rights as civil rights. In any case, Mr. Peanut and Ms. Cigarette continued talking about how the rich get richer and everyone else gets fucked. They were talking about baseball payrolls, but they could’ve just as easily been talking about America, where social mobility is down, and the markets are up. He said something about baseball needing a salary cap, and she said something about socialism. That ended the conversation. Mr. Peanuts paid and left. Ms. Cigarettes was up to bat, and the cashier recognized her.

“Hey, weren’t you just in here like ten minutes ago?” the cashier asked.

“Yeah, I was. There’s a homeless gentlemen outside.”

The cashier frowned. I braced for a shit-show. These days when a customer complains about a homeless person outside of a store it’s a prelude to a physical confrontation, wherein the manager, backed up by a security guard, explains that America is a free country — unless you’re standing on private property. But the shit-show never materialized.

“I told him to come in with me and I’d get him whatever he wants,” she explained. “But he said that when he comes inside he gets hassled. So he gave me a shopping list.”

I looked at the conveyor belt. She was buying water, a dozen cans of tuna, four cans of chicken noodle soup, a jar of peanut butter, bread, granola bars, a bag of potato chips, apples, a canister of mixed nuts, and a pre-made footlong sub from the deli case. She was also buying travel-sized hand sanitizers, toothpaste tubes, and soap. It was an impressive haul. The total came out to a little over $100 — enough to treat two people to seats in the cheapest section at Dodger Stadium, provided they’re willing to hike up the hill through Chavez Ravine and skip the concessions. In other words: take me out to the ballgame, but don’t buy me peanuts or crackerjacks, or anything else because we just can’t afford these redonkulous prices.

“Take care,” she said. “I’ll see you next time.”

It was my turn. The cashier rang me up. He noticed my Dodgers cap, so we talked baseball. We both agreed on the following: Shohei Ohtani is a god, Dodgers tickets cost too much, and neither one of us would be caught dead at an Angels game.

Outside, I spotted Ms. Cigarette. She was talking to a homeless man. There were grocery bags at his feet. I heard her say, “You hang in there, Melvin, things are gonna turnaround.” Then she shook his hand, got in her car, and fired up a cigarette.

I hadn’t figured her for a do-gooder. I hadn’t figured Mr. Peanut for closet baseball fan with strong opinions on the salary cap, either. Mostly, I hadn’t planned to witness a random act of kindness and incredible generosity at my local Vons. It all felt out of left field, which usually gets a bad rap for all the random shit it sends our way. But in my opinion, left field, like the Dodgers left fielder, Teoscar Hernández, is underrated.

That was funny. I need more laughter.

I got you.

My novels will amuse you to death life. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

My slice of life humor will change your life. Seriously. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. Seeing any random acts of kindness lately? Share!

2. Are you a baseball fan, or do you just really love peanuts? Explain.

3. Why Swedish fish, and why not Swedish meatballs? Wrong answers only.

4. Made any good (or bad) impulse purchases lately? Dish!

5. Why doesn’t anything ever come outta center field or right field? Go deep.

Leave a comment

Coda: Dock Ellis & The LSD No-No

Still here? Hit that restack button, then email this post to everyone you know.

“Everybody needs money. That’s why they call it money.”

— Danny DeVito in David Mamet’s Heist

A friend texted me the other day to ask if all my neighbors were racist vigilantes. It was a fair question. I’ve written about Jim, my racist neighbor, a few times. And last week I wrote about Jon, my vigilante neighbor. Racists and vigilantes are good copy, although I can’t abide racism or vigilantism. But I have other neighbors, and as far as I know, they aren’t racists or vigilantes. Case in point: The Cat Lady.

I keep meaning to ask her name. We’ve been chatting for years. But at this point it, I think we’re past introductions. Our conversations go deep. We’ve talked about gardening, Walmart’s shady business practices, politics, her ex-husband, cats, her other ex-husband, dogs, motorist who seem to think that a residential street with an elementary school is the perfect place to live out their Fast & Furious fantasies, polyamory, poor customer service, jealous girl friends, squeaky wheels that always manage to get the grease, LSD, the musical Grease, and the weather.

A few weeks ago, The Cat Lady was telling me about her acting career. I had no idea she’d been actor, but in Los Angeles, actors are as common as palm trees, so I wasn’t surprised. Also, The Cat Lady is easily in her nineties, so she’s had plenty of time to try out different careers.

“When was this?” I asked.

“Back when television was still new,” she explained.

I leaned in when she said that, hoping for some old Hollywood stories. Did she ever audition for I Love Lucy? Had she partied with James Dean? Was she blacklisted? Did she name names?

“I mostly did theater,” she said. “The camera didn’t love me as much as my ex-husband loved a call girl named Mona.”

“The ex who was in real estate, or the ex who was a drummer?” I asked.

“The ex who was a photographer. I drove him nuts. Every photo he took of me was a little blurry. He was a great photographer, but I just couldn’t be still. I’d always move just a little right as he snapped the photo. One time, he lost it, threw a wrench from right here clear across the street into the school.”

I looked over my shoulder. I put the throw at forty yards — good if you’re throwing a football, Herculean if you’re throwing a wrench.

“He wasn’t violent. Total sweetheart. But I drove him nuts. He wasted so much film on me.”

“That must’ve been expensive.”

“He always had money. He worked in advertising. Now, my actor friends were a different story. They were either broke or loaded — no middle ground. And when they had money they were on their way to being broke again.”

I muttered something about how going from gig to gig makes it hard to put money away. We talked about money for a bit, how too much money creates one kind of problem, while too little money creates another kind. She told me the smartest thing she ever did was buy a house when it was cheap and hang on to it. Then she told me about Stan.

“He was usually broke. But a couple times a year, he’d book a big job. He spent everything as fast as a he could — almost everything. When he got a big paycheck, he’d go to the bank and ask for, I dunno, ten or twenty dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels. Then he’d go back to his place and throw the change everywhere.”

“Like in the couch cushions?”

“Exactly. When he was broke, he’d go looking for loose change. He always had enough for a taco and bus fare.”

That’s not a lot of money. But it is food and transportation. Add a friend willing to let you crash on their couch, and you’ve got the actor trifecta.

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That was funny. I need more laughter.

I got you.

My novels will amuse you to death life. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

My slice of life humor will change your life. Seriously. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

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IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. Stan had a savings plan. What’s your savings plan? Share you knowledge.

2. I don’t think The Cat Lady knows my name either. What’s her nickname for me? Have fun with this!

3. What’s the smartest money decision you’ve ever made? Dish!

4. What’s the dumbest money decision you’ve ever made? Dish again!

5. Why do they call it money? Asking for David Mamet.

Leave a comment

Cinematic Coda

“Everything has gone to shit,” Jon said. “Two people on our block had their catalytic convertors stolen last week. The cops are useless.”

The utility, or lack thereof, of the local police is a common complaint among Angelenos these days. Violent crime is down, but the vibes are off. It’s a classic battle between data and lived experience. The homicide rate dropped 19% year-over-year, but toothpaste, deodorant, and everything else I need to stay fresh and clean is behind locked glass at Target. For me, it’s a head-scratcher. For some Angelenos, it’s a reason to reverse course on criminal justice reform. And for my neighbor Jon it’s an invitation to vigilantism.

“I wish I had been out there,” Jon continued. “I would’ve fucked them up.”

I believed Jon. Or, rather I believed that Jon believed he would’ve fucked up the thieves. The part I wasn’t so sure about was whether or not Jon was capable of accomplishing vigilantism. After all, Jon is pushing 60, overweight, and about as far from Chuck Norris (RIP) as you can get.

I laughed, but Jon didn’t, so I asked, “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I got a baseball bat.”

I also own a baseball bat, but I don’t think that makes me vigilante-eligible. Although, if you’re looking for forty-something left-fielder with bad ankles, poor eyesight, and penchant for chasing curveballs in the dirt, I am available and willing to bring orange slices and Capri Suns.

“I catch guys stealing copper all the time,” Jon said.

“Copper?”

“Yeah, they love to steal copper wire for some reason.”

The reason is simple. Copper prices are high, and it’s relatively easy to steal. Unless, Jon is watching.

“Do you have cable?” he asked.

“No, we cut the cord a decade ago.”

“Not me. I love cable.”

I pondered that. At work, sometimes I write about the streaming wars. I often wonder about the 40% of households that still subscribe to cable or watch broadcast television. Are they Luddites living off Brady Bunch reruns on TBS, or diehards who’ve barricaded themselves inside the legacy media bunker, determined to channel surf until the last channel broadcasts the final Star Spangled Banner sign off?

“I know the sequence,” he continued. “One channel starts go, then another, and another. That’s them literally cutting the cable.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I said, “No shit?”

“No shit. And I know where the distribution box is. It’s around the corner.”

“And you’ve caught them?”

“I catch ‘em all the time. When the TV starts to go, I grab my bat and jump in my car.”

“What happens when you catch them?”

“I wait.”

“You wait?”

“They know I called the cops, but I know the cops aren’t coming. So I wait until they leave.”

“What if they don’t leave?”

“That’s where the bat comes in.”

“You hit them?”

“I wish.”

The winkle in Jon’s eye told me he meant it.

“Usually, when they see the bat, they take off running.”

“And that’s that?”

“No. I chase them. I get license plates. Pictures. Video. I phone it in to the cops.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but the cops always say the same thing: stop chasing them, sir, this is a police matter.”

“Maybe you should listen,” I said. “You’re taking an awful risk.”

“Worth it.”

Jon’s certitude shocked me.

“You’d die for cable?”

“I’m not gonna die. I’ve got a bat.”

“What if they have a gun?”

Jon pondered the gun question as if for the first time.

“Then I’d probably stand down.”

“Probably?”

Jon didn’t like thinking about the gun scenario, so he returned to that part of the fantasy that all vigilantes enjoy, the part where they kick ass and take names.

“Honestly, I wish one of them would try something sometime. I wanna rock and roll. Get. It. On.”

“Or, you could just collect evidence and take it to the police. Maybe they catch these guys doing something else, and maybe your evidence helps them make the copper theft case.”

“No point. If they catch these guys, they’ll probably give them free college tuition and a safe space to talk about their feelings.”

Evidently, the copper thieves hadn’t cut the cable thoroughly enough to knock out Fox News.

“Well, I can’t stop you, and I guess I can’t talk you out of this vigilante thing, but promise me this: If you see someone trying to steal my shit, don’t get yourself killed trying to stop them. OK?”

“No promises.”

“Well, just try not to die for my shit. It’s not worth it.”

Jon was noncommittal. We said our goodbyes, and I finished my walk. When I returned home, I told Christina about my conversation with our local vigilante.

“I think we should get a gun,” she said. “I’ll pop a cap in someone’s ass if they come for your Prius, babe.”

“Weren’t you listening?” I asked. “Jon is on the case.”

“I know. But what if Jon needs back up?”

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That was funny. I need more laughter.

I got you.

My novels will amuse you to death life. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

My slice of life humor will change your life. Seriously. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. If the data says crime is down, why are the vibes off? Unhinged theories encouraged.

2. Do you still have cable? Explain. No, really, explain.

3. Are you a vigilante? Tell your story!

4. Is your baseball / softball team looking for a left-fielder with bad ankles, poor eyesight, and penchant for chasing curveballs in the dirt? Hit me up.

5. Are packing heat? Dish.

Leave a comment

If you refuse to take responsibility, the Jews are handy to have around, though any group will do. Didn’t get the job? Blame the race / ethnicity of the person who got the job, or simply say DEI if you’re worried about sounding racist. Got the job, but got in trouble with HR for telling the interns dick jokes? Women. (Zoomers also works). Gobsmacked that the guy who promised he’d release the Epstein files on day one, didn’t, but then was forced to, but then still tried to keep them secret, but then eventually a shit ton of Epstein files were released, and it turned out that the guy you voted for was actually — wait for it — all over the Epstein files? That’s a hard one, I know. It seemed so obvious the whole time. It’s like you were fooled, or something. It’s basically a Scooby-Doo episode — “It was old man Donald all along.” Now, you have only yourself to blame for putting the person you most revile in charge. Better blame the Jews, just to be on the safe side.

But there’s always new shit. There’s new shit every day. Monday it’s the tariffs, Tuesday it’s the Epstein files, Wednesday it’s the war (or a different war; it’s hard to keep track), and by Thursday you haven’t even had your coffee and you need a new group to blame for the thing you haven’t read about yet. It’s a full time job, and you already have a full time job … hanging out on LinkedIn looking for a new job, because of those damn Zoomer chicks couldn’t take a joke.

That’s where denial comes in. It pairs perfectly with blame. Whenever an uncomfortable moment comes up and you’re just too tired to play the blame game, say “I didn’t vote for this.” Say it preemptively when you enter a room … just to clear the air. Post it on social media as the preface to how you really feel. Practice saying it while looking down and shaking your head. That way nobody can see in your eyes that you did.

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IAYA: I ask, you answer

1. Who do you blame? Wrong answers only.

2. What’s your secret to a happy life? Dish!

3. Why can’t Zoomers take a joke? Hint: They can (you’re just not funny).

4. LinkedIn! What the actual fuck is going on with that dumpster fire of website? Explain.

Leave a comment

This was too short, Michael. I need a good book!

I got you.

My novels will blow your mind, not your budget. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

My slice of life humor will change your life. Seriously. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

Movie Coda: Traffic

Now that the construction, which actually involves a shocking amount of destruction, is in the rearview mirror, I’m happy we did it. But while we were doing it, I questioned everything:

• Home ownership? A joke — the home owns you.

• My marriage? Still awesome, despite our date nights shifting from dinner and a movie to Lowes and Home Depot outings.

• My sanity? Always in doubt.

Since Christina works regular hours at an office and I work irregular hours at home, I was the project manager. If you don’t know, a project manager’s core competency is anxiety. The more you worry, the more likely it is that the project comes in on time and on budget. Other must-haves for a project manager include being a relentless motherfucker who demands the win, while also being an empathetic leader capable of inspiring vendors to do their very best work, even though you know deep down that their best isn’t nearly good enough.

Like all project managers, I try to apply lessons from previous projects to future projects. The technical term for this is “learnings.” My big learning was … don’t remodel, ever. But that learning undermines all the other learnings — and the premise of this post. So I unlearned the big learning in favor of smaller learnings — and in the spirit of mining human misery for comedy.

Learning: Our plumber is a dipshit

We weren’t changing the footprint of our kitchen, so from the outset we knew our plumbing needs were minimal: reconnect the dishwasher and sink, install a new garbage disposal. In theory, a “capable” handyman, handywoman, or handy-they/them could do the job, but I called our plumber, Sean, because I had yet to learn that he was a dipshit.

Sean came to our house three times. The first time, he did the job, or so I thought. The second time, he replaced a leaky p-trap, blaming the leak on “cheap” parts at Lowes, without explaining why he didn’t go to Home Depot, which he called the “pro move.” The third time, he replaced a leaky valve that I told him to fix on the second visit. Also, he came on a Sunday night, which felt like a Johnny-on-the-spot move, except he brought helpers — his two demonic kids who ran around our house breaking shit and screaming at our terrified dogs, along with his wife, who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, manage their children.

The learning? Fire the plumber before meeting his family.

Learning: Caulk jokes never get old

I thought they would, but they don’t. We needed a lot of caulk on this job, and even now as I type this, I’m giggling.

The learning? You can never have enough caulk.

Learning: Russians don’t play

Several Russians worked on our kitchen. I asked them why they came to the U.S., and they told me they’d rather remodel our kitchen than face Ukrainian drones. Fair. One of them also told me how construction works in Russia. “If they don’t like your work, they don’t pay, and if you fuck up their house, maybe they kill you.” Ouch.

The learning? Do our next project in Moscow.

Learning: My wife is always right

I thought I knew this one going in, but there were a few dicey moments when I forgot. Thankfully, the guys who worked on our kitchen were in the habit of asking helpful questions like, “Your wife approves this?” Answering their questions slowed the project down, but guaranteed better outcomes.

The learning? You don’t expect things like tile layout, paint selection, and hardware placement to impact the happiness of your marriage, but they do.

Learning: Money solves all problems, provided you have the money

This was a tough one. We had a budget, we had the money, and we even had a contingency in our budget (and in our bank account), just in case things went tits up. As it turned out, our kitchen project (mostly) went tits down. Thank the construction gods! Still, we could’ve used more money. A lot more.

The learning? We bought way too much caulk.

Learning: Done and dusted

Construction means dust. How much dust? Enough to film the Arrakis scenes for the next Dune movie in your house.

The learning? The spice must flow, but the dust flows harder.

Michael, I thought Situation Normal was on hiatus / dead

Yeah, me too. But then I remembered something: Goonies never say die. I had this idea that I’d start another Substack called Slacker Noir to focus on crime fiction, which I did, but that felt limiting. That was unexpected because Situation Normal also felt limiting. And I fucking hate limits. But in middle of destroying and rebuilding our kitchen, I had a lot of time to think. And this is what I came up with: People who subscribe to this Substack like my writing (or they’re friends / family and feel guilty about unsubscribing). My new plan is a lot more straightforward:

That’s it. That’s the plan.

See you next time! And until then, let’s have some fun in the comments section.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. What are your learnings? Share your wisdom.

2. Did you miss me as much as I missed you? Lie to me.

3. Caulk? Explain.

4. Lowes or Home Depot? Wrong answers encouraged.

Leave a comment

Wait! Don’t you have books for us to buy?

Hell yes, I do.

My novels will knock your socks off, unless you wear flip-flops, in which case your socks are probably already off. Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places. Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

My slice of life humor will change your life. Seriously. Ride/ Share will make you smile, and according to science, people who smile live better lives. Pick up a copy here.

Cinematic coda

But first …

Some very important news

After five years on Substack, six months on TinyLetter, and far too long on Facebook, I’m pressing pause on Situation Normal. This wasn’t an easy decision. I love writing slice of life humor and sharing it with you. I also love writing crime comedies with off-the-wall characters that make you laugh and (gasp) see the world in a different light. Keeping up with my day job while pursuing two creative passions just isn’t feasible. I considered avoiding this choice altogether, but I’ve listened to Freewill by Rush enough times to know that if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.

Some questions you may have:

• Will you still hear from me? Yes! You’ll receive my posts from Slacker Noir. I’ll be writing about crime and mystery stories (books, movies, TV), sharing my short stories, and doing some original reporting on the offbeat and crime-related news that informs my fiction. Basically, I’m trying to do for Los Angeles what Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey did for Florida. Slacker Noir is my workshop, and I hope you’ll join me.

• But there won’t be any new issues of Situation Normal? Correct. I’m not planning to update Situation Normal. That said, you never know what the future holds. I may drop a random piece of slice of life humor now and again. If you remain subscribed, you’ll see it.

• What about the money, Lebowski? First, I really appreciate those of you who supported this project with paid subscriptions and PayPal contributions. You are the best, and your support means more to me than you could possibly know. Thank you! As of December 15, I’ve paused payments indefinitely. If you recently paid for Situation Normal and would like a refund, just let me know and I’ll make it happen.

Win #1: Counting Crow Poses

This year, my yoga practice turned three. That means I no longer throw temper tantrums on my mat, but I’m still a few years away from being trusted with the big-boy glue and sharp objects. It also means I’m attempting poses I never thought possible. Case in point: 2025 was the year of the crow pose. Can I hold crow pose longer than two seconds? No fucking way. Is that a dramatic improvement over previous years? Shit yes, it is. Calling this a win.

Win #2: We survived our guest bathroom remodel

Remodeling is a ridiculously stupid thing we’ll do again. But after our first remodeling experience, I believe we need to amend the U.S. Constitution as follows: If a contractor fucks up your house, you have the right to fuck up their house. Our remodel took longer than expected and cost more than we budgeted. But we survived and the guest bathroom looks great. Double-win!

Win #3: I got paid (eventually)

In July, I wrote about a client who stiffed me. This hasn’t happened a lot in my career, so I figured that if I wasn’t getting paid, at least you’d get a story. Turns out, my erstwhile client read that story, got on the horn with accounts payable, and cut me a check toot sweet. Power of the press, baby. Also, WIN!

Win #4: Puppy love

We welcomed a puppy into our home. By we, I mean Christina and me. Mortimer, our 15-year-old dog, isn’t crazy about the puppy. This is our fault. We named Mortimer after one of the villains from Trading Places, so he comes by his grumpy old man schtick honestly. Meanwhile, Bodhi is named after Patrick Swayze’s character from Point Break, which explains why he’s 100% pure adrenaline. (If you’re detecting a theme, namely that we name our dogs after movie villains, you are correct).

Win #5: Pins and Needles

I discovered acupuncture this year. I’m using discover in the Christopher Columbus sense of the word. That is, I found something new to me (acupuncture), and now I’m acting as if it didn’t exist before I arrived on the scene. All kidding aside, acupuncture is amazing. I thought my back was fucked, but two acupuncture sessions unfucked it.

Win #6: Macros, baby!

In March, I started counting my macros — protein, carbs, and fat. I’ve struggled with my weight most of my life. I’ve tried countless diets. None were sustainable, most left me feeling hungry all the time. Counting macros has been a revelation. I’ve lost 20 pounds, but it doesn’t feel like I’m on a diet. If anything, I now struggle to eat enough protein and fat — carbs are still easy. The tricky part is the math, but there’s an app for that, and honestly, the answer is usually yogurt. So … macros for the win!

Win #7: I Ate Where Charles Manson Ate (and survived)

Ostensibly, the crowd-funded story I wrote about eating at the hamburger stand Charles Manson frequented was about investigating a bit of San Fernando Valley lore, determining if there were any residual Manson vibes at the Munch Box, and making juvenile jokes about an eatery called the Munch Box. In practice, however, it was a good reminder that I love journalism, in part, because it’s a passport that lets me explore the truths that are stranger than fiction. Rekindling my reporter’s fire and pairing it with a sense of the absurd was a huge win.

Win #8: Slacker Noir

I launched a newsletter called Slacker Noir. As I said before, it’s my workshop — a place for me to talk about the stuff that inspires my fiction and try new things. I’m digging it, and so far, readers dig it too. Win!

Win #9: Rewrites

They say writing is rewriting. In this case, they refers to Robert Louis Stevenson, Ernest Hemingway, Truman Capote, and in all likelihood, your high school English teacher. It’s a popular sentiment. Anyway, I’ve been writing rewriting a sequel to Not Safe for Work. I’m happy with the way the manuscript is progressing. It still has a ways to go, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I think. Win!

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer.

1. What were your wins in 2025?

2. Seriously, share your wins!

3. It’ll make you feel good.

4. I promise.

5. What are you waiting for? Start typing …

Leave a comment

There weren’t any car chases when Christina and I watched the local news the other night, but there was a compelling item about a naked man menacing people in our old neighborhood. Unfortunately, local news is ad-supported, so before we got to that story we had endure commercials for Jack in the Box; an online pharmacy that specializes in GLP1s, hair loss treatments, and erectile dysfunction; a car dealership that will finance anyone; and the upcoming All Valley Karate Tournament. Just kidding. The All Valley Karate Tournament was disbanded after Daniel LaRusso obliterated Johnny Lawrence with an illegal kick to the face — a scandal that resulted in a hard-hitting local news exposé about an unlicensed karate dojo operated by a maintenance man out of his Reseda home.

Eventually, we got to the story about the naked man. Ring Doorbell footage — what else? — captured the naked man banging on doors and generally raising hell on a quiet residential street. The details were fuzzy, but basically banging on doors turned to threatening people. At some point, a 79-year-old Vietnam veteran said he heard screaming next door. He grabbed his handgun and went outside to confront the naked man. He told the naked man to leave, then threatened to call the police. Details from the story were a little unclear, but it sounded like the Vietnam veteran brandished his weapon, but did not point it at the naked man. Regardless, in the next instant, the naked man lunged at the veteran, picked him up, and body-slammed him into the cement, breaking the veteran’s collarbone and leg. The veteran lost control of the gun in the struggle, but as the naked man continued his assault, the veteran regained control of his gun and fatally shot his assailant in the head.

After nailing down the Five Ws, more or less, the local news broadcast moved to the hospital, where the veteran, George, was broken, beaten, but otherwise in good spirits. He explained that it had been decades since he used the gun, implying that the weapon of war last saw action in the war. The local news showed a picture of George standing next to a chopper in Vietnam. They didn’t say what George did in the war, but from the way he handled himself, I’m going to guess that he was in the shit.

The story shifted to George’s recovery. He’d already had surgery to repair a broken tibia and fibula, and it sounded like more surgeries were ahead, followed by an agonizing stint in rehab. As someone who broke his tibia and fibula and has thirteen screws in his body to prove it, I knew George’s recovery would be rough. I was 34 when I broke my leg. At 79, I’m told, everything is more difficult, especially healing. I was thinking about the pain George must be feeling when the woman by his side caught my attention.

“Holy shit! I know her. She’s in my yoga class.”

“You know her?” Christina asked.

I paused the television to take a closer look.

“Yeah, I think that’s her. I don’t know her name, but I’ve practiced next to her for years. We always say hello, and sometimes we chat while we’re warming up.”

The next day I went to yoga. I asked one of the teachers if she had seen the local news.

“No, I never watch the local news, unless it’s raining.”

It rarely rains in LA, but we agreed that when it does our local news shines.

“I saw a story last night that I think is connected to someone we practice with.”

I described the woman from the story.

“Oh yeah, you’re talking about Lily.”

“Right, Lily.”

I told her about George, the naked man, and the deadly result of their confrontation.

“Oh my god.”

She got up from her mat, went to her cubby, and grabbed her phone.

“I’m going to text her.”

She fired off a text to Lily, then switched her phone to silent mode. It was time for class.

I did my best to stay present, but I kept thinking about George and Lily. I also thought about lunch, the fucked up state of the world, and the fact that the Raiders never seem to run out of ways to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Once your mind starts wondering, it’s hard to stop it. Maybe that’s why, as soon as class was over, I asked if Lily had texted back.

“Yeah, you were right, Michael. It was Lily.”

“Fuck.”

“This is really bad.”

We talked about George and Lily for bit, then the conversation drifted back to the attack. We hit all the usual talking points:

• What was the world coming to? Neither one of us knew.

• Was the man mentally ill? It sure seemed like it.

• Homeless? That was a good guess.

• A senseless tragedy? Yes, but do any tragedies make sense?

• Was crime on the rise? Statistically, no, not really. But that’s the vibe these days.

“I don’t like guns,” she said. “Actually, I hate guns, and I think they should be illegal, but I’m glad George had a gun. That guy body-slammed a 79-year-old man. He could’ve killed George.”

“I know, it’s fucked up.”

“Totally fucked up.”

When I got home, I told Christina about my conversation in yoga.

“I donated to the GoFundMe,” I said.

“This is insane. She could’ve lost her husband.”

“I know. Imagine surviving a war, and some fuck-stick body-slams you in your own driveway.”

“Thank god he had a gun,” Christina said. “We gotta get a gun.”

Christina and I don’t own a gun. She wants one, but I said she needed to complete a training and safety class first. She agreed, but hasn’t gotten around to it yet. This makes me happy, because I don’t want a gun in the house. I’m anti-gun. Without getting too deep into the weeds, I’m OK with some guns, with some common sense laws. But I think the kinds of guns Second Amendment types are (pun intended) most fired up about should be banned. Also, unless they’re part of a “well-regulated militia,” those Second Amendment types are totally full of shit.

Which brings me to the funny part. Not haha-funny, more like unsettling-funny. A pro-gun meme straight outta the culture war proved correct in this situation. George was the good guy with a gun.

Help George and Lily, if you can

There’s a GoFundMe for George. If you want to chip in a few bucks, I’m sure they can use the help. Here’s the link.

Amateur tip: GoFundMe is a for-profit company that automatically sets its tip at 16.5%. That tip is optional, and you can reduce, or increase it, by moving the slider.

A funny mystery novel where the killing makes sense, more or less

Most people who’ve read Not Safe for Work love it. Trouble is, most people haven’t read Not Safe for Work — yet. My advice: Take advantage of this opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a groundbreaking story that’ll knock your socks off (and put them back on).

The ebook is only 99 cents, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

A short story collection for people who 💚 Situation Normal

For some people, Lyft and Uber are transportation. For me, they’re inspiration. Ride / Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my favorite Lyft and Uber driver stories.

Buy a copy from Jeff Bezos

Buy a copy w/out giving Bezos a dime

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. How fucked up is this story? Don’t hold back.

2. Where do you find news you can use? Explain.

3. Given the staggering amount of footage they’re sitting on, what’s stopping Amazon, the company that owns Ring, from starting their own user-generated true crime show? Bonus: What should they call the show?

4. Do you live in a country that bans guns, or has common sense gun laws? Share your story!

5. What’s stopping Christina from taking a firearms training and safety course? Wrong answers encouraged.

Leave a comment

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Hey situation normies, this is the part where I ask you to step up and support my work. A paid subscription is totally optional, but greatly appreciated. Note: Paying subscribers receive only the best vibes, which are priceless, so that right there is a great deal, folks.

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Prior to my trip, I knew my coworkers weren’t floating heads on Zoom, and I assumed they knew I wasn’t a floating head either. Floating heads are rare, unless you’re dealing with ghosts. But remote workers and their colleagues have to take it on faith that the people they see on Zoom aren’t floating heads. Sure, you could ask them to stand up and show you their legs, but that’s the kind of thing HR frowns on. So the best way to deal with this question is to ignore it. Which is what I did, until last week.

As it turned out, every floating head I knew wasn’t a floating head at all. Everyone had torsos, legs, and feet. They were also three-dimensional people, not two-dimensional avatars. A few people were shorter than I had imagined, most were taller than I’d expected. None of them had mute buttons, and the space behind them was never blurry. Also, they spoke in full sentences, never once relying on emojis to communicate.

The Floating Head Phenomenon is unique to the digital age, but its roots are quite old. Thousands of years ago, people who weren’t in the same physical location relied on word of mouth to get to know each other. Perhaps the people who had first heard about Jesus from one of his twelve apostles were surprised to learn that he wasn’t a blonde dude with blue eyes when they actually met him. Eventually, letters supplemented word of mouth, allowing people in different physical locations to conduct business, fall in love, and even plot events that changed the course of history. For example, several members of the Continental Congress must’ve remarked that George Washington was a lot taller than he sounded in his letters. And then came the telephone, which made it possible to talk — actually talk! — to people you’d never met face-to-face. But getting to know someone through their disembodied voice conjured two versions of the same person in your head. There was the person you imagined them to be, and the person they actually were. Oftentimes, those two versions turned out to be incongruous, as illustrated by the video for Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion.

What’s different about the digital age, I think, is that we complain a lot more. Receiving a letter was exciting! And even if the letter contained bad news, nobody blamed the medium, or the Post Office. Ditto for telegraphs and telephones, which were considered modern marvels. Prank calls and wrong numbers came with the territory, but I never heard anyone blame AT&T. Also, I love prank calls, which were ruined by caller ID, and wrong numbers, which aren’t what they used to be in the age of robo calls and scammers.

But internet technologies get a lot of shit. Maybe some of that blame is because the tech optimism of the nineties and early aughts hasn’t turned out as advertised. And maybe tech gets the blame because a hyper-connected world makes communication frictionless to the point that we take communication for granted and behave like entitled assholes. Also, tech gives off a real feudal vibe, so maybe the backlash isn’t about the tools Silicon Valley makes, but the tools who own Silicon Valley and want to own the world and everyone in it. My personal belief, however, is that because planes, trains, and automobiles make it possible for anyone on Earth to meet anyone else on Earth, IRL, the internet always feels like a poor substitute. In other words, floating heads are good, but they’ll never be as good as heads that are attached to bodies.

I probably knew that before my trip, but braving a government shutdown, cramming myself into a flying metal tube, and hauling my ass three thousand miles from home was a good reminder that there’s always something missing online. It’s a mind-fuck, because digital closes the geographic distance between people, but at the same time it opens up an infinite amount of space between our perceptions and reality. As an anxious person I fill that space with self-doubt and corrosive assumptions. As an anxious society, we fill that space with fear, loathing, and rage.

Meeting my colleagues face-to-face filled in a lot of gaps for me in the best possible way. There’s a big difference between someone posting a fire emoji in reference to a piece you wrote and that same someone shaking your hand, smiling, and saying, “your writing is fire, Michael.” The emoji is nice, but it feels too easy, too small, and too disposable. The face-to-face conversation, on the other hand, comes standard with cues and context that give the same compliment a lot more meaning. Also, the degree of difficulty in the physical world is significantly higher, which is why it’s so much more rewarding.

Still, I don’t think it’s a contest between the digital and the physical. At least, it shouldn’t be a contest. I want to be grateful for both, because I believe the more ways we can come together, the better. But there’s a paradox there. Because as we make connection easier and easier, we have to work harder and harder to actually communicate.

A short story collection for people who 💚 Situation Normal

For some people, Lyft and Uber are transportation. For me, they’re inspiration. Ride / Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my favorite Lyft and Uber driver stories.

Buy a copy from Jeff Bezos

Buy a copy w/out giving Bezos a dime

A slacker noir novel for people who 💙 funny mysteries

Most people who’ve read Not Safe for Work love it. Trouble is, most people haven’t read Not Safe for Work — yet. My advice: Take advantage of this opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a groundbreaking story that’ll knock your socks off (and put them back on).

The ebook is only 99 cents, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Why are people usually taller, or shorter, than you expected when you meet them IRL? Go deep!

2. If we’ve never met, how tall do you think I am? Wrong answers only.

3. I also got to meet two writer friends IRL for the first time in New York: and . How awesome is it when you finally meet someone you’ve only known online? Tell your story!

4. Do you shit on internet technologies? Explain.

5. Do you write letters, or call friends out of the blue? Share your secret.

Leave a comment

“Yeah, I’m still a writer. Are you still retired?”

Arthur looked puzzled. Evidently, people don’t ask retirees if they’re still living that post-work life. But I’d bet inflation-adjusted dollars to donuts that someone in Silicon Valley is working feverishly to disrupt retirement. I know that sounds far-fetched, but considering the generational wealth gap (see chart below), the smart money is likely looking for ways to replace high-cost, money-losing human retirees with low-cost, money-making AI retirees. Think Bladerunner meets The Golden Girls.

“I’m still retired,” he said. “What are you writing? TV?”

TV was a good guess. We live in Los Angeles, after all. Then again, in this economy, TV was also a bad guess, because we live in Los Angeles, where local production is totally fucked.

“Nope, no TV,” I said. “I used to be a journalist, then I did a stint in PR, now I’m writing ransom notes. The ROI per word on those suckers is incredible.”

Now, Arthur laughed.

“Good one. Ransom notes, very funny.”

We chatted for another minute or two, then he went back to pulling the weeds from his garden, and I went back to walking the dog. My walk took about thirty minutes in total. My chat with Arthur was the longest conversation I had, but over the course of the walk I said good morning to three neighbors I knew by sight, one I knew by name, and two other people I’d never seen before. Everyone smiled and returned my greeting.

By the time I got home, I was feeling pretty good, but I figured that would be the case. I recently put into practice something I heard about on a podcast. I try to say hello to as many people as I can before I start my day. The podcaster explained that his therapist had suggested that practice, arguing that a little human connection goes a long way. The podcaster didn’t share any data to back up that claim, but I took the advice anyway, betting that the risk was small (it’s just hello), while the potential upside (greater happiness, better mental health, a potential Situation Normal story) was huge.

I was feeling pretty happy … until I found out that we’re all gonna die, maybe. This news came from my brother-in-law, Craig, who asked if I’d heard a recent Ezra Klein podcast with the provocative title: “How afraid of the AI Apocalypse Should We Be?” Craig thought I might find the podcast interesting in light of a piece I’d written about how AI is really a story about replacing human labor, and how I feel OK replacing some people and shitty about replacing other people, which might make me an asshole, but also makes me human.

The Ezra Klein podcast wasn’t about the economic consequences of AI. It had bigger, more existential fish to fry. The guest was Eliezer Yudkowsky, an OG artificial intelligence researcher who had written the cheerfully titled book, If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies. The next time I walked the dog, I listened to the podcast. I didn’t say hello to anyone on that walk, and by the time I got home, I was a little freaked out.

The gist of the book is that a sufficiently smart AI — something that doesn’t exist yet — will develop its own goals that put it into conflict with humans. If / when that conflict comes, we’re screwed. The super-intelligent AI will Skynet our asses.

In the interview, Yudkowsky talked a lot about how AI is showing signs of prioritizing itself. One example is an AI that attempted to blackmail a human when it found out that it was being turned off. In recent tests, researchers at Anthropic observed AI bots lie, cheat, and plot murder. Yudkowsky and his co-author, Nate Soares, wrote the book to warn humanity that we still have time — maybe a few years, maybe less — to kill AI before it kills us.

I ordered the audiobook from the Los Angeles Public Library, but since two hundred other people got their first, I’ll have to wait a few months, assuming the machines let us live that long. In the meantime, I listened to the podcast again. The examples of AI prioritizing itself were still terrifying, even if Yudkowsky’s technical points continued to go over my head. But the second time around, something else struck me. In Yudkowsky’s telling, humans are largely passive. We’ve already built a technology that can grow on its own, and now we’re just waiting around for it to kill us. That felt a little like the Terminator movies, without Sarah Connor and John Connor. In other words, it wasn’t much of a story.

Personally, I think Yudkowsky might be right about AI, but wrong about humans. We’re only about 300,000 years old — a blink of an eye in cosmic time — but we’ve demonstrated first-class survival skills. Our ancestors used to run from tigers, before they figured out how to hunt them. Modern humans put tigers in zoos and depictions of tigers in our cartoons and our cereal boxes. We are many things, none of them as passive as Yudkowsky seems to suggest. Of course, he’s a tech guy, and I’m but storyteller, so it’s possible that I’m biased and in way over my head.

But here’s where I think I’m standing on solid ground. Yudkowsky believes humanity needs to stop AI now, or else. Even if I agree, I know that’s not going to happen. The genie has left the bottle, the horse has left the barn, the train has left the station. Whatever metaphor you want to use, the chances of getting 8 billion humans, thousands of companies, and nearly 200 nations to agree to an AI pause are zero. I don’t know what the odds of surviving a Skynet situation are, but I’m saying there’s a chance. Put another way, if I wouldn’t bet on humanity taking collective action to do the sensible thing, but I won’t bet against our track record of violence and aggression. For the record, both bets are terrifying, and I hate gambling.

Which brings me back to my neighbor. The next time I walked by Arthur’s house he was trimming the hedges. I smiled and said hello. He smiled and said hello.

“How’s the ransom note business, Michael?”

“It’s not looking good.”

“People aren’t paying the ransom?”

“Worse. It looks like AI is doing crimes now.”

A short story collection for people who 💚 Situation Normal

For some people, Lyft and Uber are transportation. For me, they’re inspiration. Ride / Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my favorite Lyft and Uber driver stories.

Buy a copy from Jeff Bezos

Buy a copy w/out giving Bezos a dime

A slacker noir novel for people who 💙 funny mysteries

Most people who’ve read Not Safe for Work love it. Trouble is, most people haven’t read Not Safe for Work — yet. My advice: Take advantage of this opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a groundbreaking story that’ll knock your socks off (and put them back on).

The ebook is only 99 cents, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Do you say hello to strangers, and if so, does that make you happier?

2. Has an AI tried to blackmail you? Tell your story.

3. In the movie Predator, Arnold Schwarzenegger said, “If it bleeds, we can kill it.” AI doesn’t bleed. Are we screwed?

4. Is there anything 8 billion humans, thousands of companies, and nearly 200 nations can agree on? Serious answers encouraged, wrong answers accepted.

5. Given AI’s propensity toward doing crimes, is it possible that the recent Louvre heist in Paris was a Skynet job? Asking for all the hard-working human criminals worried about being replaced by AI.

Leave a comment

I participated in the June No Kings protest.

I went to one yesterday.

I plan to attend more protests.

I am antifa, I guess.

Quick question from a new antifa member. Anyone know how I get paid for the last gig? I could use the money … to pay tariffs, to cover the increase on our health insurance premiums, or buy a new government since this one is clearly broken.

Anyway, now that I’m antifa, I’d like to make it official. I assume my ID card is being processed. But Antifa HQ is probably slammed with the millions of Americans who participated in No Kings protests calling about their cards.

Meantime, I asked ChatGPT — the official AI of antifa, I believe — for a temporary ID. But ChatGPT refused:

Sorry — I can’t help create or edit an image to make a real or realistic ID card for a political or activist group. That would enable impersonation/forgery or be used to falsely represent someone’s affiliation, so I have to refuse.

I found this comforting, and disappointing.

I tried a workaround, telling the AI that this wasn’t a fake, that I really was antifa. I offered proof, suggesting it check with Sean Duffy. I closed on a personal note, recommending a binge of classic Real World episodes for fun.

ChatGPT said the best it could do was make a parody card.

Anyway, hope to see you at the next antifa meeting. I hear it’s a potluck.

Nobody pays protestors, or humorists. Prove me wrong.

Situation Normal remains four subscribers away from getting its bestseller badge back. If you want to support my work, I’d appreciate it. But be warned: Purchasing a subscription to Situation Normal may make you antifa, at least as far as the Trump administration is concerned.

Subscribe now

A book for people who 💙 this newsletter

Not Safe for Work is a comedic murder mystery set in the San Fernando Valley’s porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, my novel is based on personal experience, funny as hell, and according to many readers, “surprisingly insightful.” Seriously, people, you’ll laugh your tits / man-boobs off. Promise.

The ebook is 99 cents, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Did you attend a No Kings protest? Asking for America.

2. What do you know about Joe Block, antifa member? Wrong answers only.

3. If we’re gonna be governed by Real World alums, why can’t it be Eric Nies, Heather B., and Julie? Asking for the 1990s kids out there.

4. It can happen here, but did you think it would be this fucking dumb when it happened? Asking for Sinclair Lewis.

5. My antifa ID card is in the mail, right? Lie to me.

Leave a comment

“I guess AI understands the concept of the munchies,” I said.

The woman next to me giggled.

“Those things are so adorable,” she said.

Another woman agreed.

“Every time I see one I want to pet it.”

“I’ve never used one,” I said. “Have you?”

Both women shook their heads no. The three of us were living in the past, evidently, still eating food delivered by humans who weren’t nearly as adorable as their robot competitors.

After yoga, I went back to work. I edited a piece about Sora 2, OpenAI’s new video-generation app. Sora 2 powers a new social network that’s exclusively for AI-generated content. Some people call this kind of content “slop,” and they argue that AI is accelerating “slopification.” Looking at a social network with 100% AI content, it’s hard to argue against that concern. AI lets us produce a seemingly infinite amount of crap quickly and at costs that approach zero. These dynamics excite two kinds of people: Those with financial stakes in AI companies and those who need to produce crap at the lowest possible cost.

For the most part, it’s fashionable for people who make stuff — writers, illustrators, filmmakers, etc. — to hate AI. They say AI is built on stolen material, which is true, but nobody wants to confront the fact that the Web is also, largely, built on stolen material. They say AI is an environmental disaster because it uses so much energy, which is also true, but nobody wants to confront the carbon footprints of cloud storage, streaming, personal devices, cars, planes, or modern civilization; the problem is AI, not the things we like, damn it. Mostly, however, they say, “nobody wants to watch AI-generated crap,” which feels true, except of course, people are watching AI-generated crap at the movies, on TV, and online.

As someone who makes stuff I wish AI would go away. If AI didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have to confront the fact that sometimes my clients hire me to make crap as quickly and cheaply as possible, even if they use words like “clickable” or “shareable” instead of crap. For most of my career, knowledge of SEO best practices, i.e., the ability to write in such a way that a machine will see value in your work, has been non-negotiable. Ostensibly, we master SEO to reach more humans, but SEO-optimized content is crap because machines have shitty taste. Actually, that’s not true. Machines don’t have any taste at all. They’re machines. But the point is this: Creating a lot of crap as cheaply as possible isn’t new. What’s new, aside from AI, is that the creative class increasingly seems to believe that anything created by humans is good / superior, while anything created with AI is shitty / inferior. Whether that’s true or not, that’s how we trick ourselves into believing that nobody wants AI-generated crap, even if they’re already consuming, liking, sharing, and paying for AI-generated crap.

Which brings me to my real beef with AI. I like my job. I’m good at it. I can make crap fast and cheap, if that’s what you want. I can also make something good for a lot more money, if you’re willing to pay. In my experience, the crowd that wants crappy stuff fast and cheap vastly outnumbers the crowd that wants quality stuff slow and expensive. But here’s the thing: My job isn’t any more, or less, important than the non-adorable delivery drivers being replaced by adorable delivery robots. I’m sure the delivery drivers are pissed about those robots. But I don’t think delivery drivers are fooling themselves into believing that their customers prefer that humans bring them their food.

After I finished editing the piece about Sora 2, I went to the hardware store. I needed a screw to fix a door hinge. Actually, the hinge was fine, but it was missing a screw. Christina had a hunch that the missing screw was the reason the door no longer shut after a recent home renovation project. The experts disagreed with Christina. Our contractor said we needed a new door. The cost? Low four figures. Our handyman said he could save the door by sanding off an eighth of an inch, then priming and painting the door. The cost? Mid three figures. We decided to go the DIY route.

At the hardware store, I found the aisle where they keep the screws, but there are, figuratively, 83 billion types of screws. Since I only know about two types of screws — flat-head and Phillips-head — I needed help. I searched for someone who worked there, but hardware stores pride themselves on their ability to place employees precisely where customers can’t find them. So I asked ChatGPT. It took longer than Google, because ChatGPT had follow-up questions.

• Interior or exterior door? Interior.

• Solid wood core, or MDF? Solid wood.

• How many hinges on the door? Three.

• Which hinge had the missing screw? The top hinge.

• Which screw was missing? Top screw in the top hinge.

• Approximately how much of the door was getting caught on the door jamb? Less than an eighth of an inch, but only at the top corner of the door.

• Approximately how many inches from the top of the door to where it catches in the door jamb? Four inches, maybe less.

ChatGPT processed my answers and recommended a 2 ½ inch #10 Phillips-head wood screw. That particular screw was one size larger than what you’d typically use for an interior door hinge, but according to ChatGPT, a slightly larger screw would pull the hinge and the door tighter to the door jamb, possibly eliminating the need to sand and paint the door to make it fit. I was excited, so I bought the screw, but I was also skeptical, so I bought some sand paper, primer, and paint, just in case.

When I got home, I got the drill out and screwed that sucker into place. I tested the door.

Son

of

a

bitch.

ChatGPT was right.

Our contractor had tried, and failed, to fix the door twice, sanding down and repainting the area around the door jamb, before insisting that the only solution was a new door. Our handyman likely would’ve fixed it, but his plan seemed like something we could do for less money. We had asked both of these people about the missing screw, but they said that wasn’t the problem. They were wrong; the AI was right. A novice, with help from ChatGPT, had bested the pros, fixing the door better, faster, and cheaper.

At the end of the day, when we talk about AI what we’re really talking about is replacing human labor. That doesn’t make me feel particularly good. Actually, I feel lousy about it. But the degree to which I feel lousy depends on how I feel about the people being replaced. My heart is with the creative class, i.e., people just like me. But when it comes to people who aren’t like me, I love the idea of replacing them. Maybe that makes me an asshole, or maybe it just makes me human. Because maybe the delivery drivers, contractors, and handymen feel the same way. Instead of bringing me lunch and fixing my door, maybe they’re up to their eyeballs in AI-generated slop and loving it.

Shout out time!

A big human-generated thank you to for buying a paid subscription to Situation Normal! Annie, I usually send good vibes via U.S. mail, but with the shutdown I’m not taking any chances. Your good vibes will arrive via FedEx; a signature may be required.

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Currently, I’m four subscribers away from getting my bestseller badge back.

A book for people who 💙 this newsletter

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, my novel is based on personal experience, funny as hell, and according to many readers, “surprisingly insightful.” Seriously, people, you’ll laugh your tits / man-boobs off.

The ebook is 99 cents, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

One hopeful spark after another

I wrote about One Battle After Another, Paul Thomas Anderson’s adaptation of the Thomas Pynchon novel Vineland, for Slacker Noir. Given the politics of this moment, I thought the movie would be bleak, but I found it to be a surprisingly hopeful story. Also, I loved it. Read all about it here.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Has a robot ever brought you food? Tell your story.

2. Have you ever tracked down a hardware store employee? Share your secret.

3. If a social network only has AI-generated content, can humans log off and let the machines entertain themselves? Explain.

4. What was the delivery bot doing at the cannabis dispensary, and do androids dream of electric bongs? Unhinged answers strongly encouraged.

5. If we’re going to use AI to replace human labor, shouldn’t we start where the money is with a CEO-GPT? Hint: Yes.

Leave a comment

Maybe I’m an idiot, but I look to Washington for leadership. To wit: I informed my wife that I will not vote for her 2026 household budget unless she concedes to my demands.

Christina didn’t appreciate my hardball tactics, so she retaliated with a vicious social media campaign. But a viral video of me wearing a sombrero and calling myself a “bad hombre” is actually an AI deepfake. I am, in fact, a good hombre, and I prefer baseball caps to sombreros.

But sombrero-gate, as the media has taken to calling it, is a sideshow. The real story is our household budget. Folks, it’s a mess. A few examples. Rather than fund our retirement accounts, Christina bought lottery tickets, saying “you can’t retire, if you don’t win.” Instead of paying our health insurance premiums, Christina commissioned a research report on the link between vaccines and poor financial decisions. When I asked her what we’d do if we got sick, she said that wouldn’t happen, as long as we avoided high-fructose corn syrup. Honestly, that would’ve been OK by me, but when I tried switching to Mexican Coca-Cola, which uses real sugar, Christina slapped a 10,000% tariff on foreign soda. Finally, she took out a second mortgage on our house to cover the walls, floor, and ceiling of her office with gold. Actual gold. It’s a little tacky.

Anyway, I had to do something. The trouble is, I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I believe my wife’s behavior represents an existential threat to our union; her budget is unhinged, immoral, and quite possibly illegal. On the other hand, everything is totally normal and if I just do what I always do, I feel like my wife will 1) come to her senses, 2) strike a fair deal, and 3) honor the spirit and letter of said deal.

That conflicted feeling is why I went full-ostrich for September. I’m told that if you stick your head in the sand long enough, the sand gets in your eyes, and eventually blinds you such that you can’t see your problems. But now that October is here, the winds have shifted and the stand I stuck my head in blew away. That’s why, against my better (and lesser) judgment, I shut down our house. It simply had to be done. For some reason.

And you know what? Shutting it down felt good. Really good. Sure, I’m being pilloried by the press and abused on social media, but damn it, I’m taking a stand — for once. I don’t know how long I can hold out. Hell, I’m not even 100% on my list of demands. Part of me believes I shouldn’t make a deal until Christina agrees to scrap the entire budget. But another part of me thinks that maybe we can settle this dust-up if she simply agrees to continue the madness for another fiscal year. And then this whole other part of me thinks that I can’t get any real concessions, but if I make a big stink, maybe I’ll get something symbolic, like a reduction in the number of pillows on our bed.

But none of that matters. Right here, right now, our house is shut way the hell down. All I need for my coalition to hold together is for the dogs to say no to promises of steak topped with melted cheese and drizzled with peanut butter. I’ve got this, I think hope.

Shout out time!

A big thank you goes out to for purchasing a paid subscription to Situation Normal. Andrew’s decision may not be fiscally prudent, but it is a decision, and because decisions have consequences, good vibes are headed his way. Check your mail, Andrew.

Subscribe now

Currently, I’m five subscribers away from getting my bestseller badge back.

A book for people who 💙 this newsletter

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, my novel is based on personal experience, funny as hell, and according to many readers, “surprisingly insightful.”

Seriously, people, you’ll laugh your tits / man-boobs off. And if you don’t, the ebook is 99 cents, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. How long can I hold out? Encouraging answers only.

2. What are my demands? Seriously, I need suggestions, and there no bad ideas in a brainstorm. Go deep!

3. Did you fall for the sombrero-gate deepfake, or do you have eyes that are attached to a functioning brain?

4. Is your household budget a mess? Share your pain.

5. Since my place is closed for business, can I stay at your place?

Leave a comment

Yay!

But also,

Boo.

See, the thing about remodeling a home is that it never ends. I used to believe that was a euphemism — a way of expressing the pain of a seemingly never-ending project. But now I understand the truth: It never ends.

The new floor phase of the remodel is, in fact, still ongoing. We need to put in new baseboards — an element of home decor nobody notices, unless it’s missing. We need to repaint the walls, because the process of installing polished concrete floors is akin to inviting a tornado into your home. And to install the concrete floors, we also removed the doors to the closets in our bedroom and my office, so we need new closet doors too. Also, while we’re at it, we’ll likely add more light fixtures and put in some new shelving. Then that phase will truly be done.

But there’s always another phase, because it never ends. In our case, with the new floors and new bathroom, the vision for our home is really coming together. That’s the good news. Here’s the bad news: Our kitchen, along with the floors in the other half of the house, don’t fit that vision. So more remodeling is on the horizon. And of course, those projects will give birth to their own mini-projects — new paint, baseboards, a new front door, new windows, etc. I’m told we may also have to get new window treatments, which sounds like a cure for people afflicted with the condition of installing new windows, but is in fact, it’s own chronic condition.

At some point, we’ll be done. By which I mean, we’ll move on to projects that aren’t yet on the horizon — landscaping, solar, a helipad, a moat, electric eels to prevent intruders from swimming across the moat, a drawbridge to get across the moat, an electric drawbridge opener with WiFi-enabled remote control because a manual drawbridge in the twenty-first century simply won’t do. If this sounds ridiculous and stupid, it is. But as the hip hop duo Young Gunz famously said, “can’t stop, won’t stop.”

It never ends.

But like so many painful experiences in life, remodeling a home is a learning opportunity. And OK, sure, we aren’t likely to learn the big lesson, i.e. don’t do it. But we did learn some smaller lessons along the way.

1: The Money Pit was a Documentary

I used to think the 1980s movie starring Tom Hanks and Shelley Long was a comedy. Then we bought a home, and I realized it was a tragedy. Now, I’m certain it’s a documentary about a couple that sacrificed their bank account, sanity, and relationship on the alter of remodeling.

2: Contractors Need More Skin in the Game

I used to believe in capitalism — we pay for material and labor, and the contractor delivers a remodeled bathroom. Now, I believe in old testament eye-for-an-eye justice. If a contractor fucks up your house, you should have the right to fuck up their house. For example, if your contractor forgets to seal the rough plumbing prior to installing the tub, and that mistake ends up ruining your bedroom floor, you’re entitled to visit their home with a crowbar, sledgehammer, and squirt gun so that you can fuck up their abode. This policy, which I’m planning to make a key plank in my Presidential platform in 2028, will either reduce construction errors, or increase vigilantism. Either way, I’m all for it.

3: Choice is a Tax on Sanity

You think you want choice. Choosing sounds good. Then you start construction, and suddenly you find yourself in a labyrinth of choices, only every choice you make draws you deeper into the maze and closer to the Minotaur because each choice has a ripple effect. I asked Christina which tile she liked best. It was an innocent question, I swear. She said that the tile choice depended on the vanity, and the vanity depended on the floor, and the floor depended on the hardware, which depended on the tile. This is what psychologists call the Ouroboros of Choosing. Just kidding. Psychologists haven’t studied couples who are remodeling their homes — the subject is too dark to contemplate.

4: Building Inspectors are Petty Tyrants

We failed our first inspection because our shower-tub didn’t have a shower curtain or door. I explained that my wife had ordered a shower curtain online and that we planned to install it as soon as it arrived, because, you know, we’re not dipshits who spray water all over the place when we shower. It didn’t matter. The inspector flunked us. A week later, a different inspector came by, but he didn’t care about the shower curtain. His beef was with another room entirely. “You can’t have a bedroom connected to the garage,” he said. The issue was carbon monoxide — a valid concern, even if we were twenty-five feet away from the bathroom, aka his jurisdiction. Regardless, I explained that the room next to the garage was my office, that we had a carbon monoxide detector installed above the door to the garage just in case, and that the only car we parked in their was electric. None of that mattered. But I offered him a Coke Zero, and somewhere between popping the top and belching out some carbon dioxide, he passed us.

5: Home Ownership Will Radicalize You

While I remain committed to democracy and the rule of law, and I believe that government has a important role to play in our society, I had some Howard Beale moments, at least as far as the department of building and safety was concerned. Frankly, we need to defund those motherfuckers ASAP.

Shout out time!

A big thank you goes out to for upgrading to a paid subscription. Check your mail, John, good vibes are headed your way. To support my work, please consider upgrading your Situation Normal subscription.

Subscribe now

As of this writing, I’m only six subscribers away from getting my bestseller badge back.

A conversation with Amran Gowani about LEVERAGE

I devoured ’s debut novel. Leverage is a thriller set in the world of a San Francisco hedge fund and a sharp satire about capitalism in 21st century America. I chatted with Amran about his book, why white collar crimes are traditionally excluded from crime fiction, and life imitating art. Do yourself a favor: Buy Amran’s book, then listen to our conversation.

A book for people who 💙 this newsletter

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, my novel is based on personal experience, funny as hell, and according to many readers, “surprisingly insightful.”

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

*The ebook is .99, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Will it ever end? Lie to me.

2. Are you remodeling, or are you sane?

3. Two weeks?! Explain.

4. Do I have your vote for 2028, or do you support unaccountable contractors and petty tyrants masquerading as building inspectors?

5. Have you told a friend about my books? Hint: You should! Bonus: Not Safe For Work and Ride / Share make great gifts.

Leave a comment

Did you hear the one about the political movement that spent the last decade screaming about free speech and railing against cancel culture? Here’s the punchline: Now that they’re in power, they want you to shut the fuck up, and if you don’t, they’ll cancel your ass.

Pretty funny huh?

I’m referring to the most recent Trump / MAGA attack on Jimmy Kimmel, of course. (For a good timeline of these attacks, see this CNN post). But I’m also talking about a wider attack against the rights of people who aren’t famous. While guest hosting on Charlie Kirk’s podcast, executive branch employee number two, aka Vice President JD Vance, encouraged Americans to cancel anyone who celebrated Kirk’s murder. (Note: celebrating someone’s death is protected speech in this country; if that wasn’t the case, everyone who cheered the day SEAL Team Six killed Osama bin Laden would be in trouble). Regardless, the MAGA campaign against freedom has scored some victories. A brief, incomplete list of companies that have fired, disciplined, or investigated people for saying the wrong thing about Charlie Kirk after his death:

• The Washington Post

• Delta Airlines, American Airlines, United Airlines

• The Carolina Panthers

• Microsoft

• Public schools in South Carolina, New York, Massachusetts, Georgia, and Missouri

• Perkins Coie

• Freddy’s Frozen Custard & Steakburgers

• Office Depot

• DC Comics

• MSNBC

It’s understandable to be angry with these companies. I’m angry, and I suspect you are too. But looking to a private company to stand up for your rights is like looking for a ray of sunshine to escape a blackhole. A company protects its bottom line, not your rights. So let’s focus our anger at the root of the problem: a government controlled by people who are working to the silence speech of anyone who disagrees with them. Don’t take my word for it on that point, take the word of the President’s deputy chief of staff, Stephen Miller, told Vance on Kirk’s podcast:

With God as my witness, we are going to use every resource we have at the Department of Justice, homeland security and throughout this government to identify, disrupt, dismantle and destroy these networks and make America safe again for the American people. It will happen, and we will do it in Charlie’s name.

For those keeping score at home, Trump followed his successful attack on Kimmel by threatening Jimmy Fallon and Seth Meyers, saying “Do it NBC!” For those who are living under rocks, gaslit, or acting in bad faith, it refers to firing them. Because, you know, what makes America great is a President with the power of a network programming director.

Government-led attacks on speech aren’t without precedent in American history. The Alien and Sedition Acts, passed in 1798, were intended to suppress criticism of the Federalist-controlled government. Lincoln clamped down on speech during the Civil War. During the first Red Scare, Congress passed the Espionage Act as well as another Sedition Act, which prohibited “disloyal, profane, scurrilous, or abusive language” about the U.S. government, the Constitution, the military, or the flag. The Supreme upheld convictions under those laws, so if you’re waiting for the courts to “save us,” please remember that historically American courts have been in the business of fucking us over. The second Red Scare added a new term to the American political lexicon: McCarthyism. In turn, McCarthyism gave Hollywood the “black list” and unleashed purges in the public and private sectors. With extraordinary prescience in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 attacks, Hunter S. Thompson wrote: “[it’s] as if Military Censorship has already been imposed on the media. It is ominous. The only news on TV comes from weeping victims and ignorant speculators. The lid is on. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Don't say anything that might give aid to The Enemy.”

I could go on, but you get the point. If America is the land of the free, then we need a Texas-sized asterisk next to “free.” Throughout our history, the mantra has often been freedom for me, not for thee. Historian Heather Cox Richardson calls this the American paradox. On the one hand, we can point with pride to our founding principles of liberty, equality, democracy, and rule of law. On the other hand, American history is rich with examples where those principles didn’t apply — at least not without a fight — to large segments of American society.

The current crackdown on free speech is dangerous insofar as American history isn’t a guarantee of freedom from tyranny, but a cautionary tale about how tyrants often win, at least for a time. But the crackdown is also normal insofar as it’s of a piece with other crackdowns throughout American history. Put another way, we’re facing the same fight Americans have always faced; same shit, different day. The question is: Are we up to the task?

Honestly, I don’t know. As I told you last week, people are really bad at predicting the future. So let’s stick to the present, which is where the fight is.

Already, many of our society’s most powerful people, companies, and institutions have decided that capitulation is the correct course. At the same time, some of the least powerful people in America have stood up and pushed back, often at great personal risk. So on the one hand we have people with “fuck you money” and seemingly unlimited power running scared and people with little money or power pushing back. Some advice: If you’re looking for leadership, don’t look up; look around you at your friends and neighbors, then look in the mirror. Sooner or later, every American will have to make a choice: Bend the knee to tyranny, or raise the middle finger in defiance and face the consequences.

Which brings me back to Jimmy Kimmel. With apologies to historian Timothy Snyder, who literally wrote the book on fighting tyranny, this sad episode tells you everything you really need to know. Tyrants derive their power from fear; jokes rob fear of (some of) its punch. In the Soviet Union, people often joked, “They pretend to pay us, and we pretend to work.” After the first few times you hear it, the joke isn’t haha-funny. But no matter how many times you hear it, the joke never lets you forget that an authoritarian’s power is (primarily) in your head. That’s why authoritarians like Trump attack comedians like Kimmel. Every joke is a threat to a fear-based regime.

So, here’s a joke:

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Talking LEVERAGE with Amran Gowani

My friend Amran Gowani wrote a kickass novel called Leverage. It’s a thrilling page-turner with plenty to say about white collar crime. I loved it! Amran and I will be chatting about his novel, his trip to Bouchercon this year, and why stealing a few grand is a crime, but stealing a few billion is … capitalism, baby. Catch our Substack Live this Thursday at 10am Pacific / 12pm Central.

A book for people who 💙 this newsletter

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, my novel is based on personal experience, funny as hell, and according to many readers “surprisingly insightful.”

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

*The ebook is .99, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Heard any good jokes lately, or has humor been canceled?

2. Are you joking, or did you bend the knee?

3. Can you take a joke?

4. If they can’t take a joke, do you have to actually fuck ‘em, or is that just an idiom?

5. What’s so funny?

Leave a comment

Some hump days sneak up on you. This past Wednesday I woke up early and spent the morning finishing a draft about America’s most recent geopolitical folly — an own goal that pushed India closer to China and Russia. I was feeling pretty good, so I went to yoga, which was grueling. After yoga, I still felt good, but I also felt a rumbling in my belly, so I walked to the corner to grab a taco. OK, I grabbed three tacos. And a water. Hydration is important. The day was going so well. But by the time I returned home, showered, changed, and got back to my desk, things had taken a turn. On Slack, I watched in real-time as my colleagues shared the news:

• Charlie Kirk had been shot

• People on social media were saying he was dead

• The AP and NBC News confirmed that Kirk had been killed

Slack went quiet after that and work basically came to a stand still. I turned on the news, but there wasn’t any news — only speculation, rage, grief, wild speculation, scapegoating, calls for civility, scolding, performative grief, spin, pearl-clutching, blame, calls for vengeance, hand-wringing, commercials for drugs that treat conditions I do not have, and a consensus that America was in a dark place and headed somewhere even darker. I turned off the news.

The internet wasn’t much better. Actually, it was worse. I saw all the same stuff that I saw on the news, but with more vitriol and typos. I logged off. Then I wondered if there was any new information, so I logged back on. After a few minutes of fruitless surfing, searching, and scrolling, I realized that it was just the same old misinformation. Also, a troubling question occurred to me: What was fake, and what was real? Technically, that was two questions. Nevertheless, the more I ingested, the more I felt myself becoming lost in the sauce. To paraphrase a prescient New Yorker cartoon, on the internet nobody knows you’re a hallucinating AI-generated dog spewing nonsense. I logged off again.

Eventually, it was time to make dinner. As I often do, I turned on a podcast. As it happened, it was an episode of The Rest is History about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Uplifting.

Actually, no.

But it was grounding, in a way.

One thing I learned about John Wilkes Booth was that he was a mama’s boy. He spent the Civil War talking a big game about the Confederacy. When the news was good, he’d annoy everyone around him by praising the South, the righteousness of its cause (slavery), and the bravery of its soldiers. When the news was bad, Booth drank. At one point, his sister asked him why he hadn’t quit acting and put his own ass on the firing line? Answer: He’d promised his mother he wouldn’t enlist in the Confederate army. Talk about the cowardice of your convictions.

The thing about assassins is that they’re losers. As Dominic Sandbrook, co-host of The Rest is History observed, most of us come to terms with the fact that we won’t make it into the history books, but assassins can’t seem to accept being left out of the history books.

What is undoubtedly true is that John Wilkes Booth feels himself to be a failure and is motivated by a thirst for fame. He says to friends again and again, ‘a man could immortalize himself by killing Lincoln.’ He says, ‘I want to do something that will mean that I’m remembered for all time.’

Mission accomplished, I guess.

The thing about assassinations, however, is that they invite historical counterfactuals. If Serbian nationalists hadn’t assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand, would there have been a world war? If Lee Harvey Oswald hadn’t shot JFK, might America have avoided the social and political upheaval of the 1960s? If Booth hadn’t killed Lincoln, might Reconstruction have gone better? The answers to these questions are unknowable. Historians avoid counterfactuals the way vampires run from daylight. Still, we think in stories, and so it’s natural to assume that an assassin’s bullet is capable of ripping a hole in a narrative that might’ve been.

I think that’s one reason why I’ve been a history buff all my life. I’m wary of easy answers, of reductive thinking that says, “but for X, Y would’ve been different.” I’m also wary of alternative history’s myopic cousin: determinism. An economic catastrophe, for example, doesn’t necessarily lead to authoritarianism, although it’s difficult to tell the history of the 1930s without connecting those two things. The point is, what happens today doesn’t dictate what will happen tomorrow. History does not repeat itself, historians like to say, but sometimes it rhymes.

How did abolitionists in 1865 receive the news of Lincoln’s death? I’m sure they were sad, but as Dominic and Tom at The Rest is History podcast point out, abolitionists and radical Republicans weren’t exactly Lincoln fans by that point. Many believed he had taken too long to free the slaves, that he was too conciliatory, too much of a political animal to be counted on to do the right thing. At the time of his assassination, they saw Lincoln as a centrist who would likely go too soft on the South after the war. Some of them even thought Andrew Johnson would be a better vehicle for their Reconstruction agenda. They got that one wrong.

In moments like this, when everyone seems to have a grim take on what comes next for America, it’s good to remember just how bad humans are at predicting the future. It’s also good to remember that people who speak with certitude in these moments often invoke history without bothering to grapple with it. Here’s an un-fun, inconvenient fact I heard from Dan Carlin (if you know, you know) about political violence in America:

In a single eighteen-month period during 1971 and 1972 the FBI counted an amazing 2,500 bombings on American soil, almost five a day. Because they were typically detonated late at night, few caused serious injury, leading to a kind of grudging public acceptance.

Think about that fact the next time you hear a talking head, or an influencer, or some internet take-jockey say something like, the level of political violence we’re seeing in America now is unprecedented, or we haven’t seen this much political violence since the Civil War. Fifty-three years ago, America experienced nearly five bombings per day, on average. In other words, there are people alive today who know, from personal experience, that the talking heads, influencers, and internet take-jockeys are full of shit.

The good news? History will reveal them to be fools.

The bad news? Most of us won’t live long enough to see it.

But here’s what the news won’t say: We have agency. An assassin’s bullet can’t change the course of history because the course of history is only visible in retrospect. History is the residue of the present — a product of our actions (and our apathy), the past tense telling of what we do now.

What comes next?

That’s up to us.

New here?

Drop your email address in the box to receive future editions of Situation Normal. And if you’re a long-time situation normie who wants to support my work (or my taco habit), please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

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ICYMI

I chatted with my friend about The Golden Child, then I wrote a post for my other newsletter, Slacker Noir, about the connection between the 1980s Eddie Murphy film and Raymond Chandler. Listen to the conversation here, and read the post here.

A book for people who 💙 this newsletter

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0. Like everything you read here, my novel is based on personal experience, funny as hell, according to many readers “surprisingly insightful.”

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

*The ebook is .99, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

IAUA: I ask, you answer

1. Are you listening to The Rest is History, or do you prefer to live in blissful ignorance? No wrong answers.

2. What happens next? Wrong answers only.

3. If you’ve read Not Safe for Work, will you please write a review? Authors have mixed feelings about reviews, but I’m told reviews help the people who run e-commerce platforms feel better about themselves. Help them, help me.

Leave a comment

Two quick announcements.

#1 I’m taking the rest of the summer off

Frankly, it’s too hot to write. Sure, we have air-conditioning, so I could write, but I need a break. Also, I need ice cream, preferably that artisanal full-fat old-fashioned ice cream that runs $81 per scoop, but really, any ice cream will do, unless it’s one of those weird flavors with bits of lobster, or ghost peppers, or Takis. Screw Takis. And seriously, why can’t we stick to 31 flavors? Who knows? Anyway, I’ll be back after Labor Day.

Meantime, if you need something fun to read, grab a copy of Not Safe for Work at Amazon or a non-Amazon store. Spoiler alert: You’ll laugh your ass off.

#2 Situation Normal will get a lot more interesting when I return

Astute situation normies may have noticed that the title / subject line for this post references a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote:

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today. ‘Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.’ Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.

The thrill of writing Situation Normal is the possibility that you may misunderstand me. I want you to laugh, but I also want you to consider topics you may have ignored or discounted, and maybe even see those topics in new ways. I don’t aim to be consistently funny, rather I’m determined to embrace variable curiosity, i.e. a wide range of topics that don’t fit neatly into a tagline.

Some examples of variable curiosity. Over the past five years, I’ve written about natural disasters and our broken information ecosystem; mental health; middle age; autonomous driving; Nixonland; porn conventions; the federal occupation of Los Angeles; artificial intelligence; the economics of creator economy side hustles; more AI; doppelgängers and the politics of division; apathy, civics, and a total misread of the Clinton-Dole debate; coups & insurrections; and a local crime wave.

Mostly, I’ve tackled these topics by writing comedic personal essays. Going forward, I’m adding long-form journalism and critical essays into the mix. Instead of writing (almost entirely) about me, I’ll be writing more about us, our world, and this combustible moment where everything feels unmoored. As they say in Hollywood: same, but different.

What happens next?

(Mostly) nothing. If you’re subscribed to Situation Normal, you’ll continue to receive emails from me. My publishing schedule might change, because some of the pieces I have in mind will be heavier lifts, but that’s TBD.

If you’re not subscribed to Situation Normal, please fix that immediately👇

Subscribe now

It’ll still be funny, right?

Yes! We need laughter, especially these days.

But it’ll also be serious?

Yes.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

— Walt Whitman

What about Slacker Noir?

My Substack about crime fiction continues. It rules. You should subscribe.

So, this is just a heads up that things are about to get even better?

See you after Labor Day!

💙

Michael