Michael Estrin's Blog, page 13

Tears of sorrow and joy at the donut shop

The donut shop’s coffee is mediocre. But the donut shop is on my way, and I’m running late, so I stop in for a cup.

The man ahead of me is a regular, I think.

“How’s your husband doing?” he asks. “I’m pulling for him.”

Holding back tears, the woman behind the counter explains that her husband is dying.

“The doctors say all they can do is make him comfortable,” she says. “Yesterday, he opened his eyes for a few minutes, but that’s it.”

The regular shakes his head.

“It’s a damn raw deal,” he says. “I’m real sorry.”

“I don’t know how to explain it to the kids,” she says.

“Yeah…”

They both look at the floor for a moment. Then she grabs him a jelly donut. He hands her the money, tells her to keep the change.

“Take care of yourself,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

I’m next in line. For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know the woman who owns the donut shop, don’t know her husband, or her kids. But I know her pain. I’ve said goodbye to loved ones too. I’ve tried to explain the inexplicable to those left behind. And I’ve had to find ways to keep going through those raw days that begin when the doctors say there’s nothing left to do—days that don’t really end when the Rabbi leads us in the mourner’s Kaddish, or the last night of Shiva, or even the one-year mark when a Jewish son returns to his father’s grave for the first time since the funeral to place the headstone.

A therapist once told me that when we know someone we love is dying, we pre-grieve. That is, we experience aspects of grief even before we’ve truly lost someone. The same therapist told me it takes about a year to process grief, give or take. I suppose that tracks with Jewish custom, which gives you a year to mourn, before insisting that you move on with your life because life is for the living. After my dad died, my friend Norm echoed the idea that this kind of pain takes about a year to process, but then he said, “that’s all bullshit, it takes about two years, and honestly, that’s bullshit too, because the pain doesn’t really go away, but it does get easier somehow.”

Part of me wants to tell the donut shop woman what I know about loss and grief, but another part of me knows better. There’s nothing I can say to make it make sense, no words to bandage her heart, no insights to set her mind right. The best I can do, I think, is to see her pain, then play it by ear.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

The old woman is crying now. Her face is slick with tears. It’s the kind of crying that simmers, but never really boils over. It takes a moment, but she says she’s OK. I don’t believe her, and I don’t think she believes herself. But she needs to be fine right now. She’s got a donut shop to run, among other things.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Just a cup of coffee with room for cream,” I mumble.

“We don’t have any whip cream,” she says.

“That’s OK, I just want room for cream.”

It sounds clear to me, but I guess I mumble again because she repeats, “we don’t have any whip cream.”

This time, I point to the cream sitting in a bucket of ice on the counter. With a gentle voice, I say, “room for cream.” I’m careful to sound out each word. Then I add that I am a mumbler.

“Room for cream!” the woman says.

Then, she bursts out laughing.

“Whip cream,” she chuckles. “I thought you said whip cream, and I thought, that’s so crazy—whip cream in coffee.”

“I heard whip cream too,” says the man behind me in line.

“Whip cream,” the donut shop woman says. “For some reason, I thought whip cream is so funny!”

The woman roars with laughter. Her tears of pain give way, briefly, to tears of joy. Not that whip cream in coffee is much of a joke. Heck, it barely qualifies as a comedic misunderstanding. But sometimes a cheap laugh helps.

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Big shout out time!

A huge donut of a thank you goes out to Tracy Fletcher for buying an annual subscription. Thank you, Tracy!

My writing super power is turning Lyft rides, awkward yoga classes, conversations about hot sauce, visits to porn conventions, Raiders games, working as a PA at Richard Nixon’s funeral, McDonald’s breakfast, and cheese boards into the stories you love. Paid subscriptions help me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse you. Paid subscribers get a shout out, exclusive Situation Normal stories, and full access to the archives Will you support Situation Normal?

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Stick around and chat

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.

When you see a stranger in pain, do you lean in, step as far away as possible, or try to say something comforting, even if it’s kinda trite? No wrong answers here.

How long does grief take? Bold answers encouraged!

On a lighter note, I added an old fashioned donut to my order because I find it impossible to enter a donut shop without buying a donut. Do you have the same problem? Bonus: what’s your go-to donut?

Are old fashioned donuts the way all donuts used to be back in the olden days? Explain.

Have you ever put whip cream in coffee? Tell your story!

Leave a comment

Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

The ebook versions of my books are priced between 99 cents and $2.99, so if you don’t have the budget for a Situation Normal subscription, buying an ebook is a great way to support my work. Bonus: you get an awesome book too!

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Quick housekeeping item

Last week, I mentioned that I was bringing back the Wednesday post as an experiment, and that I was considering restricting paid subscribers. After some feedback from the Situation Normal community, I’ve decided that paid comments are a dumb idea. So those are out. I also realized that I’d rather post whenever I have something to say. Sundays will stay the same, but you can expect occasional posts from me during the week. Sometimes that might mean two or three posts. Other times, I might not post at all. I promise not to waste your time, or overwhelm your inbox. Usually, the weekday posts will be free to everyone, but sometimes I’ll write weekday posts just for paying subscribers as a special thank you to them.

The autumn wind is an out of market pirate

Autumn is subtle in Los Angeles. The weather stays the same. LA’s succulents don’t change colors. Rather than migrate, the birds stay local—so they can shit all over my car until Christmas. But if you look closely, you’ll see hints of autumn in Los Angeles. Gourds—decorative and edible—appear in local markets. Social media erupts into flame wars over pumpkin-spiced lattes (an abomination) and candy corn (a revelation). And throughout the City of Angels, like everywhere else in America, the madness of a new football season begins.

For Christina and me, the madness began in August with the premiere of Hard Knocks. The show, which has been on the air since 2001, is a co-production of NFL Films and HBO. Every week, Hard Knocks chronicles the drama, comedy, and dramedy of an NFL training camp. It’s a masterclass in propaganda. Here’s proof: the only team I dislike more than the New York Giants are the New York Jets, but after five episodes inside this year’s Jets training camp, I’m rooting for them to lose the AFC championship to the Las Vegas Raiders.

Not that I’m a hardcore Raiders fan. Or, even a hardcore football fan. I’m a casual fan, although as I wrote last year, when I took Christina to her first NFL game, there’s nothing casual about football, or the Raiders.

[Football is] America’s official religion. Technically, the Constitution says you have the freedom to abstain from worshipping at the alter of the gridiron, but a much more powerful unwritten law demands that all real Americans pay tribute to the football gods on Sundays, Mondays, Thursdays, and late in the season, on Saturdays too.1

We’re a lot more pious this season, probably because Christina is now a citizen of Raider Nation—with the criminal record to prove it. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re going to burn down the nearest Broncos bar if the Raiders lose, or sack a zebra at the LA Zoo if the refs screw us like they did in the the 2001 AFC playoffs against Tom “Tuck Rule” Brady and the New England Patriots. And if the Raiders do win the Super Bowl, it’s not like we’re going to commit acts of celebratory mayhem.

But after last season’s pilgrimage to Sin City, we decided to level-up our Raiders fandom by watching as many games as possible. To a heretic, that sounds simple. But the pious know better. NFL faithful know that it ain’t easy, and it certainly ain’t cheap, to worship your team denomination if you live out of market.

Week One: Raiders at Broncos

“What the fuck!” Christina said. “Google says the Raiders game is supposed to be on CBS, but instead they’re playing the stupid Chargers game.”

This was about an hour before kickoff. I was in the kitchen meal-prepping for the week ahead because, as my football coaches taught me, how you practice is how you play. Christina was in the living room with Mortimer. They were getting pumped for Raiders football, because if fandom teaches us anything, it’s this: your team’s victory depends on your devotion.

“Yeah, if you live in the Los Angeles market, you get Chargers and Rams games,” I explained. “But the problem with that, of course, is that you’re watching the Charger and the Rams.”

“Boo! Do people in LA even give a shit about the Chargers and the Rams? This is Raider Nation!”

Christina’s question was a loaded one that goes back decades. In theory, Los Angeles should care about both teams. The Chargers actually began life in Los Angeles as an expansion team in 1959, but after two forgettable seasons, they moved to San Diego. Recently, however, the Chargers came back—like a bad penny. Unlike the Chargers, the Rams aren’t from LA. They were born in Cleveland, but the Rams did play here from 1946 to 1994. That much time in Los Angeles should count for something, but it doesn’t. Here’s why: the Rams blow ass. Seriously, nobody likes the Rams, nobody with any self-respect anyway. Nobody gave a shit when the Rams moved to St. Louis, and nobody gave a shit when they came back. The reason? Los Angeles isn’t a pro football town. When it comes to football, LA cares about:

The USC / UCLA rivalry

Lakers basketball

Dodgers baseball

Taking selfies at the new SoFi Stadium

Pretending to be a lifelong fan of the local team, after they win the Super Bowl, but then distancing yourself from the local team when they lose.

Which brings me to the Raiders. Yes, they played in Los Angeles when I was a kid. But they came to us from Oakland, and to Oakland they returned. But both times in Oakland were just pit stops on the road to the one thing the Raiders organization has always wanted: a brand new stadium with luxury boxes, funded by other people’s money. And that is why they’re the Oakland Los Angeles Las Vegas Raiders. Honestly, Raiders fans who live in Los Angeles have always loved an out-of-market team because even when the Silver & Black played in LA we knew it wouldn’t last. Also, here’s a very cold take: the best years of televised pro football in LA were the years when we didn’t have an NFL team.

Not that I explained this to Christina. With less than an hour to go until kickoff, there was no time to tackle the history of fickle pro football fandom in Los Angeles, public financing for private ventures, the greed-demons who parcel out NFL media rights, the Byzantine logic of NFL blackout rules, and the ways in which those twentieth century clusterfucks have become entangled with a twenty-first century clusterfuck called streaming.

“Is there any way to watch the game?” Christina asked.

“Well, we could go to a Raiders bar,” I said. “But I’m in the middle of meal prep, so we might miss the first half.”

Christina frowned. Real fans don’t put on a Raiders jersey, pre-soak their couch in lighter fluid in anticipation of a victory celebration, and affix an eye-patch to their dog to catch the game from some bar.

Raider Mortimer takes no prisoners, but he does take unauthorized shits

“Or, we could pay for NFL Sunday Ticket,” I said.

I thought that would be the end of this tale. Sure, we had vowed to watch as many Raiders games as possible, but NFL Sunday ticket is expensive. And yeah, being shut out of our house of worship on Week One felt shitty, but I reasoned, feeling shitty is a big part of NFL football fandom in general and a common feeling at the end of every season in Raider Nation. Besides, we had already earmarked the cost of NFL Sunday Ticket for Mortimer’s college fund. So as kickoff neared, I finished up in the kitchen and joined Christina in front of the TV to watch the game we didn’t want to watch.

“Who are we rooting for—Chargers or the Dolphins?” I asked. “I say Dolphins. You’re from Florida, and it’ll give me an excuse to say, thanks for all the fish.”

Christina didn’t answer. Instead, she glared at me. I knew that glare. It was a Raiders Nation glare. The glare of a real cosplaying pirate.

“I came here for mayhem and Raiders football,” Christina said, “and right now, I’m out of both.”

Brandishing the remote control as if it was a pirate’s cutlass, Christina jumped up from the couch to led her first-mate (Mortimer) and a lily-livered cook (yours truly) in a raid against the subscription streaming services. They had sold us live network television, only to embargo the treasure that is Raiders football, and now they would pay.

“Arrgh!”

Using a can of Pamplemousse La Croix, Captain Christina christened her ship The Pissed Off Mermaid. On her orders, Mortimer and I unfurled the Black and Silver flag of our people, and we set sail in search of…

The autumn wind…Paramount+

We had the weather gauge, and so The Pissed Off Mermaid easily overtook Paramount+. On Captain Christina’s orders, Mortimer and I readied the cannons. But as we prepared to blast Paramount+ to smithereens, our Captain thought better of it.

“Thar may be corrupted meta data,” she said.

We held our fire, and waited for the game to start. It was possible, Captain Christina explained, that Paramount+ was flying the flag of the Chargers-Dolphins game as a ruse, and that the real prize, the Raiders-Broncos game, would be ours, if we would just be patient.

But as the broadcast began, we saw that the meta data was true.

“Thar be Dolphins and thar be Chargers, but thar be no Raiders or Broncos here.”

Mortimer wanted to send Paramount+ down to Davy Jones’s locker, but our Captain, who has a soft spot for Yellowstone and the Taylor Sheridan universe, spared Paramount+—much to the relief of the cook, who adores Beavis and Butt-Head.

“So long, and thanks for all the fish,” I said as we sailed away, in search of our next prize.

Hulu

Off the coast of Burbank, California, The Pissed Off Mermaid found a derelict vessel called Hulu. On Captain Christina’s order, Mortimer and I boarded Hulu. At first, we were hopeful that our prize would yield the booty we sought, but Hulu was overrun with mice, and the head mouse, a scoundrel called Mickey, told us their live television option would cost us $70 a month.

“Highway robbery!” Mortimer barked.

“You get all the networks, and as soon as Admiral Bob figures out a viable streaming business model, your subscription will include Disney+ and other assorted media treasures,” Captain Mickey Mouse said.2

“So if we pay you seventy dabloons, we can watch the Raiders game?” I asked.

Captain Mickey Mouse shook his head. Hulu could bring us the bounty of the networks, but it was up to the networks to decide what that bounty be.

“Arrgh…”

“Time to walk the plank, Mouse!” Mortimer said.

“Hold on,” I said. “Thar be Star Wars booty to consider, just as soon as this Mickey Mouse empire gets its shit together.”

“They should be keelhauled for The Book of Boba Fett,” Mortimer growled.

“Agreed. But we need them. They have ESPN, which has the exclusive broadcast rights to Monday Night Football. The Raiders play the Packers on Monday Night this year.”

“Don’t forget,” Captain Mickey Mouse squeaked, “we’re currently embargoing the Charter empire, which means if you want ESPN, you better deal with us directly.”

That comment sent Mortimer into a rage. He pissed all over Hulu’s deck. But seeing that Admiral Bob and his Mickey Mouse fleet played rough, I talked Mortimer out of burning their sails, lest the Disney empire seek revenge by green-lighting a Jar Jar Binks show.

Back Aboard The Pissed Off Mermaid

When Mortimer and I returned to The Pissed Off Mermaid, we found Captain Christina up to her eyeballs in ye olde Google results.

“I’ve done my own research,” she began, “none of our current streaming options allow us to purchase NFL Sunday Ticket.”

“What about Sling?” I asked. “They’re supposed to be the cable bundle for people who cut the cord.”

“Aye, they carry the networks and ESPN,” Captain Christina said. “But they don’t offer NFL Sunday Ticket.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about ESPN,” I said. “Admiral Bob might embargo ESPN at any moment.”

“Be that as it may, Sling doesn’t have the booty we seek. In fact, we’d have to upgrade our account just to get all the networks and ESPN.”

“Slit their throats, and burn their ship!” Mortimer growled. “Or, maybe rub their bellies with a rusty razor.”

“Stand fast,” Captain Christina ordered. “We’ll deal with Sling later, and when we do, thar asses will be slung.”

“What about that hobo named Max?” I asked. “Maybe he took all those Game of Thrones profits and bought a stake in the NFL media rights racket.”

“Alas, he did not,” Christina said. “According to the pirate trades, their new admiral has a plan to confuse their customers into submission.”

“It’s working,” I said. “I don’t know the name of the ship that carries the Hard Knocks booty, and the ship isn’t exactly sea-worthy because the navigation sucks, and the user interface is like trying to juggle kelp, and sometimes when you pause an episode, the app takes a monster Kraken shit, and then you have to go back to the start of the episode for some reason, which be super-annoying.”

“Aye,” Mortimer growled, “the new admiral be walkin’ the plank with the old hobo.”

“Maybe the new admiral will run his ships aground,” Christina said, “but he’ll get safe passage from us, as long as his fleet of confusion carries the best booty content on these rough streaming seas.”

We Surrender

With the Raiders game already underway, Captain Christina brought The Pissed Off Mermaid back to its home port in Chatsworth. The first mate was angry. He had been promised booty and blood, but he settled for a piece of string cheese and a belly rub. The cook was relieved, for while promise of booty appealed to him, the promise of blood did not. He calmed his nerves with a Coke Zero and baby carrots dipped in vegan tzatziki procured from a Trader named Joe.

“I hate to say this,” Captain Christina began, “but we’re going to have purchase a new streaming service.”

Upon hearing the grim news, the crew grumbled about a mutiny. But the cook, being a man who appreciates a woman who brings home the turkey bacon so that he may microwave it, hesitated. The first mate, a four-legged rapscallion who is more bark than bite, lost his nerve.

“It’s the same price on all platforms,” Captain Christina explained, “but if we buy NFL Sunday Ticket from the cable company, or Direct TV, or YouTube TV we have to pay for those services too. So, instead, we’re buying it from YouTube.”

“Sheesh,” I said. “Everyone was so excited to cut the cord and give the cable company the old heave-ho, but I think we created an even bigger, nastier streaming sea monster in the legacy model’s wake.”

“Aye,” Captain Christina said. “The streaming seas be rougher than we thought. ‘Tis the unintended, yet entirely predictable consequences of ye olde disruption.”

Game Recap

After missing most of the first quarter, we purchased NFL Sunday Ticket via YouTube. We paid $400, or $25 to watch each of the sixteen Raiders games this season. When weighed against the estimated cost of a pilgrimage to a local Raiders bar, the price almost seemed fair, especially when you consider that the lily-livered cook and the bloody-thirty first mate have never said no to more buffalo wings.

But when we compared the total cost of streaming to the old days of the cable bundle, when there was but one middleman between Raiders Nation and whatever game the broadcast networks thought the fickle pro football fans of Los Angeles would like to watch, the situation felt like a loss. The true pirates, we realized, were the streamers—a colony of privateers out of Silicon Valley, who had lured us in with the promise of disintermediated treasure, only to, eventually, make us walk one plank, then another, and then another.

That revelation stung, but it would’ve been worse, had not the Silver & Black delivered unto the Raider faithful a miraculous Week One victory over the Broncos.

Big Jets Coda

Hours before the first Monday Night Football broadcast, Admiral Bob made peace with Charter.3 Christina and I watched the Jets take on the Bills. Our hearts sank when Jets quarterback Aaron Rodgers went down in the first few minutes with a season-ending injury. But as faithful Hard Knocks viewers, we knew what would come next.

“They’re gonna send in the goofy kid with the head band,” Christina said.

Sure enough, the Jets sent in Zach “This Head Band Isn’t a Fashion Statement, It Literally Keeps the Sweat Out of My Eyes Because I Sweat A Lot, OK Fellas?” Wilson. Was it the best performance of Zach Wilson’s career? No, it was not. But if we’ve learned anything listening to Liev Schreiber narrate Hard Knocks, it’s this: to win in the NFL, you don’t have to play your best game, you just have to play better than the other team.

Led by Zack Wilson, the Jets kept the game close, then pulled ahead by a field goal with minutes to go. Unfortunately, the Bills—a franchise with a troubled kicking history, to say the least—tied the game with a field goal. The game went to overtime, where the Jets defense stopped the Bills cold on their first possession. It looked like the game was Zack Wilson’s to win, but first the Bills had to punt. And like I said, the Bills have a troubled history with the kicking game.

As Christina and I yelled our asses off, an un-drafted rookie named Xavier Gipson returned the Bills punt 65 yards for a game-winning touchdown. It was a sweet moment, made all the more sweet, thanks to the jokers on the Jets coaching staff and the eagle-eyed documentarians on the Hard Knocks production team, for they had given us the human dramedy from training camp that made Gipson’s moment of glory so poignant.

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Shout out time!

Big NFL-sized shout outs to the newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal! Thank you Michael Klein., Mark McAlister, and Bob Beverley for supporting my work at Situation Normal! 

My writing super power is turning Lyft rides, awkward yoga classes, conversations about hot sauce, visits to porn conventions, Raiders games, working as a PA at Richard Nixon’s funeral, McDonald’s breakfast, and cheese boards into the stories you love. Paid subscriptions help me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse you. Please consider supporting Situation Normal.

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Huddle up and chat!

You know the two-minute drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.

Have you ever felt like a company used your fandom against you to make obscene profits? Tell your tale!

If you’re a member of the NFL faithful, what’s your team denomination? If you’re a heretic, how do you spend your Sundays?

For all the excitement about cutting the cord and ditching the cable bundle, it seems like we’re returning to an app-based bundle. Have you met the new boss, aren’t they basically just the same as the old boss?

I told a small lie in this story about the Rams. Although they always blew ass when I was a kid, I actually rooted for them, especially Eric Dickerson, Kevin Greene, and Willie “Flipper” Anderson. Have you ever lied about sports? Dish!

I’m an American, and I’m a football fan. But I agree with the rest of the sports-loving world that the game we call soccer should probably be called football because our game makes only limited use of feet as offensive weapons. Trouble is, I don’t know what we should call American football. Do you have any suggestions? Share your ideas!

Aren’t you glad Tom “Tuck Rule” Brady finally retired? Discuss.

Leave a comment

The autumn wind…

is a pirate, and a real poem! The full poem is reprinted here without the express written (or implied oral) consent of the NFL:

The Autumn Wind is a pirate
  Blustering in from sea,
With a rollicking song, he sweeps along,
  Swaggering boisterously.

His face is weather beaten.
  He wears a hooded sash,
With a silver hat about his head,
  And a bristling black mustache.

He growls as he storms the country,
  A villain big and bold.
And the trees all shake and quiver and quake,
  As he robs them of their gold.

The Autumn Wind is a raider,
  Pillaging just for fun.
He'll knock you 'round and upside down,
  And laugh when he's conquered and won.

Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

*If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏

1

2

See “Disney+ to Add Hulu Content in ‘One-App Experience’ Later in 2023, Prices for Disney+ to Increase” https://variety.com/2023/digital/news...

3

See “Disney, Charter settle cable dispute hours before ‘Monday Night Football’ season opener” https://apnews.com/article/disney-spe...

On tyranny and birthday presents

I turned forty-six last week. Everything went great. Christina took me to one of those fancy brunch places where they check your credit score before serving you avocado toast.

That night, we had some friends over to eat pizza and play a game called Monikers. The New York Times called Monikers “the perfect party game.” I didn’t know The New York Times wrote about party games, did you?

Monikers is a team game. Before our guests arrived, I told Christina I didn’t want the teams to be gender-based. “It’s a boring and stupid way to pick teams, and it always leads to bickering, which might’ve been interesting the first eight million times humans pulled this bullshit, but fucking-A, honey, it’s the twenty-first century, and it’s my birthday, and damn it, I just want to do better.”

Christina took a deep breath, and smiled. “It’s your birthday, babe. You’re the boss.”

We picked teams by going around the table and counting off in ones and twos. I was team two, or maybe team one. I’m not sure. I’m forty-six, and my memory isn’t what it was when I was forty-five. But I know that I was either on team one or team two.

Monikers is played in the three rounds. Both teams use the same deck of cards. Each card contains an answer, and some text to help you help your team guess the answer.

In the first round, you can use any words, sounds, or gestures, or even read the clue, but you can’t use the answer itself. In the second round, you use the same cards, but this time you can only use a single word to help your team guess the answer. In the third round, you return to the deck one last time, but you can’t say anything. Instead, you must help your team guess the answer by doing charades.

I love this game because it involves creativity, listening skills, and silliness. But like all games, Monikers also brings out the worst in people. At one point, there was a dispute over the rules. And by dispute, I mean some people said they were right, and other people said those people were wrong.

“Michael, it’s your birthday,” someone said, “you decide.”

To my surprise horror, everyone immediately thought this was a good idea. There was no vote putting me in charge, no democratic process. The mob spoke, and because it was my birthday, they spoke my name.

“Guys, there’s a rule book,” I said. “Let’s just read the rule book.”

There were boos. Actual boos. The mob had made me their king, but when I refused the king life, they booed.

“Rule of law, guys, it’s important.”

A few people giggled.

“I’m not kidding. These are dangerous times. Rule of law is under threat everywhere.”

Again, people laughed. Again, I insisted that I was serious.

“One minute, you’re playing games with an authoritarian, the next minute a real authoritarian is in charge and it’s game over.”

Christina opened the rule book and read the rules. The mattered was settled, but I think my birthday is a good reminder that authoritarianism is always coming for us, and often times, it comes from unlikely vectors. Also, even those who insist on democracy and rule of law can be problematic. Case in point: me! When it came to the guest list, the way teams were picked, and the menu, I was a tyrant.

Follow orders and share this post (or stand up for the rule of law by not sharing this post)👇

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Presents. I had a good haul this year!

Christina pulled out all the stops this year. I got Big Lebowski t-shirts, Warren Zevon t-shirts, Warren Zevon records, and a Warren Zevon book. Clearly, Christina knows her husband.

My friend Gina bought me a Japanese snack box. Since all the labels on the snacks were in Japanese, and since I don’t speak or read Japanese, it was impossible to figure out what I was snacking on. I think of it as Japanese Snack Roulette, which is way more fun and tasty than the Russian version.

My friend Anna bought me something called “fake coffee,” which I’m curious about, but haven’t worked up the nerve to try. She also took a photo of me from a trip to Disneyland and gave it the Lebowski treatment, plus a little Jerry Garcia for good measure.

I got some other presents, which I’ll write about later, maybe. But I brought up the subject of presents to talk about what my mom got me.

Yup. Mom got me a check. This is typical of my mom. Actually, I think it’s typical of a lot of moms (and dads). On one level, a mother sending her adult son a check is a little silly because money is fungible, which means Mom’s gift made a dent in our DWP bill, or it contributed to my retirement plan, or it bought me some weed gummies. But on another level, a check is real power.

I chose real power this year. I’m using my birthday money to buy subscriptions to newsletters I really enjoy.

I bought annual subscriptions to Brent and Michael Are Going Places and Kurt Vonnegut Radio by Gabe Hudson. I enjoy both of these newsletters for different reasons, and because I enjoy them, I want to help Brent, Michael, and Gabe keep on doing what they’re doing.

Happy birthday to me, and thank you, Mom!

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A little housekeeping

Longtime Situation Normal readers know that I used to publish twice a week. At the start of the summer, I announced that I was putting the Wednesday post on hiatus. Now it’s back, maybe.

Without getting too into the weeds of what it takes to put out Situation Normal, I need to tell you that the Wednesday post was becoming a real motherfucker. I’m trying to streamline this process, so that I can keep bringing you a great story every Sunday, keep working on a sequel to Not Safe for Work, keep up with my day job, and keep working on a creative project I’m not ready to tell you about. It’s a lot!

Which is why my plan is to write the Wednesday post on Wednesday mornings. I literally set a timer for an hour this morning, and when the timer goes off, I’m posting. OK, I’m might scan it once or twice for typos, but the point is, I’m doing this live-ish.

I’m also going to restrict comments on the Wednesday to paying subscribers after this week. That’s an experiment, and honestly I don’t know I feel about that move. I don’t know how you feel about that move either—but please tell me in the comments, which I’ll keep open for this post.

Like all experiments at Situation Normal, doing Wednesday live-ish and restricting comments may become normal things, or they may end up in the trash can. Only time will tell…

Stick around and chat!

What’s your go-to game night game?

Do you use gender-based teams for game night, or are you on the cutting edge of modernity?

It’s good to be the king, but it’s also bad to have a king, right? Discuss.

Are you an adult child who receives birthday checks, or a parent who sends their adult children birthday checks? Tell your story!

Thoughts on the changes to Situation Normal’s Wednesday post? No wrong answers.

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Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

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It's my 46th birthday. I'm fine, I think.

By the time you read this, I’ll be forty-six-years-old. but as I type these words, I am forty-five. This isn’t magic. Or time travel. It’s a function of a content management system that lets me write Situation Normal early in the week and schedule it to publish every Sunday at 3:03 a.m. Pacific. ANYWAY, it’s my birthday. That’s the point, not magic, or time travel, or content management systems. But I’m not sure how I feel about this particular birthday. On the downside of the ledger, there’s getting old, closing in on The Big 5-0, and a brand of cologne called Melancholy™ that sometimes fills my nostrils and bums me out. But on the upside of the ledger, there’s cake. It’s a close call, feelings-wise.

The conventional wisdom is split on birthdays, especially the birthdays that fall in the middle years of life. One school of thought is to celebrate every birthday—to go big, or go home. Students of this school advocate wild birthday celebrations that make for great social media content. Possible options include:

Trips to fun-loving destinations like Las Vegas, New Orleans, or Miami.

Expensive gifts like cars, jewels, or fine art. Or, if you’re on a budget, NFTs that purport to be certificates of ownership for expensive gifts like cars, jewels, or fine art.

Thrill-seeking adventures like going on a safari, sky diving, or entering an illegal martial arts tournament in Hong Kong to prove to yourself (and everyone else) that you’ve still got it by defeating the Belgian Nut-Puncher Jean-Claude Van Damme.

Another school of thought is to marinate in your melancholy birthday vibes. Students of this school advise against posting melancholy birthday content on social media, lest you be seen as a Debbie Downer or Bobby Buzzkill. Instead, students of the melancholy birthday school advise the following birthday options:

Drink. Or, abuse drugs. Or, go for the intoxication combo platter by whipping up Piña coladas spiked with Ayahuasca.

Ignore your birthday. If someone tries to wish you a happy birthday, tell them they’ve got the date wrong. If they insist that they have the correct date and that you’re just being “sad pants,” tell them to fuck off. If they refuse to fuck off, enter them in an illegal martial arts tournament in Hong Kong, where the Belgian Nut-Puncher Jean-Claude Van Damme will punch their genitals so hard they’ll shit Bloodsport sequels for a decade.

Make a wish that everyone in your life will forgot your birthday. Then when you get your wish, pout about it all day, until the oily bohunk of your dreams sees you and celebrates your birthday with a grand romantic gesture.

Another school of thought is to use your birthday to impart some wisdom. This option becomes more appealing as you age, perhaps because you actually do become wiser, or perhaps because, with each passing year, you feel the need to make the decades of mistakes, wrong turns, and fuck ups, mean something. Options for imparting wisdom on your birthday include:

Telling friends and family how to live their lives between bites of birthday cake.

Flying to Hong Kong (for an illegal martial arts tournament) and bombarding your seat mate, who is just trying to watch Sixteen Candles, with nuggets of wisdom, until they punch you in the nuts.

Writing essays, like this one.

Here’s the thing. Aside from Bloodsport and Sixteen Candles—two films I love, despite their problems—none of these birthday celebration options truly speaks to me this year. I don’t feel like going big. I don’t feel melancholy birthday vibes. And I don’t feel any wiser, even though I do feel a little older.

I feel…

Fine.

And by fine, I’m not referring to the acronym:

Fucked up

Insecure

Neurotic

Emotional.

I feel fine about turning forty-six. So fine, in fact, that I wondered if I should even write this essay. Because who cares if I feel fine? It’s interesting when people feel bad, and enviable when they feel good. But fine isn’t compelling.

And yet, here I am, telling you that I’m fine, but also, if I’m being honest, having my doubts about that claim.

Maybe it would be easier if I went to New Orleans. It’s easy to go big in The Big Easy, where everyone lives their best life, thanks to a steady diet of hurricanes and beignets. But I don’t drink, and I’m trying to watch my sugar intake, and honestly, I feel too old for that shit.

So maybe it would be easier if I just ignored my birthday. I could turn off my phone for the day. I could stay off Facebook too, but then log on the following day and do the obligatory “thanks for the birthday wishes” post, even though I might not feel especially thankful. Of course, Christina would still know it was my birthday, so there’s no getting around that. And let’s be honest, despite my sugar intake goals, I’d have a hard time resisting the free birthday ice cream at Baskin-Robbins. So maybe the melancholy option doesn’t work either.

But maybe I could impart some wisdom for my birthday. After all, there’s no rule that says it has to be my wisdom. I could plagiarize some wisdom. After I blow out the candles on my birthday cake, I could say, “The only true wisdom is knowing that you know nothing.” Of course, that’s what got Socrates killed on his birthday, so maybe he should’ve known better.

I think the thing that I’m struggling with is that this birthday doesn’t feel big, and it doesn’t feel melancholy, and it doesn’t feel wise. It feels fine. And I feel fine. But for some reason, feeling fine feels funny, but not haha-funny, unless you count that Jean-Claude Van Damme GIF.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Fine is better than fraught. Way better. Fraught is fixating on what you thought your life would be when you turned forty-six, then falling headlong into the gulf between that expectation and reality. Some people fill that gulf with thrills to dazzle their friends while masking their disappointment. Other people hide from that gulf by disappearing from their lives only to surface days later and pretend like everything was great. And other people paper over that gulf between expectations and reality by telling you they know the secret to life, even if it’s too late for them to use that secret to right their ship.

But I think those people are full of shit. Actually, I know they’re full of shit because I am full of shit. Over the course of forty-five birthdays, I’ve sought birthday thrills, and I’ve pulled off birthday vanishing acts, and when I turned forty-four, I gave myself the birthday gift of hubris by writing an essay about—get this—the secret to happiness.1

I’m not doing any of that this year. I’m doing a small game night with friends, eating pizza, and maybe cake. If someone tells me to go big, I’ll tell them to go home. If I feel melancholy, I’ll call out that feeling for what it is, rather than trying to run away from myself. And if I feel wise, I’ll remind myself that Socrates was right. It’s my birthday. It happens every year. And I’ll be fine.

If this essay resonated with you, or if you just want to wish me a happy birthday (or both!), please share this post👇

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My writing super power is turning Lyft rides, awkward yoga classes, conversations about hot sauce, visits to porn conventions, Raiders games, working as a PA at Richard Nixon’s funeral, McDonald’s breakfast, and cheese boards into the stories you love. Paid subscriptions help me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse you. Paid subscribers get a shout out, exclusive Situation Normal stories, and full access to the archives (including The Secret to Happiness: A Midlife Report). Will you support Situation Normal?

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Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers.

How did you celebrate your last birthday? Be honest.

How will you celebrate your next birthday? Lie to me.

If birthdays didn’t exist, Facebook would’ve gone bankrupt years ago, right?

Bloodsport or Sixteen Candles? Hint: the correct answer is a Molly Ringwald and Jean-Claude Van Damme double feature.

Are you fine? Bare your soul!

Leave a comment

Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

*If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏

1

The barista took my data. All I got was coffee and slow internet

I ask the barista if there’s a password for the internet.

“No,” she says. “You just have to accept the terms of service, and boom, you’re rocking and rolling.”

“Well, I’m about to rock and roll, so you better salute me.”

Judging from her face, the barista doesn’t get the reference. But before I can tell her to Google it, she hits me with the harsh reality of surfing ye olde internet.

“Of course, those terms of service are a doozy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“No joke,” she says. “Like, we’re going to take your first born.”

“Damn, you guys play hardball. But I’m not worried. I’m not having kids, so I come out way ahead in that deal.”

“You, sir, play hardball.”

“So I win, right?”

“Not quite. We’re also taking your data. And don’t give me any guff about how you don’t have any data. Everyone has data these days.”

A chill runs down my spine. The barista is right. I am a data creator—in this economy, everyone is. I’ve paid thousands of dollars for my computer, my phone, my watch, my car, and a Roomba just to collect my data. I pay hundreds of dollars in monthly subscriptions to my internet service provider, two newspapers, three credit card companies, four magazines, Sling, various insurance outfits, Amazon Prime, and Spotify to harvest my data. And just to make sure there’s enough Michael Estrin data to go around, I spend forty-eight hours per day online creating data so that the advertising industrial complex can chase me around the internet with ads for discount razorblades I can’t use, jobs I’m unqualified to perform, and a crockpot I already bought on Amazon. It’s brutal. But I put up with it for one BIG reason: ads for t-shirts that are themselves wearable ads for movie classics like The Big Lebowski, Big Trouble in Little China, and The Big Sleep.

“What are you going to do with my data?” I ask.

“You know… stuff.”

“Can you be more specific? I already unsubscribed from Congress. I blocked the people who keep calling to sell me a mortgage. And my spam folder runneth over. I don’t think my data could be used for any more stuff.”

The barista leans across the counter. In a conspiratorial voice, she whispers, “A lot of people think we sell your data. But the truth is we lease it out to the highest bidder.”

“And who is that, exactly?”

“It’s a dynamic situation,” she says.

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. For all I know, the bidders for my data include a subscription meal service determined to make the world a better place through bulgogi tacos and a recurring payments business model, a fake meat company on a mission to democratize pea protein, and a mobile gaming outfit that expects me to run a virtual farm in exchange for virtual currency. Or, maybe I’ve just got food on my mind because I’m hungry. In the data collection game, even your thoughts can, and will, be monetized.

“So let me get this straight. I get free internet and you guys make a fortune off my data?”

“That’s right,” she says. “This whole coffee shop is a front.”

“Then why is the coffee five dollars?”

“Because this is a high-end front. A damn good one, too.”

“Correction. It was a damn good front, until you blew it by telling me all the secrets of the coffee business.”

“You’re right,” she says. “You know too much.”

My pulse quickens. My palms perspire. My breathing stops. I’ve said too much.

“Am I in danger?” I ask.

“Only if you order a scone,” she says. “They’re really dry. Like choking hazard dry.”

Thank you for reading Situation Normal! Instead of sharing your data, please share this post👇

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Help me reach a big goal for Situation Normal!

Eight months ago, I set a goal of reaching 100 paid subscribers by the end of 2023. I’m currently 80 percent of the way to achieving that goal. Yay! But I want to hit that goal, and I need your help. Paid subscribers mean a few things to me:

Paying subscribers makes it possible for me to carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to write funny stuff every week for nearly 4,000 situation normies.

Paying subscribers prove that there’s a business model for writing humor online that doesn’t require me to bombard you with ads and lease out your data to a discount razor firm or a bulgogi taco subscription service.

As paying subscriptions grow, Situation Normal’s CFO (Christina) says there’s room in the budget for some zany adventures.

Will you support Situation Normal? Please take a moment to upgrade your subscription👇

Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers.

What’s the deal with scones in U.S. coffee shops? Is it unconstitutional to sell good scones that aren’t choking hazards? Explain.

I own two Lebowski t-shirts (shocking, I know) and one Big Trouble in Little China t-shirt. Should I buy a Big Sleep t-shirt? Follow-up: do you think the Raymond Chandler estate sees a dime on those t-shirt sales?

On the internet, you get a lot of free “content” in exchange for your data. But it isn’t really free, it’s ad-supported. Offline, it’s a different deal. You pay for stuff AND they collect your data. Why is there no such thing as a free ad-supported lunch?

Which outfits bid the most for your data? Reveal yourself, if you dare.

Have you ever actually seen your data? It’s pretty gross, right?

Leave a comment

Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

*If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏

I had my colonoscopy. Here's my review.

When I turned forty, I asked my doctor if it was time for a colonoscopy. I was nervous just asking the question, but that’s common. According to WebMD, a website that pretends to be a doctor to taunt the losers running Dentist.com, most people are “scared shitless” about colonoscopies. One study found that 56 percent of people who received a positive stool test for colorectal cancer failed to schedule a follow-up colonoscopy that might save their life.1 Of course, they had their excuses. But as the saying goes, excuses are like assholes—we all have them, they all stink, and from time to time, those assholes need to be checked.

“Actually, the guidelines say forty-five,” my doctor said. “You’ve got five more years.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I said.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“A little. But also, we just met, and I think it’s important to get to know each other better before butt stuff.”

My doctor frowned. I spent the next five years dreading my colonoscopy and searching for a doctor with a better sense of humor.

The prep was a total shit-show

Everyone said the prep is the worst part of the colonoscopy. And by everyone, I mean friends, family, medical professionals, and internet randos. Naturally, I assumed they were referring to the shit-show called the “clean out.” But as the saying goes, when we assume, we make an ass out of you and me.

To be clear, the shit show blew ass, but the worst part was the oral laxative. I thought the oral laxative would be a few ounces. But at the pharmacy, they gave me a one-gallon jug. ONE BIG-ASS GALLON!

The laxative tasted like fizzy salt water mixed with the tears of undergrads who failed organic chemistry. The night before the procedure, I had to drink three quarts in two hours, then I had to wake up at four in the morning on the day of the procedure to finish off the last quart. To help the medicine go down, it’s best to chug an eight-ounce serving. I felt like I was pledging a fraternity that was into weird butt stuff, which is probably redundant because all frats are into weird butt stuff.

The other challenging thing about the prep was the food. Five days before the colonoscopy, I went on a low-fiber diet and tried to avoid nuts, seeds, popcorn, and foods with red dye. Folks, I’ve never craved a Red Vine and popcorn sandwich with crunchy peanut butter on whole grain bread so bad in my life.

One day before the colonoscopy, I went on a clear liquid diet. At that point, I craved any food that was solid and opaque. Also, the clear liquid diet specifications were poorly worded. You can have water, which is clear, and tea, which is not clear; you can have broth, which is not clear, but you can’t have vodka, which is clear.

“I could drive a truck through these loopholes,” I told Christina. “These doctors ought to run their instructions by legal.”

“Eat vodka-infused red velvet cake, if you want,” Christina said, “it’s your ass.”

The colonoscopy aka ‘butt stuff’

The morning of my colonoscopy, Christina drove my to the Kaiser Permanente medical center in Woodland Hills. An indifferent receptionist gave me some paperwork to fill out, then a nurse named Matthew got me ready for the procedure.

“This is your first rodeo,” Matthew said.

“Actually, it’s my colonoscopy. I’m a veteran rodeo clown.”

Matthew thought that was funny, so I asked if he knew any doctors who had a sense of humor. He said most gastroenterologists are funny, probably because you need a sense of humor to endure a decade of schooling just to get a job that’s wall-to-wall assholes.

As Matthew took my vitals and started my intravenous line, we discussed our mutual interests: travel, yoga, and talking to strangers. My gastroenterologist, Doctor Patel, came over to introduce himself and ask a few questions, but he didn’t make any jokes, and neither did I.

After about thirty minutes, it was my turn for butt stuff. A nurse named Britney wheeled me into the procedure room.

“You’re gonna go to sleep and when you wake up, it’ll be done,” Britney said.

“Awesome,” I said. “Do you guys do root canals too? What about tax prep? There are a thousand things I’d like to sleep through.”

Britney said I was funny, but she didn’t laugh, so maybe she was just humoring me. Or, maybe Britney was messing with me, because before she left the room, she turned on some music: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Now, on the hand, Hotel California was the perfect choice for an experience that involves uncomfortable butt stuff, heavy narcotics, and the indifferent machine that is American healthcare. But on the other hand, I’m a Lebowski, and I hate the fucking Eagles.2

Laying there in a dark room, waiting for butt stuff, I did not have a peaceful easy feeling. But then I met the anesthesiologist. I don’t remember his name, so I’ll just call him Doctor Feelgood.

“I’m going to give you Propofol,” Doctor Feelgood said.

I rolled over onto my side. Doctor Feelgood took my hand and injected the Propofol.

“You’re going to feel a little warm,” Doctor Feelgood said.

“I don’t feel anything,” I said.

“Even better,” Doctor Feelgood said.

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
“Relax,” said the night man
“We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave”

Recovery was a little hazy

I woke up with a different song in my head. It was Fat Bottomed Girls, which seemed vaguely appropriate, in a cheeky sort of way.

“All done,” Britney said. “How are you feeling?”

“I was listening to Fat Bottomed Girls by Meatloaf,” I said.

Meatloaf didn’t sing Fat Bottomed Girls. It’s a Queen song. But Britney didn’t correct me. Instead, she did the yes/and thing that works so well with improv comedy and people who are high on Propofol.

“Trader Joe’s makes the best meatloaf,” Britney said. “But you gotta add Rao’s sauce. It’s the best.”

“I only buy Rao’s.”

That was a lie. I never buy Rao’s because I don’t want to bother with a credit check and loan application for some tomato sauce. But I was high on Propofol, and in that moment, my stated preference for Rao’s felt as true as my false belief that Meatloaf sang Fat Bottomed Girls.

“Everything went great,” Doctor Patel said. “Any questions?”

“Yeah, were you guys listening to Meatloaf in there?”

Doctor Patel looked confused, but he zeroed in on the word meatloaf.

“I’d hold off on meatloaf until tomorrow,” he said. “And make it turkey meatloaf. Red meat increases your risk for cancer.”

Conclusion: Butt stuff ain’t easy, but it’s necessary

After I sobered up, I told a few friends about my colonoscopy. Two friends who are a few years younger than me said they were dreading their colonoscopies. Two friends who are a few years older than me said they kept putting off their colonoscopies.

I understand the dread, and I understand the procrastination. Nobody wants a colonoscopy. But here’s the thing: the prep, by which I mean chugging laxative juice, really is the worst part.

The shit show is manageable.

The butt stuff was unmemorable.

The drugs ruled.

And the rock & roll started out kinda rough, but it ended on a high note.

Colonoscopy: 10 out of 10, would recommend!

Share this with everyone who has a butt🍑👇

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Shout out time!

Massive one-gallon shout outs to the newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal! Thank you, Amy Joy, Jessica, and Marshall Chan!

My writing super power is turning Lyft rides, awkward yoga classes, conversations about hot sauce, visits to porn conventions, Raiders games, working as a PA at Richard Nixon’s funeral, McDonald’s breakfast, and cheese boards into the stories you love. Paid subscriptions help me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse you. Will you support Situation Normal?

Please take a moment to upgrade your Situation Normal subscription👇

Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers.

Are you experiencing dread / procrastination about your colonoscopy? Share your fears. This is a safe space.

I definitely heard Hotel California by the Eagles because I was sober at that point, but was Fat Bottomed Girls real or a hallucination? Also, explain the Meatloaf / Queen mix up. Get creative!

What’s your perfect colonoscopy soundtrack?

I’ve never had Rao’s tomato sauce. Is it worth paying three times as much for a jar of tomato sauce? If you say yes, prepare to defend your bougie palate. If you say no, prepare for bad reviews of your pasta.

Propofol really is a helluva drug. You don’t remember the bad stuff, but when you wake up you feel love and good vibes for everyone around you. Wouldn’t a dose of Propofol improve the tax season experience? Write your Senators!

Leave a comment

Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

*If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏

1

See WebMD reporting on a study from the Cleveland Clinic https://www.webmd.com/colorectal-canc...

2

The Lyft driver's guide to divorce

Apropos of whatever thoughts are going through his head as we drive the streets of North Hollywood, the Lyft driver points to a restaurant called Lotus Vegan Thai.

“You ever eat there?” the Lyft driver asks.

I’ve eaten a lot of Thai food in my day, but I can’t recall if I’ve ever eaten at Lotus Vegan Thai.

“No, I don’t think I've eaten there. Is it any good?”

“It’s the best,” the Lyft driver says. “And I'm not even a vegetarian, let alone vegan, but I love it.”

When it comes to recommending vegan food, there is no higher recommendation than that of a carnivore who tolerates the restrictions of a vegan diet as the ticket price for a trip to flavor country.

Read more

I'm not lovin' it

On a lonely stretch of the Pearblossom highway, just outside of Little Rock, California, there is a McDonald’s where reason and accountability have been deep fried in the oil of incompetence and dusted with the salty flavor of discontent.

The first sign of trouble is the order tracking screen. The McDonald’s is crowded with hungry motorists, who stopped at this McMirage in the Mojave to use the bathroom, get some food, and get back on the road. In theory, the tracking screen is a piece of McTechnology that should help this operation run smoothly. But in practice, it’s a real-time chronicle of McFailure. There are about twenty orders listed as “in progress” on the tracker. But progress is a lie. New orders are added to the display at regular intervals, but old orders are never taken off the board.

Watching the orders pile up makes the crowd antsy, and when some people get antsy, they get angry. Case in point: a man in a Yankees cap looks like he’s contemplating multiple felonies.

“Are you the manager?” Yankees Cap demands.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been waiting thirty minutes for a damn Big Mac,” Yankees Cap says. ““What the fuck is taking so long?”

The manager doesn’t respond, perhaps because he thought Yankees Cap was asking a rhetorical question. So Yankees Cap makes it clear that he expects an answer.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. What the fuck is taking so long?”

“My cook called out sick!” the manager says.

That seems like a reasonable explanation to me, but to Yankees Cap it sounds like an excuse. He trots out that old wisdom about how excuses are like assholes. But the manager doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs and walks back to the kitchen. Yankees Cap searches for allies among the hangry patrons.

“Do you believe this shit?” Yankees Cap asks.

Nobody believes this shit, but none of us seem willing to storm the McBastille, not yet anyway. Yankees Cap curses, a few patrons grumble, and here and there bellies rumble.

Time drags on. More orders appear on the tracking board, but no food comes out of the kitchen. Then, all of a sudden, we hear a howl from the condiment station.

“You’re out of ketchup!” a man screams at the top of his lungs. “Give me ketchup!”

There’s no telling what someone will do when they’re desperate for condiments, so the other patrons, even Yankees Cap, give Ketchup Man space. But at this McDonald’s, nobody can hear you scream—nobody who works there anyway.

Hell-bent on securing the appropriate condiment for his fries, Ketchup Man charges toward the counter. To the rest of us, the counter is a barrier, a visible line in the sands of commerce. But to Ketchup Man, the counter is a hurdle. He presses his hands onto the counter top, swings his legs around, and vaults the counter.

“Ketchup!” he howls.

With a shrug, the cashier abandons his post.

“It’s under the counter,” another patron shouts. “There!”

Ketchup Man searches under the counter. He liberates a container of McNugget dipping sauces, throwing packets of BBQ and sweet & sour across the counter. Then he finds the ketchup packets, which he pockets.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Yankees Cap says.

Next to Yankees Cap, a woman with long pink fingernails yells about her order.

“I’ve been here fifteen minutes,” Pink Fingernails shouts.

“Fifteen minutes is nothing,” Yankees Cap says. “I’ve been here forever.”

“It’s supposed to be fast food,” Pink Fingernails grumbles.

“Why don’t you idiots get your shit together?” Yankees Cap barks.

The cashier who abandoned his post returns from the kitchen with a bag of food. The order tracker tells us that one lucky number is finally ready. A woman wearing a sun dress and combat boots rushes to the counter. Winner, winner, chicken dinner! Except, Sun Dress Combat Boots didn’t order chicken; she ordered a quarter-pounder with cheese.

“This order is all wrong,” says Sun Dress Combat Boots. “I didn’t order McNuggets.”

“I did!”

The voice belongs to a man in a Raiders jersey. Like all pirates, Raiders Jersey is bold. Without showing his receipt, Raiders Jersey grabs the bag of McNuggets from Sun Dress Combat Boots, then helps himself to the sweet & sour sauce packets that Ketchup Man left on the counter.

“Where’s my quarter-pounder?” Sun Dress Combat Boots asks.

“Hang on,” the cashier says, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Ketchup Man is on to his next act, but this time he’s accompanied by a friend who wears a Spider-Man t-shirt. In slow-motion, Ketchup Man and Spider-Man choreograph a fight scene from a movie. They trade wild haymakers and vicious uppercuts in the cramped space. With each punch, Ketchup Man and Spider-Man invade the personal space of the other customers. But the fight between Ketchup Man and Spider-Man is child’s play, or maybe cosplay. The real fight is between the manager and Yankees Cap.

“It’s not that hard,” Yankees Cap says. “You cook the food, you serve the food. End of fucking story.”

“This is the worst McDonald’s in the world,” Pink Fingernails says.

Yankees Cap is grateful for the support, but no matter how much Yankees Cap and Pink Fingernails complain, it doesn’t change the manager’s story.

“We’re short on people!” the manager says.

“Hire more people, dumbass!” Yankees Cap says.

Hiring more people is one option, although in the middle of the Mojave, where there are more tumbleweeds and meth labs than people, staffing is a tall order. Another option—and I’m no business expert—is for the manager to pitch in, rather than arguing with customers.

But the yelling between the manager and his customers continues. The crowd grows. Here and there, a few orders trickle out, but they’re all wrong.

“This is hell,” says the woman standing next to me.

I agree with her. This McDonald’s is hell. I just never imagined that hell would smell like French fries.

Thanks for reading this sad account from the world’s worst McDonald’s. Please share this story so that the world knows never to stop at the McDonald’s in Little Rock, California👇

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Yelp weighs in

We stopped at this McDonald’s on the way back from visiting my mother in Las Vegas. If you take I-15, you hit the usual rest stops, but you also hit a lot of traffic. If you take the Pearblossom highway, you’ll probably make better time, but your food options are limited. Very limited. When we got home, I went to Yelp to see if my McDonald’s experience was unique. Sadly, it wasn’t.

But to be fair, it wasn’t all negative reviews.

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Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers.

A bunch of stuff clearly went wrong at this McDonald’s—poor management, staffing issues, entitled customers, meth (?), mental health issues (?), Yankees fans, late-stage capitalism. What’s your theory of the case? Go nuts!

Have you ever worked at a fast food restaurant? Tell your story!

What’s your worst fast food experience? Share your pain.

What’s your McDonald’s order? I’m a McNugget man myself, extra BBQ sauce.

McNuggets come in two non-poultry shapes: oval and Christmas stocking. What’s the deal with that?

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Did I just meet the Persian Chuck Norris?

Friends often ask, “is this going to be in Situation Normal?” By “this” they mean whatever we happen to be doing. That’s how slice of life humor works. One minute, you’re living your life, the next minute you’re slicing off a piece and turning it into a funny story.

The other day, Christina and I met our friends, Avi and Marjan, for lunch at a Persian restaurant. At some point, Avi asked me if “this” was going in Situation Normal? Probably not, I told him. It’s always fun to see friends, but something has to happen for “this” to make it into Situation Normal, and as far as I could tell, the this in question was just lunch. Which was lovely!

But then something happened.

Marjan spotted a friend from high school. The man came over to our table, said hello to Avi and Marjan, then introduced himself as Pj to Christina and me. In one hand, Pj held a cup of hot tea, but his other hand was bandaged.

“What happened?” Avi asked.

“Crazy story. Do you have five minutes?”

Did we have five minutes for a “crazy” story? Um, let me think about it…

Pj’s “crazy” story

Late one night, Pj stopped at a gas station in Calabasas. If you’ve been keeping up with the Kardashians, you know that Calabasas is a really nice city in Los Angeles County. If you haven’t been keeping up with the Kardashians, I can assure you, as a lifelong Angeleno, that Calabasas is a really nice city wedged between Woodland Hills and Malibu, which are also really nice. And when I say really nice, that’s code for high property values and low crime rates.

“I don’t smoke, but sometimes I smoke, so I went inside to buy a pack of cigarettes,” Pj said.

Pj’s smoking confession seemed odd. Was he in denial about? Was he actually a two-pack-a-day-smoker who was so ashamed about his habit that he felt the need to shade the truth when telling a story to friends and strangers? Or, was this Pj’s way of telling us that he’s one of those unreliable narrators, like Amy from Gone Girl, or Verbal Kint from The Usual Suspects, or The Narrator from Fight Club? I couldn’t be sure, but I made a mental note to stay skeptical.

“Soon as I walk in the convenience store, I see trouble,” Pj explained. “There’s a homeless guy inside. I just know this is going to be a problem.”

Pj might’ve turned around, gone back to his car, and left trouble behind. That’s what I do when I sense trouble, but maybe that’s why my stories are comedies, not thrillers. But Pj didn’t turn around. Maybe he really wanted the cigarettes. Or, maybe Pj was looking for trouble.

“As soon as I buy the cigarettes, the homeless guy starts yelling. He wants money. He wants cigarettes. He wants a light. He’s aggressive.”

I wasn’t sure what Pj meant by aggressive. Did the homeless man mean to harm Pj for the cigarettes? I couldn’t tell. But that’s the thing about unreliable narrators—they lean into ambiguity.

“The guy is yelling really loud,” Pj continued. “He’s not making sense. He’s high, or crazy. And mad. He’s a few feet away from me, like from here to that table.”

With his bandaged hand, Pj pointed to a table about ten feet away.

“He starts moving toward me, so I yell, ‘stay back!’ But he keeps coming. I yell again. I’m thinking, this guy is going to attack me. I haven’t been in a fight since high school. I tell the cashier to call the cops. Then I tell the guy to stop.”

“What happened?” Avi asked.

“He fucking charged at me. Excuse my French.”

I didn’t mind Pj’s French because I’m also bilingual motherfucker.

“What did you do?” Avi asked.

“I cocked my hand back, like to hit him. I didn’t want to hit him, but he kept coming, so I threw a punch.”

“And that’s how you hurt your hand?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t realize it at the time. Adrenaline. Fight mode.”

“What happened to the guy?” Avi asked.

“I knocked him out cold. His teeth went flying everywhere. One punch.”

Pj’s claim seemed hyperbolic. One punch to knock a man out cold and knock out his teeth out too?! No way. But then again, Pj’s hand looked messed up. Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating.

“It’s all on the security camera,” Pj said. “I’ve got the footage on my phone. I can show you.”

Video tape evidence would put my skepticism to rest. But Pj didn’t take out his phone to show us the footage. Instead, he kept telling his wild story. Classic unreliable narrator move.

“The guy is on the floor, bleeding, no teeth. The cashier is screaming. But I don’t have time to think. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another homeless guy enter the store.”

“What?!”

“The second guy has a knife. A switchblade.”

“Oh my god,” Marjan said.

“He’s waving the knife wildly,” Pj continued. “But he’s really messed up on drugs or something, more messed up than his friend. He’s coming at me, and all I can see is this knife.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I waited for him to come close. He took a wild swing with the knife. He missed me. That’s when I kicked him in the leg.”

“Like in the shin?” Avi asked.

“No, no. I aimed for the area by the knee. That’s a weak spot. I broke his leg. The bone was sticking out.”

One kick, one compound fracture!? I didn’t buy it. Pj’s story sounded like some Chuck Norris shit to me.

“It’s all on video,” Pj said. “I can show you.”

There was that promise of video evidence again. But just like the last time, Pj didn’t put up, and he didn’t shut up either.

“Then I hear sirens,” Pj said. “I walk outside. There’s a dozen cops. Guns drawn. The two guys who attacked me are Black. I’m brown. Who knows what the cops are thinking? I put my hands up.”

Pj raised his hands, the good one and the injured one, over his head to demonstrate.

“The cashier told them what happened.”

“And there was the security footage,” I prodded.

“Yeah, it’s all on video.”

I wanted to see the video, but everyone else wanted to know what happened with the guys who attacked Pj.

“I get a call from the DA. She says, ‘you gotta come downtown for a hearing.’ I told her, ‘I don’t think so.’ But then she says, ‘that’s me being polite.’ Then she says she’ll subpoena me. Whatever. So I go downtown. The guy with the broken leg is in a cast. The other guy is in one of those masks, like Hannibal Lecter, because he was spitting on people and trying to bite them.”

“Oh my god,” Marjan said.

“I told the judge what happened. The cashier was there too. She told the judge what happened. The guys took plea deals. Two years for the first guy. He’ll be out in a month. The other guy got eight years because of the weapon.”

“Did they play the tape for the court?” I asked, hoping to bring the video evidence back into the conversation.

“Yeah, they played the tape,” Pj said, simultaneously answering my question while dodging the opportunity to play the promised video footage. “Here’s what’s really messed up. The cashier had to miss work. She lost a day’s wages! Her son had to drive her. He missed work too. The DA didn’t give a shit. But I felt bad. I gave the cashier what I had in my wallet. Like a hundred bucks.”

“That was nice of you,” Marjan said.

“Unbelievable,” Christina said.

Speaking of unbelievable, I wanted Pj to show us that video. So I said, “I’d love to see the video.” But instead of showing us the video, Pj told Avi and Marjan not to tell his mom, on the off chance that they might run into her.

“I told her I tripped and fell down some stairs,” Pj said, extending his arms out away from his chest, as if breaking a fall that never actually happened. Another lie, another classic unreliable narrator move!

“You gotta learn to defend yourself because it’s crazy out there,” Pj continued. “I’m getting a concealed carry permit. You have a gun?”

“No,” Avi said.

“Get a gun. And get Marjan a taser. I don’t know you two very well, but I advise the same. Gun for you, taser for your wife.”

I wasn’t sure why guns were for guys and tasers were for women. It seemed sexist. But Pj left before I could ask about his gendered weapons choices, or cross-examine his “crazy” story.

The way I saw it, either Pj was telling whoppers about what happened at a Calabasas gas station, or I had just met the Persian Chuck Norris. What was the truth here? I honestly can’t answer that question. But I do have an answer to Avi’s question: the Persian Chuck Norris who may, or may not, be a smoker, who lies to his mom and asks his friends to do the same, and who allegedly kicks ass like it’s going out of style, is going to be in Situation Normal!

As a public service announcement, Pj asked me to share this story. Please honor Pj’s wishes, or he might start throwing punches again👇

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Shout out time!

A big kickass shout out to Michael Rubin, Situation Normal’s newest paid subscriber! Thank you, Michael!

Will you support Situation Normal? My writing super power is turning Lyft rides, awkward yoga classes, conversations about hot sauce, visits to porn conventions, Raiders games, working as a PA at Richard Nixon’s funeral, McDonald’s breakfast, and cheese boards into the stories you love. Paid subscriptions help me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse you. You support means a lot!

Please take a moment to upgrade your Situation Normal subscription👇

Stick around and chat!

I believe Pj was the victim of an attempted mugging, but I have my doubts about his ass-kicking prowess. Do you believe Pj’s “crazy” story? Is he the Persian Chuck Norris? Explain.

Isn’t unreliable narrator just a fancy writer term that means liar?

What’s the best Chuck Norris movie? Hint: all of them! But also, Delta Force because that movie co-stars Lee Marvin.

Are you trained in self-defense? Do you own a taser, or a gun? What’s your plan to survive the crazy denizens who inhabit the doomed hellscape of our wildest imaginations? Details, please!

Why is cursing considered French, when every language on Earth has curse words? Tell me I’m fucking wrong about that!

Leave a comment

Want more stories? I’ve got two books for you!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏

I'm the Han Solo of Burbank airport runs

We’re wheels up at six in the morning, bound for Burbank airport.

We take the 118 east to the 5 south, bear left where the 170 splits off from the 5. Keep on cruising, then get off at Hollywood Way.

Smooth sailing until the offramp, where the shit hits the fan.

“Oh shit,” Christina says. “I forgot my ID.”

Despite the early hour, I have the good sense not to point out that we’re two minutes from the airport, thirty minutes from home, and fifty minutes from takeoff. Instead of making a right, I hang a left. We swing around under the freeway overpass, then boogie back onto the 5 north.

Christina says traffic is backing up in the other direction.

“I don’t think we’ll make it.”

“We’ll make it,” I say.

Christina doesn’t believe me. She checks her phone.

“Shit, the next flight is sold out. There isn’t anything until tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll make it,” I say.

My tone is confident, bordering on cocky. I sound like Han Solo bragging on his famous Kessel Run. That kind of intergalactic confidence should be reassuring, but we’re not up against a fictional fascist Empire, or even a real fascist empire. We’re up against the ultimate motherfucker life can throw at you: Los Angeles traffic.

“I can’t believe what a dodo I am,” Christina says.

My wife isn’t a dodo, far from it. Does she forget things? Sure. All the time, actually. She’s human. And like all humans, Christina sometimes beats herself up when she makes a mistake. But I’m human too, and when one human loves another human who is beating themselves up because they fucked up, the human who loves that human will try to unfuck the situation. That’s human nature.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss this meeting,” Christina says.

What goes unsaid is that the meeting in Los Gatos is one of those two-day meetings with a half-dozen people coming in from Singapore and Amsterdam. It took months to get this meeting on the books. I don’t think the world will end, or the company will go bankrupt if the meeting doesn’t happen, but I know that the last thing Christina wants to do is explain to her colleagues who flew in from Amsterdam and Singapore that she fucked up the hop from Southern California to Northern California.

“What kind of an idiot forgets their ID?” Christina asks.

I let that question go unanswered. I need to focus. I need to haul ass. It would be easier if I could fly, like Han Solo, but he had the Millennium Falcon, and all I have is a Prius we named after a Star Wars deep cut: Shuttle Tydirium.

“I have an idea,” I say. “Something that will help us make up some time.”

“What?”

“Give Me Some Lovin’,” I say.

“Are you out of your mind? I’m already super-late!”

“No, no. Not that. Play Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group.”

Christina isn’t exactly picking up what I’m putting down. But she opens up the Spotify app on her phone, connects to Shuttle Tydirium’s stereo via Bluetooth, and plays the ultimate driving montage soundtrack: Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group.

There’s traffic on the 5 north, but with Han Solo’s confidence in my head and The Spencer Davis Group in my ears, a little traffic is no match for Shuttle Tydirium’s maneuvers.

The 118 West is wide open, but that figures, because traffic goes in the other direction at this hour. Time to make up some time, as they say. I put the pedal to metal and cross my fingers that there aren’t Storm Trooper California Highway Patrol speed traps waiting for me.

We exit at Porter Ranch Drive, take Rinaldi to Mason. It’s an easy shot, but the lights are against us. Thankfully, we’ve got Give Me Some Lovin’ on repeat.

“I’m a hot mess this morning,” Christina says.

She’s half right.

We reach our house. Christina jumps out to grab her ID. I check the clock. Time is against us, but Han Solo and The Spencer Davis Group don’t know the meaning of the word quit, and neither do I.

“Airport run, take two,” I say as we pull out of the driveway. Then I shout “yeehaw” because that’s what cocky motherfuckers do when they’re in a tough spot.

The HOV lane on the 118 east looks like a godsend. But does it connect to the 5 south, or do we need to exit the HOV lane to make the transition? I ask our droid, R2D2, about the HOV lane transition, but then I remember that we got the basic Prius, which doesn’t come with a droid.

I decide play it safe. No HOV lane for us. We lose a few minutes, but as we approach the 5, I see that I made the right call.

Unfortunately, there’s trouble ahead. The southbound transition from the 118 to the 5 is a sluggish three-lane merge. Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group is no help here. Actually, the driving montage music taunts me as we inch along, surrounded by a galaxy of morons who can’t seem to figure out the art of merging.

“If only I had my blaster,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Silently, I curse the morons in front of me. But eventually, the merge onto the 5 is complete. I hit the left turn signal and ride the blinker across five lanes of stop-and-go traffic to enter the 5’s HOV lane.

This HOV lane is the HOV lane I’m looking for because I know I can exit in time for the airport. Still, the HOV lane on the 118 was fast and roomy. The HOV lane on the 5 is tight, like a trench leading to the Death Star’s exhaust port. It’s also slow. Really slow.

“Why are the other cars moving faster than us?” Christina asks.

That’s the eternal question all Los Angeles motorists ask themselves. Usually, it just feels like the other lanes are moving faster. But as a line of trucks, followed by a school bus, pass us on the right, I can’t help but take it personally.

“Han Solo didn’t have to put up with this BS on the Kessel Run,” I say.

I check the clock. Seven minutes to seven. If Christina is curbside by 7 a.m., she’ll have a chance, thanks to the charms of a regional airport and the imperial efficiency of TSA prescreen. But at the speed we’re traveling, the possibility of a 7 a.m. drop off seems remote.

“We’re not going to make it,” Christina says.

Traffic opens up as we pass the turnoff to the 170. I take the first exit out of the HOV lane, and let The Spencer Davis Group work their driving montage music magic.

When I see the sign for the Hollywood Way exit and Burbank airport, I know we’re almost there. That’s the good news. But the bad news is that the exit is backed up. It’s three minutes to 7 a.m.

“Shit!” Christina says.

The traffic jam at the exit is a function of the street lights on Hollywood Way. Actually, the traffic is a function of a car culture run amok, but that’s a different story. Whatever the cause, I know that these traffic jams can take anywhere from two minutes to a lifetime to resolve.

We’ve got two minutes.

But we’ve also The Spencer Davis Group.

And a pretty convincing Han Solo impression.

And maybe we have something else going for us too. Because the traffic jam on the freeway offramp resolves itself in about sixty seconds.

Was it a miracle? The Force?

“I’ve driven from one side of Los Angeles County to the other, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe there’s one all-powerful force controlling everything. There’s no mystical energy field that controls my destiny!”

“Who are you talking to, babe, and why are you quoting Han Solo?” Christina asks.

I bang a right on Hollywood Way. The airport is in sight.

Inside the airport, the road is two lanes. The right lane isn’t moving. I take the left lane.

A few yards ahead, I see the problem with the right lane. There’s a Pepsi truck unloading curbside. The truck is bad news for everyone stuck in the right lane, but it’s good news for a Han Solo wannabe rocking out to The Spencer Davis Group.

I use the Pepsi truck like a blocker. As soon as I pass the Pepsi truck, I cut right, and come to a screeching halt at the curb, right in front of the Southwest gate. I check the clock: 7 a.m.

“Bag and purse,” I say. “ID.”

“Check, check, check,” Christina says. “I love you.”

Christina shuts the door, runs to the gate. I put Shuttle Tydirium in drive.

It takes me another minute to complete the loop around Burbank airport. At the exit, I turn right and head for a neighboring strip mall with a Starbucks.

I ease Shuttle Tydirium into a parking spot, get out, and lock the car. Inside the Starbucks, I order a latte.

Before my order is ready, I get a text from Christina.

“Made it! On the plane!”

The time is 7:07 a.m.

I am the Han Solo of Burbank airport runs. Or, maybe I’m just a loving husband with an overactive imagination. Because sometimes life imitates art, and sometimes that art is a mashup of Star Wars and the “The Californians” sketch from Saturday Night Live, featuring a soundtrack from The Spencer Davis Group.

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Shout out time!

Big shout outs to the newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal! David Roberts, thank you so much for becoming an annual subscriber! And a huge thank you to marcymaudene who discovered Situation Normal and immediately—I’m talking zero hesitation—signed up for a monthly pass!

Will you support Situation Normal? My writing super power is turning Lyft rides, awkward yoga classes, conversations about hot sauce, visits to porn conventions, Raiders games, books about Richard Nixon, McDonald’s breakfast, and cheese boards into the stories you love. Paid subscriptions help me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse you.

Please take a moment to upgrade your Situation Normal subscription👇

Writer’s note

I wrote this story in 2018. Back then, Christina had a job that required her to travel to Los Gatos a few times a month, so I spent a lot of time thinking about airport runs. I was reminded of this piece a few weeks ago when Christina tried to fly to Cleveland to visit a friend. I dropped Christina off at Burbank airport in the morning. She made it to Chicago, but her connecting flight was canceled. The airline offered to rebook Christina on another flight the following day, but since her trip was only two days, that felt pointless. So Christina flew back to Los Angeles the same day. I picked her up at LAX around midnight. “I spent the day flying to Chicago and back,” Christina said, “and all I got was a shitty taco.”

Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.

Does your life ever imitate art? Tell us everything.

Do have an airport run story? Dish!

What’s your ideal driving montage song? Bonus points if it’s The Distance by Cake.

Were there too many Star Wars references in this piece, or is the Force wrong with you?

Why is merging always such a clusterfuck? No wrong answer here.

According to Christina, the airport tacos in Chicago suck. Is the Chicago taco scene hopeless? What should Christina have ordered?

Leave a comment

Want more stories? I’ve got two books for you!

Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣

Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏