Michael Estrin's Blog, page 14
July 23, 2023
Our Racist Neighbor Has a Tech Question
Late one afternoon, our neighbor across the street, Racist Jim, knocked on our door. I had better things to do than talk to our racist neighbor, so I told our dog, Mortimer, to tell Jim that I wasn’t home. Mortimer barked out my message, but I guess Jim understands dog whistles better than dogs because he kept knocking. Against my better judgement, I answered the door.
“Hey Jim.”
“What’s the best end-to-end encrypted email provider?” Jim asked.
That was Jim’s opener. No hello. No casual racism. No formal racism either. Just a really specific question about email security.
“ProtonMail,” I blurted out.
I regretted my answer immediately. I know very little about end-to-end encrypted email. Actually, I don’t know know shit. But I do know Jim. In the five years we’ve lived across the street from Jim, he’s shown us exactly who he is in the Maya Angelou sense of the phrase. Here’s a selection of Racist Jim’s greatest hits:
Jim accused one neighbor of running an “underground railroad for illegals.” They were running an Airbnb.
When the Airbnb neighbors moved away, Jim bragged that he had “gotten rid of them” by spray-painting “Trump 2020” on a dumpster in front of their house. The arrival of the dumpster, however, was preceded by a real estate listing sign, so Jim’s theory of causation, just like his worldview, is problematic.
Jim accused our pool guy of stealing lemons from the tree in his front yard, but when I asked for evidence, Jim said, “that’s what Mexicans do.” Our pool guy is from El Salvador, and he owns his own lemon tree.
Knowing Jim, I worried that I had unwittingly helped him secure his racist communications. But then I remembered that Jim isn’t exactly secretive about his racism. He shares it with the Jewish dude across the street, so it’s safe to assume Jim shares his racism with friends, family, and fellow travelers online. I feared that if Jim wanted to upgrade his email security, it was because he had plans to graduate from misdemeanors like vandalizing our neighbor’s dumpster to something worse. That thought made me queasy. I needed to walk back the ProtonMail suggestion. But how?
“That’s just a guess,” I said. “I have no idea about tech stuff.”
“Huh?” Jim said. “I thought you were a tech guy.”
“Nope.”
“I thought you worked for PC Magazine.”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure you don’t work for PC Magazine?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Why did I think that?”
“No idea.”
“Hmmm… Well, what do you do?” Jim asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“That’s an easy job,” Jim said. “Everyone knows how to write.”
Jim quizzed me on the fundamentals of writing. Did I know the difference between there and their? What about your and you’re? Did I ever mix up lose with loose, and did I loose [sic] my gig at PC Magazine?
“You really don’t write for PC Magazine?” Jim asked again.
“Nope. I don’t know shit about PCs. I’ve been writing on a Mac for fifteen years. But I don’t know shit about Macs either. I’m the wrong guy to ask about tech.”
“PCs are easy. I use Linux.”
“OK.”
“What do you use for email?” Jim asked.
“Gmail.”
“I use Hotmail.”
I didn’t know that anyone was still using Hotmail, but maybe that’s why the editors at PC Magazine haven’t tapped me to write for them.
“But ProtonMail is secure, you say?” Jim asked.
I wasn’t sure why Jim still thought I had any expertise here since we had already established my total lack of technology bona fides. But I was grateful for the opportunity to send Jim in the wrong direction. After all, whenever I see footage of the insurrection, I always look for Jim. The last thing I wanted to do was help Jim evade whatever justice he had coming.
“Honestly, Hotmail rocks,” I said. “It’s gotten you this far.”
“Are you sure?”
I wasn’t sure. Of course, I wasn’t sure. But I doubled-down.
“I’m thinking about switching from Gmail to Hotmail.”
“Really? Why?”
“Security,” I said. “You can’t be too careful these days. Google used to be a cool company. Don’t be evil and all that. But Google dropped that from their mission statement.”
“Now, they’re evil, huh?”
“Oh yes. Very evil. It’s Silicon Valley. If they’re not censoring the truth, they’re spreading that woke mind virus.”
Jim smiled. I had found the key to his hard heart.
“You can’t trust Silicon Valley,” I said.
“But isn’t Hotmail a Microsoft product?” Jim asked.
Damn it. That was a good point. I had to think fast.
“Did you know Hunter Biden’s laptop was a Mac? The FBI found a copy of Trump’s tax returns in Hunter Biden’s Gmail account next to a brick of cocaine and an unlicensed gun that once belonged to Che Guevara.”
Jim laughed. He knew I was bullshitting him, but it was his brand of bullshit, so it went down nice and easy.
“The truth is out there,” I continued. “But it’s not on Google, it’s on Bing.”
“Bing?”
“It’s a Microsoft product, just like Hotmail.”
“Hotmail… yeah, I’m probably gonna stick with what I know. Thanks.”
I smiled. Was I leading Jim astray? Yes, of course I was. That’s what made me smile. Not that I wanted to read Jim’s unencrypted racist emails. No thanks! But I assumed that whatever illegal shit Jim is up to, his racism had probably blinded him to the genius of The Wire, and therefore deprived him of the wisdom of the Stringer Bell rule:
Don’t take notes on a criminal fucking conspiracy
Share to support!If you enjoyed this story, please consider sharing it with your friends and family. But don’t share it with Racist Jim; I’d rather not talk to him again.
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Shout out time!Big shout out to the newest paid subscriber at Situation Normal! Thank you so much for upgrading to an annual subscription, Vicki M!
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👇
Stick around and chat!You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
Do you encounter racists in your everyday life? What’s your strategy for dealing with racists you can’t really avoid? Share your tips!
How’s your neighbor situation? Dish!
Hotmail is still a thing??? Discuss.
Why did I loose [sic] my job at PC Magazine? Get creative!
Have you ever used Bing? Explain yourself.
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💋🍑🍆🕵️♂️
July 16, 2023
My Lyft driver's movie idea is out of this world
Photo by De'Andre Bush on UnsplashThe Lyft driver assumes that because he picked me up in front of Netflix, I must work for Netflix.
“You know what you guys need?” he asks. “You need a show about people driving around LA, just having conversations about whatever and stuff. It’s a comedy. People always say funny shit. You just have to edit out the boring parts.”
It’s a meta concept, which is good, because I’m a fan of meta concepts. Problem is, I don’t work at Netflix, and I don’t work in development either. I could tell the Lyft driver that he’s pitching the wrong guy, but in situations like this, I live by a code. The Improv code. Instead of saying no, which is a scene-stopper, improvisors say, “yes, and…” You don’t literally have to say “yes,” and you don’t literally have to say “and,” but you do have to keep the conversation going somehow. That’s the Improv code.
“We have that show,” I say, making liberal, and possibly illegal, use of the Royal We. “It’s called Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.”
“Fuck,” the Lyft driver says. “Seinfeld has already done everything.”
“Technically, he’s done nothing, a movie about bees, and the coffee-car-comedy thing,” I say. “What else have you got?”
“OK, you know those movies about how aliens come to Earth and humanity has to come together to save the planet?” the Lyft driver asks.
“Yes, of course. Those movies are always popular. You know why? Because action movies need a bad guy, but that makes sales in foreign territories very challenging because nobody wants to be the bad guy. The Germans are over it. The Chinese were never down for it. And despite the fact that the Russians seem to relish the bad guy role, they’re tired of being type-cast.”
“There’s always the North Koreans,” he says. “It’s not like they watch Hollywood movies.”
“That’s true. But after the fallout from The Interview, the North Koreans are basically un-hireable.”
“Now, an alien invasion picture like Independence Day is a different story,” I continue. “In those pictures, the bad guys are the aliens, so everyone on Earth can identify with the hero. We’re talking global audience. That’s the name of the game these days. This is gold. Hit me with your idea!”
“Well, my idea is that we are the aliens.”
“We’re the aliens?”
“Yeah, man, we’re the aliens,” he says. “We’re doing all kinds of human stuff, but it’s really alien stuff, but the audience doesn’t know that yet.”
“Right. We’re talking act one set-up stuff. Got it.”
“Exactly, act one. But then one day, aliens show up. We think they’re aliens.”
“But they’re not aliens?” I ask.
“Right! They’re actually the real humans. We’re the aliens, man. They’re here to kick us off their planet. Plot twist!”
“Interesting,” I say. “So instead of a picture where everyone on Earth identifies with the hero, your idea is that everyone on Earth is the bad guy?”
“Well, yeah, man. I mean, we’re ruining this planet, so aren’t we the bad guys? That’s reality. That’s why the aliens, I mean real humans, want us gone.”
“But the real humans look like, um, alien-humans?”
“Yes! That way we don’t have to spend too much on special effects.”
“That’s helpful. But I’m worried that the audience won’t be able to tell the difference between the real aliens and the real humans.”
“That’s what’s so scary. Who can you trust? You could be an alien.”
“Or, you could be an alien,” I say.
“Exactamundo.”
“How did you pitch this?” I ask. “What are the comps?”
I’m hoping the Lyft driver will say something like, “it’s Groundhog Day meets The Usual Suspects,” or “Transformers meets Tootsie,” or “Full Metal Jacket meets Singing in the Rain.” I can work with those pitches. But instead of using Hollywood standard X meets Y pitch format, the Lyft driver says something that even a make-believe development exec knows will be a problem with business affairs.
“It’s based on Battlestar Galactica,” he says. “You know how the humans in Battlestar are looking for Earth?
“I think they actually find it in the last episode.”
“Yeah, well, my idea is an alternate ending. The Battlestar Galactica crew arrives to find Earth occupied. We’re the occupiers!”
“OK, so this is basically a new Battlestar Galactica in an alternate universe that looks like present day Earth. Am I getting that right?”
“Yes! Except, everyone is way hotter.”
“Everyone already on Earth is way hotter, or everyone from Battlestar Galactica is way hotter?”
“Both!”
“OK, that’s the right answer. But tell me, how does it end? Who wins?”
“Humanity wins,” he says.
“Do you mean us, or do you mean the Battlestar Galactica humans?”
“The Battlestar Galactica humans win! We’re the aliens, remember?”
“Right. Of course. We’re the aliens. And at the end of your movie, we’re all dead?”
“No, no. It’s more like, we get evicted.”
“Evicted? But then where do we go? Do they lend us some space ships, or do we have to get some rentals? Do we have a home world to go to? Is it occupied? Will we have to evict some intergalactic squatters?”
“That’s the sequel, man. I’ve got a franchise here!”
The Lyft driver shared his movie idea. Do the Lyft driver (and me) a favor by sharing this with everyone on Earth, even the aliens👽👇
Shout out time!Big shout outs to the newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal! Kim Van Bruggen, thank you for becoming an annual subscriber! Also, a really big thank you to Bob & Debbie Myman, who were very early supporters of my writing career!
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.
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Writer’s noteThis story is old. I wrote it in 2019, but never published it. When I found it in my files, I knew I had to share it. But I also knew I had to cut one section. Why? Because the Lyft driver also had a pitch for a reboot of Night Court. Spoiler alert: they did reboot Night Court! Maybe the Lyft driver should’ve gotten a job in development.
Around the time I wrote this story, I collected my best Lyft driver stories into a book called I called Ride/Share. I’m sad this one didn’t make it into the book, but there’s always the sequel, right? If you’d like more Lyft driver stories, please pick up a copy of Ride/Share👇
And if you’ve already bought a copy of Ride/Share, THANK YOU! Do me a big favor and please leave a quick review. It really helps!🙏
Stick around and chat!You know the drill. I ask, you answer.
In this story, I pretended to be a Netflix development executive. Call me a liar, if you must. But have you ever pretended to be something you’re not? Details, you can share.
What do you think of the Lyft driver’s movie pitch? Assuming we can get the rights to Battlestar Galactica, is it a green light?
Are we the aliens? Unhinged answers only.
Are you a fan of the alien invasion genre? What’s your favorite alien invasion movie, or TV show? Hint: the correct answer is Edge of Tomorrow.
Hollywood writers are currently on strike (and it looks like the actors will go out on strike too). But when Hollywood gets back to work, what movies and TV shows should it reboot first? Don’t worry about the rights; let your imagine run wild!
July 9, 2023
You can have my cake and eat it too
Photo by Caitlyn de Wild on UnsplashI order a small coffee.
“Anything else?” the barista asks.
“I’d love some cake, but I’m trying to watch my sugar intake.”
I’m just making chit-chat here, sharing my sweet desires and my not-so-sweet struggles. But words matter, even the seemingly meaningless words we share in the course of mundane transactions. One person’s inconsequential dietary confession is another person’s conversational gambit.
“Do you want a bite of my cake?”
The person asking the question is a woman in her fifties. She holds a plastic to-go container in her hand. Inside the container is a slice of blue velvet cake, which is the cinematic version of red velvet cake. The slice is huge because that’s how they roll at Aroma in Studio City.
“Um... no thanks.”
“Come on, don’t be silly” she says. “Just a little bite. There’s not much sugar in one little bite.”
“No, that’s OK.”
“It’s really good cake,” she says.
“I’m sure it is. They make the best cake here.”
“So why don’t you want any? I don’t have cooties.”
That’s exactly what someone with cooties would say. But I don’t want to tell her that because it sounds rude.
“It’s not a cooties thing,” I insist.
“Then have some…”
With the edge of her fork, she cuts off a piece of blue velvet cake. She extends her arm for me to take the fork. Or, maybe I’m supposed to let her feed me? I’m not sure. But I know this: the cake is mine for the sampling, if I want it.
“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Well, I tried,” she says. “What’s that expression? Horse to water? You can offer a man cake, but you can’t make him eat it, I guess.”
She eats the bite of cake and licks the blue velvet coloring off the white plastic fork. Then she closes the plastic container, and walks out the door without saying another word.
“Wait,” the barista says, “you two don’t know each other?”
“Total stranger,” I say.
“Wow. That was some weird shit.”
“Totally weird shit,” I agree.
The barista shakes his head.
“I’ve never seen someone do that before, and I’ve seen some really weird people in this job,” the barista says. “What do you think her deal was?”
“We’ll never know. But it’s fun to speculate.”
The barista accepts my invitation to speculation. He thinks she’s off her meds. I think she’s a shill for Big Cake.
“Maybe she’s one of those people who just walks the Earth spreading kindness,” the barista says. “You know, a do-gooder.”
That’s a lovely thought. I’d like to believe that the mystery woman was a carb-loving do-gooder. But her choice of cake says otherwise. A do-gooder would’ve offered angel food cake. A woman offering a blue velvet cake is straight out of a neo-noir. Deep down in my gut, I know the mystery woman was a sweet femme fatale—the kind of dame who lures you in with a taste of sugar, lulls you into a diabetic stupor, then pounces on her prey like a jungle cat.
“She was lying,” I say.
“About what?”
“The cooties. Weren’t you listening? Me thinks the dame doth protest too much about a fictional disease.”
“Huh?”
“She had cooties, man. Blue velvet cake is the perfect delivery vehicle for a fictional disease.”
“I dunno. Maybe she was just stoned.”
“No,” I say. “Definitely not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because stoners don’t share cake.”
Keep your cake to yourself, but please SHARE this story by pressing the Restack button on Notes, or hitting the button below👇
Shout out time!A big shout out to UptownUlysses, the newest paid subscriber at Situation Normal! Is UptownUlysses their real name? I sure hope so! But even if UptownUlysses is a nom de newsletter, it’s still a great name. Thanks for supporting Situation Normal, UptownUlysses!
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👇
Stick around and chat!I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
What was the deal with mystery woman? Was she a blue velvet femme fatale with cooties? An angel food do-gooder? Off her meds? A shill for Big Cake? A stoner? Share your theories!
Has a stranger ever offered you a bite of their food? What did you do?
Does velvet cake come in colors besides classic red and neo-noir blue?
Do you think David Lynch would be interested in making another neo-noir called Blue Velvet Cake?
What’s the best kind of cake? Hint: It’s a Swedish cake called Princess cake that consists of alternating layers of airy sponge cake, pastry cream, raspberry jam, and a thick-domed layer of whipped cream inside of a green marzipan shell. Top that!
July 2, 2023
Is this how my catalytic convertor saga ends?
I’m really excited for today’s story. It’s literally been a year in the making!
But before we get to the story, I need to say thank you to the newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal. A big shout out to Jesse E., who taught me a lot about writing and to how think critically about film when I was a high school student. Thank you, Jesse! Also, a big thank you to Hailmarysandale! I don’t know Hailmarysandale, but they made the right choice.
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, so please consider becoming a paid subscriber👇
Last July, thieves stole my catalytic convertor.1 Due to a supply chain clusterfuck, I had to wait months for a replacement. While I waited, I couldn’t operate my car legally, but my mechanic had a workaround. I became a straight pipe scofflaw.2 After four months of straight pipe scofflaw living, my new catalytic convertor arrived at the end of October. Forty-eight hours later, thieves stole my catalytic convertor again, but I didn’t write about the second theft until December.3 The second time around, the supply chain clusterfuck was even worse. Naturally, I returned to my straight pipe scofflaw ways.4 Finally, this June, I got a call from my mechanic. My replacement catalytic converter, the one ordered to replace the first replacement, had arrived! But a question remained: what was I going to do about my car?
Over the past year, I thought about that question a lot. I asked my friends what they would do. I asked my mechanic what he would do. I even put that question to the Situation Normal community. I had three possible plans.
Plan #1: Get a better parking spotThe best defense against catalytic convertor theft is to park your car in a safe space, like a garage, according to the Los Angeles Police Department. Implicit in that advice is a dispiriting acknowledgement: the LAPD can’t stop individual catalytic convertor thieves, and it hasn’t tried to take down, or even marginally disrupt, the crime syndicates that make this crime so common. But fear not, citizens of Los Angeles! Where your tax dollars have failed, your housing dollars will succeed—assuming you have a garage.
We have a garage, but it only fits one car. We already park Christina’s electric car in the garage to charge it there. In our case, finding a safer place to park would mean finding a new place to live.
Plan #2: Sell & ride!I could sell my Prius and live the Los Angeles dream of a one-car household. That seemed promising, especially to the Situation Normal community, because it would result in more Lyft driver stories.5 But after the Situation Normal finance team informed me that “Lyft ain’t cheap,” I shelved that plan.
Plan #3: Sell & buyI could sell my 2015 Prius and get a new car—one with a catalytic convertor that’s harder to steal. This plan seemed like the most practical choice, but I hated it. Here’s why: we paid off the Prius in 2020, the mileage was still low, and Toyota has a reputation for building cars that last decades. Our plan was to ride the Prius to the end of the line, and while I hadn’t put an end date on the car, it wasn’t unreasonable to shoot for the early 2030s.
Decision timeI didn’t like any of these plans. But with catalytic converter number three installed in my car, and my car temporarily parked inside a locked garage, while Christina’s car slowly lost power in the driveway, I knew I needed to take action pronto.
Maybe that’s why procrastinated. I was in no rush to choose between three shitty plans. But speaking of Rush, the philosophy collective masquerading as a metal band, I knew this: if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. Also, Christina urged me to get my ass in gear.
“Babe,” she said, “Get your ass in gear.”
“Fuck it,” I said. “I’m selling.”
That decision eliminated shitty plan number one, but technically shitty plans two and three were still viable. My plan was to live the single-car life until it got annoying, unbearable, or infeasible. At that point, I’d convert shitty plan number two into shitty plan number three, thus delaying a bad choice as long as possible. Take that, Rush!
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Selling ain’t easyThe easiest way to sell a car is to use a website called Carvana. According to company legend, the founder of Carvana named his company as an homage to his former band, Nirvana. The same legend explains that the founder of Carvana is Dave Grohl. But that’s the legend. The truth is this: the tech bros who sought to disrupt the used car market hired a branding agency that created an obvious portmanteau by merging “car” with “nirvana” to trick consumers into believing that buying and selling used cars on Carvana is a heavenly experience.
As promised, it only took me “a few minutes” to get an offer. I thought the offer was OK, so I accepted it. Carvana told me we were good for now. But a few days later, Carvana informed me that I needed to renew the registration on my car before I could sell it. I pointed out that the 2022 registration would still be valid when they took possession of the car, but they didn’t care. To sell my car, I needed to renew the registration, but to renew the registration I needed to get a smog check.
The Ohana planI asked Google Maps to lead me to the smog shop closest to our house. That’s where I met Jon, the man who changed everything.
Jon runs a classic mom & pop garage. Jon plays the role of pop. He’s also the mechanic. Jon’s pregnant wife plays mom and does the books.
While Jon ran the smog check on my car, we got to talking about my situation.
“After this, I’m going to register the car, then sell it,” I told Jon.
“Sell it? It’s a great car!”
“Yeah, the thieves think so too. I’ve been hit twice.”
Jon grimaced.
“I’m not political,” he said. “I say love everyone, help everyone, but if you fuck with my shit, or you fuck with my neighbor’s shit, or you fuck with anyone’s shit, I will fuck you up.”
Jon sounded like the Hawaiian Charles Bronson to me, but I didn’t have a chance to tell him that. Despite his claim to be apolitical, Jon was too busy talking politics. As far as I could tell, Jon was a centrist reactionary who loathed left-wing reactionaries and right-wing reactionaries.
“These defund the police dipshits—who are they gonna call when some motherfucker with a Glock and crowbar breaks into their house to steal their shit, or hurt their family? Shit goes down, you call the cops. Everyone knows this. But don’t get me started on these blue lives matter, law & order assholes. They want to pretend like the cops can’t ever be wrong. Yeah right. The cops are wrong when they kill innocent people—period. But the cops are also wrong about stopping catalytic convertor theft. This is organized crime, brother. At this scale, it’s obvious. The LAPD needs to step the fuck up. Investigate! Go under cover, find the buyers, roll up their operations.”
I liked the cut of Jon’s jib. His rant spoke to a feeling I haven’t been able to shake recently. We’ve politicized everything, including public safety, but what has it gotten us? Catalytic converter thefts plague Los Angeles, but the political conversation is so detached from reality that only a fool would believe that the Left or the Right has a workable solution here.
“What you need to do is get yourself a gun,” Jon said.
“I’m not a gun guy.”
Jon glanced at my Prius. Then he gave me a knowing look.
“Yeah, I should’ve guessed you were a hippie. That’s OK, brother, nobody’s perfect. Here’s what you do. Get a shotgun, but don’t get any shells.”
A shotgun without shells felt like ordering an omelet without eggs. Also, an image flashed in my mind. I was standing in our yard, holding an unloaded shotgun. I looked like the Jewish Charles Bronson. But then the bad guys pointed their loaded guns at me, and I had to explain that my gun was just a prop. I didn’t let my imagination complete the ill-advised vigilante fantasy because I know that scenes like that don’t end well in real life.
“Get yourself a Ring doorbell,” Jon continued. “You hear something outside, you crank up the volume, tell them you’re armed. Then you rack that shotgun. Trust me: the sound of racking a shotgun will pucker their assholes.”
Jon’s workaround sounded plausible. I liked the idea of puckering a thief’s asshole. But did I really need an unloaded shotgun to pull off the ruse? Couldn’t I just use a pre-recorded sound effect? Or better yet, hire Michael Winslow to watch over my catalytic convertor?
But there was another problem with Jon’s workaround. It takes less than ninety seconds for a thief to steal a catalytic convertor from a Prius, and the thieves always work in the middle of the night. If Michael Winslow wasn’t available, my only hope would be to purchase an unloaded shotgun and stay up all night to guard my Prius. I explained this to Jon, minus the Michael Winslow cameo.
“Get a shield,” Jon said.
A shield? The mechanic who replaced my two stolen catalytic convertors had told me about the shield. Several Situation Normal readers had also suggested the shield.
A shield is a metal plate bolted onto the undercarriage of your car. It’s not guaranteed to stop a catalytic convertor thief, but it will make their job harder. Smart thieves, the conventional wisdom goes, will skip a car with a shield. Dumb thieves, even the police admit, might need an extra ten minutes to pull off a job that should take less than two minutes. But really dumb thieves, according to Jon, will cut the bolts to the shield and get crushed by to death by the weight of a huge sheet of metal crashing on their head.
“I thought about getting a shield the first time,” I told Jon. “But the thieves stole my catalytic convertor before I could do that.”
“What about now? I got a shield in the shop, if you want me to install it. You don’t have to sell your car.”
I liked the sound of keeping my car. I liked the sound of Jon’s confidence too. But I was still worried.
“I dunno,” I said. “It took me four months to get a new one the first time, then almost eight months the second time around. What happens if they cut through the shield? It could take me a year to get a new catalytic convertor the way things are going.”
“Yeah, the supply chain is fucked, and it’s going to get worse the longer this crime wave goes on.”
“That’s why I’m selling. I hate to say it, but the thieves won.”
“Fuck that,” Jon said. “Come with me, brother. I got you.”
I followed Jon inside the shop, past a disassembled Honda Civic, past a cart loaded with tools, past a pile of miscellaneous parts. At the back of the shop, Jon pointed to a shelf.
“I’ve got three catalytic convertors that fit your car.”
“Are you serious? I called around for months looking for that part. Nobody had them. Two Toyota dealerships told me the waiting list had hundreds of people on it.”
“That’s true,” Jon said. “I’ve got a dozen more on backorder. Everyone does. But I don’t make my supply available to anyone off the street. Ohana only. You know what Ohana means, right?”
“Yeah, it’s Hawaiian for family.”
“Right! My customers are family. I can’t guarantee that they won’t try to steal your cat, and I can’t guarantee the shield will work. But I can promise you that I’ve got a cat in reserve if they jack you again. I got you, brother.”
I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been waiting a year for someone—anyone—to say, I got you. It’s not that I expected someone to solve my problems. I’ve read enough woo-woo self-help articles on the internet to know that nobody is coming to save me. And even before the internet, my father used to say, “that’s life in the big city.” That was Dad’s version of the wildly popular “shit happens” sentiment.
I wasn’t bothered by the fact that nobody was coming to save me, or that I was living life in the big city, or that shit had indeed happened (twice!). No, what bothered me was this awful sinking feeling that by selling my car I was letting the bad guys win. That kind of defeatism is the right tone for a Leonard Cohen song, but it’s a lousy way to live your life.
“Honestly,” I said with a sigh, “I was feeling pretty dejected about all this.”
I told Jon about my sinking feeling that selling my car was letting the bad guys win. Jon listened with patience and compassion. He heard my frustrations with ideologues who couldn’t find reality with a map. He heard my deepest fears for the city I love. He heard my greatest hopes for a world where, as Jon put it, we can love and help everyone. And after I was done telling Jon how I felt, I asked him to install the shield.
“I got you, brother. You’re on the Ohana plan now.”
Stick around and chat!You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
Is this really the end of my catalytic convertor drama? Be honest, unless you think this shit will continue. In that case, please lie to me.
Have you ever faced a decision where all the options sucked? What did you do? Bonus points if you stuck it to Rush by choosing not to decide.
How much do think Michael Winslow would charge to provide home security, or should I look for a free Michael Winslow AI?
I’m trying to convince Jon to run for city council. I think his platform should be: Unloaded Guns & Ohana for Los Angeles. Thoughts?
Everyone knows Dave Grohl didn’t found Carvana, but what if everyone’s wrong? Share Dave Grohl’s secret tech bro history, if you dare.
Want more slice of life humor?I wrote a book of stories about my experiences with Lyft drivers. Here’s what situation normie Bill Coffin had to say about Ride / Share:
In the mood for a funny crime story?In a slim volume you can easily read in a single sitting, Michael Estrin shares a sequence of stories all taken from his conversation with rideshare drivers. They range from the bizarre to the hilarious to the profound and back again, with each being deeply compelling in their own way. Estrin captures perfectly the highs and lows of conversation, and brings to light the opportunities we all have to make a human connection during those times when we tend to tune out and shut off. There are stories everywhere. All we have to do is open ourselves to them. Estrin has done that here, and we're all richer for it.
As my mechanic Jon says, I got you! Here’s what situation normie Betsy Brazy had to say about Not Safe for Work:
12345NSFW is the story of a freelance reporter who finally lands a full-time gig with a trade magazine and stumbles across a murder mystery he can’t help but solve. The characters, including the author, are larger-than-life. There’s threats by a good ole boy cop, many puns and wisecracks, and I truly couldn’t guess whodunnit. I held back a star because it felt like the novel was non-stop and needed prose for the reader to stop and ponder a bit before continuing. Oh, and spoiler, the setting is the San Fernando Valley porn industry in Southern California. However, having worked in other media outlets, I promise that there are plenty of threats, stupidity, exploitation of reporters and youth plus backstabbing in all other US media. Keep writing, Michael!
June 25, 2023
No such thing as a free lunch, but what about free breakfast?
I wasn’t sure what I was going to write about today. Then I went to Starbucks, and something happened. That’s how Situation Normal works. One minute, I’ve got nothing, the next minute life gives me something. Hopefully, it’s something good🤞
In other news, I’m thrilled to report that Situation Normal has several new paid subscribers. A big thank you & shout out to: Carol & Craig (my aunt and uncle), Kate D., Matthew W., Samuel Clemenstein (aka the Jewish Mark Twain), Gigi P., Emily S., Robert A., and Tom. THANK YOU!
As a passionate situation normie, you know that 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, so please consider becoming a paid subscriber👇
Our flight got in late. LAX was a clusterfuck wrapped in a shit show inside of an endless traffic jam. The 405 was just as bad. It was midnight by the time we got home, and a little after one in the morning before we went to bed. But for some reason—jet lag, the fact that I’m an early riser, or a glutton for punishment—I woke up a little before seven. I was hungry, but there wasn’t any food in the house. We were also out of coffee.
I restocked our supplies at the market, but the thought of using those supplies to make my own coffee and breakfast was just too much to bear. I was running on fumes, and I probably looked like hammered dog-shit, or maybe I just felt that way. Regardless, I needed to refuel, so I drove to Starbucks.
A cheerful voice at the drive-thru asked me how I was doing. I considered telling him about the fumes and the hammered dog-shit feeling, but I didn’t want to burden the voice with my problems.
“I’ll take a large coffee, black. And let me get one of those breakfast sandwiches. The one with eggs and cheese and turkey bacon.”
“You got it! That’ll be eight bucks, even.”
Eight dollars felt like a made-up price. All prices are made-up, of course, but usually they tack on some change to make the price feel legit. When was the last time my bill came out even? Never. Maybe there was a glitch in the matrix, or more likely, a glitch in Starbucks accounting software.
At the pick-up window, a chipper woman handed me a large coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I handed her my credit card, but she waved me off.
“The person ahead of you in line paid for your order,” she explained.
“Really?”
“Yes. You have a good day!”
I wasn’t planning on having a good day. I was planning on dragging ass, but the thought of a free breakfast turned that frown upside-down. OK, I thought, I will have a good day.
When I got home, I wolfed down the breakfast sandwich and sipped my coffee. Slowly, I began to process what had just happened. According to the wisdom of the pre-internet ancients, there is no such thing as a free lunch. But breakfast? That was a different deal, I guess.
Then another thought entered my foggy brain. A stranger had paid for my Starbucks order. Wasn’t that one of those internet trends a few years back? I asked the ye olde Google machine to give me an answer.
Yes! People have been known to pay for strangers in line behind them at the Starbucks drive-thru. In 2014, NBC News1, Time2, CNN3, HuffPost4, and USA Today5 all wrote about a Starbucks in St. Petersburg, Florida, where 378 customers in a row paid for the person behind them in line. The thing I had experienced in real life was a real thing, according to the internet. But even if the reporters who wrote those stories didn’t fact-check the human centipede of caffeinated kindness, I’d still believe. As Mark Twain may, or may not, have said, “never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”
On the Starbucks sub-Reddit, a user with the handle Localdanishdood claimed two have broken two so-called “pay-it-forward” chains.6 Then Localdanishdood confessed that he felt like a “schmuck” because he declined to pay for a stranger’s iced mocha Frappuccino with two pumps of caramel swirled with a candy cane and topped with whip cream.
Was I as schmuck, I wondered? I didn’t offer to pay for the person behind me in line. For all I knew, I had broken an even longer human centipede of caffeinated kindness. I felt like a schmuck, but I kept scrolling.
Over at Today.com, I found a hard-hitting piece claiming that Starbucks baristas hate “pay-it-forward.”7 The reason? They’d rather that customers express kindness and generosity by leaving a tip. That rang true, but it just made me feel like a different kind of schmuck because I didn’t leave a tip either.
That’s when a result from Headspace, the meditation app, caught my eye. The headline was: “Why you should buy a coffee for the customer behind you.”8 Since I hadn’t done that, I clicked on the article to find out where I’d gone wrong. According to Headspace, paying for the person behind me in line will make me happier. Headspace referenced the human centipede of caffeinated kindness, and to drive the point home, they cited a Stanford study. Stanford! Fuck, I thought, I cheated the barista out of a tip, cheated the person behind me out of a free breakfast, but worst of all, I had cheated myself. How could I redeem myself? The answer was obvious: subscribe to Headspace!
But I didn’t subscribe to Headspace. I kept scrolling and eventually the ye olde Google machine led me to an article from Gawker, a snarky website that used to body-slam internet miscreants like me and Localdanishdood, until one day, Hulk Hogan, with a lawyer paid for by Peter Thiel, body-slammed Gawker for real in a Florida court. Here was Gawker’s take on the human centipede of caffeinated kindness: “Cheap Bastard Ends 10 Hours of Starbucks Customers ‘Paying it Forward.’”9 Ouch! I had rooted for Gawker against the Hulk Hogan / Peter Thiel tag-team, but after the implication that I was a “cheap bastard,” I had second thoughts about supporting the proposition that reporting on a public figure who tells Howard Stern that he made a sex tape with Bubba the Love Sponge’s wife ought to be protected under the First Amendment.
My free breakfast was turning into a real nightmare. According to the internet, I was a two-time schmuck, an underminer of my own happiness, and a cheap bastard, who it would seem, is quick to abandon his principles when the going gets rough. But the great thing about the internet is that there’s always another point of view.
Enter Fast Company, an outlet for well-financed tech bros and the finance bros who finance them. Here was the Fast Company headline on the human centipede of caffeinated kindness: “Breaking A ‘Pay-It-Forward’ Chain Isn’t Being A “Cheap Bastard.” It’s Good Economics.”10 I wasn’t a bad person, I was a good capitalist. Hallelujah! Having found the answer I wanted, I decided to quit searching the internet.
Then I made another decision: free breakfasts, like free lunches are a myth. Sure, that’s just what a good capitalist would say, but here’s the thing: I paid for that breakfast. Not with cash, or credit, or even Apple Pay. No. I paid in a much more valuable currency: self-esteem. The price was high—a lot higher than $8. Which is why, if I ever again find myself in a human centipede of caffeinated kindness, I won’t ask the ye olde Google machine to justify my behavior. Instead, I’ll run my question by ChatGPT, which always tell me what I want to hear, without citing any sources whatsoever.
Let’s start a human centipede of sharing. Pass this story along, and when you do, tell others to do the same👇
Or, if you use Substack Notes, hit that Restack button🙏
Stick around and chatHave you ever been part of a human centipede of caffeinated kindness? Did you “pay it forward,” or were you a schmuck, underminer of your own happiness, cheap bastard, or a good capitalist?
Do you think it’s bizarre that so many serious news outlets would write about what’s essentially a human interest story with a strong PR kicker, or is the internet mostly just clickbait and content marketing at this point?
The breakfast sandwich with egg, cheese, and turkey bacon was solid. But is there a better Starbucks breakfast order? What’s your go-to?
What website should Peter Thiel have Hulk Hogan body-slam next? Please don’t say Situation Normal.
Have you ever had the misfortune of flying into LAX? Tell your story!
1https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/...
2https://time.com/3155287/hundreds-of-...
3https://www.cnn.com/2014/08/21/us/sta...
4https://www.huffpost.com/entry/starbu...
5https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/n...
6https://www.reddit.com/r/starbucks/co...
7https://www.today.com/food/restaurant...
8https://www.headspace.com/articles/wh...
9https://www.gawker.com/cheap-bastard-...
10June 18, 2023
The one with the Sultan of Oman and Bob Hope
Today is Father’s Day in the U.S., so I’m sharing a story about my father, Larry. Actually, this post contains two stories. A twofer! The first story is about a gig Larry did for the Sultan of Oman. The second story is about one of about a dozen USO shows Dad did with Bob Hope. Both stories are linked by a rare gift and a joke that took nearly a decade to payoff, which is why Dad loved to tell these stories together.
While you may not have known Larry, you’ve almost certainly heard his work. During his career, Larry did the sound for the Academy Awards, the Super Bowl, the World Cup, the U.S. Presidential Debates, the Olympics, U.S. Papal visits, Liberty Weekend, and the inaugurations of Ronald Reagan, George Bush Sr., Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama. Most of those shows can be found on YouTube, I think. But you can also hear Larry’s work whenever an NFL referee speaks to the crowd (it was Larry’s idea to put wireless mics on refs), or when you visit Disneyland and watch The Main Street Electrical Parade (Larry’s sound design).
Larry Estrin working on the Opening Ceremonies of the 1984 OlympicsToward the end of Dad’s life, he talked about writing a book, but he never got around to putting pen to paper. Larry was never one to sit still. He loved being in the center of the action. In that way, his dream gig was always same—whatever show the whole world was watching was the show he wanted to do.
I’m different from my father in that way. I don’t want the entire world to be my audience. I prefer smaller, more intimate rooms, like a book or a newsletter. For that reason, my Larry stories live behind a paywall. They’re too personal to share with everyone, and too special, to me anyway, to open up to the noise of the World Wide Web.
But I don’t want to keep anyone who want to from hearing a Larry story. If you can’t afford a subscription, just email me at michael.j.estrin@gmail.com. I’ll give you a backstage pass, no questions asked. Seriously, I’m happy to do this!
Most Situation Normal posts are free, but lots of people pay to support my work. As a gift, paying subscribers receive exclusive stories, including Larry stories. To get the full Situation Normal experience, please consider becoming paid subscriber👇
June 11, 2023
The first (and last) honest graduation
Hello & welcome to a very special edition of Situation Normal! Instead of my usual slice of life humor or an essay, today’s post is a satirical collaboration with Dennard Dayle, who writes Extra Evil, and Amran Gowani, who writes Field Research. Previously, the three of us came together to bring you a razor-sharp take on voting and an absurdly-long, but totally on point satire of Super Bowl ads. Today, we’re taking on the graduation speech. Enjoy!
(Also, if you’re offended by Amran’s cursing, he wants you to know that he’s British by of Florida).
First time here? Hit that subscribe button to receive new posts👇
Principal Scopes: It’s an honor to watch you become proud B. Siegel Academy graduates. But first, a little parting wisdom.
In the fall, we misplaced every book with the word “slavery.” Some complaints followed. Apologia helped the world see our side, saving our community’s intellectual diversity. I’m happy to have them speak today, to prepare you for the world to come.
Our first speaker, Amran Gowani, calls advertising “the oldest profession.” Show him some love.
Amran: I want to start by saying: congratulations.
If you’re sitting here today, your school wasn’t shot up by a psychopath wielding an over-the-counter machine gun. Or, your school was shot up by a psychopath wielding an over-the-counter machine gun, but you had the grit, determination, self-reliance, and bootstrap-pulling ability to survive.
Either way, you made it to graduation day. In the richest country in the history of human civilization, that’s no small feat. Take a bow.
Now, I’ve been invited here to tell you ambitious, doe-eyed, young-and-eager-to-unfuck-the-planet whippersnappers about the one thing I wish I knew.
Truthfully, when I sat in your spot thirty-one long years ago, I wish I’d known a lot of things.
Unconditional love is a myth. Dreams don’t come true. Most people are trash. Crime does pay, actually. And, most importantly, while diamonds don’t last forever, herpes sure does.
Not what you wanted to hear, I know. I have a tendency to bring down a room. Every room, actually.
But, standing at this podium — with three ex-wives, two legitimate children, a foreclosed McMansion, repossessed Maserati, and one almost perfectly executed Ponzi scheme to my name — I’m thrilled for this opportunity to give back. To teach you youngsters how to avoid getting caught, and share the secret to living a joyful, fulfilling, purpose-driven life.
It’s not some bogus insight that’ll demystify the complexities of the human condition. Or a clever turn of phrase which doesn’t make sense when you stop and think about it. Or an inspirational story of perseverance that turns out to be another online influencer scam.
No, the magic elixir I speak of is tangible, and fungible.
It’s the most powerful substance in the known universe, and the only thing that can make your Marxist fantasies — like “solving” climate change and creating an “equitable” society — come true.
Cash.
I hear your parents’ boos, and I know what they’re thinking.
The Beatles said “…money can’t buy me love.” Nobel Prize-winning pop psychologist Daniel Kahneman “proved” money can’t buy happiness. And Succession was purposefully written to show the ultrarich are miserable cunts.
Problem is: that’s all bullshit.
If money didn’t buy lust and longevity, we wouldn’t have jobs. Kahneman’s “research” — economics isn’t real science by the way — turned out to be flawed. And if Succession’s writers had Succession money, they wouldn’t be Succession’s writers.
Ad hominem attacks? In front of your children? Wow. Worse still, it changes nothing.
Enjoy a round of golf? With enough petrodollars you can literally purchase the entire soulless, spineless enterprise.
Climate change got you down? Get yourself a plebe-proof, temperature-controlled bunker in New Zealand with the rest of God’s chosen people.
Want to indulge your most racist and transphobic impulses? Thanks to Citizens United, you can buy the Grand Old Party and recreate society in your own hateful image.
Another thing I wish I knew? The truth hurts.
When you reach middle-age, and your spouses and kids hate you, and pursuing your passions won’t even cover the interest on your student loans, just remember this speech.
Well, that’s it. I’d drop the mic, but it’s affixed to the bulletproof glass surrounding the podium.
Principal Scopes: Wh…why? I don’t understand what just happened.
Amran: If you’re so concerned about capitalism, and you don’t want your students to become hardened and cynical, then why’s the tuition fifty grand per year?
Principal Scopes: I…maybe you’re right. I can’t think about this right now. Who’s next?
Michael: Hold my beer. No for real. Can you hold my beer? Thanks.
Michael: One thing I wish I knew? That’s easy. I wish I knew everyone was lying to me. Everyone.
Example: when I was a kid, McDonald’s introduced the McRib. They said the McRib would only be available for a “limited time.” Naturally, I believed them. I went all in on that tangy, bony dream of a sandwich. I ate three McRib sandwiches a day, got a McRib tattoo on my butt, and even wrote to my Senators demanding a Constitutional Amendment to save the McRib. But guess what? It was all a lie, or what sophisticated people call “marketing.” For the next four decades those McLiars would cancel and resurrect the McRib countless times.
Here’s another obvious lie I should’ve caught. Fat-free half-and-half. Total bullshit. If both halves are fat-free, you’re just drinking non-fat milk. Also, non-fat milk is a lie. It’s just water with white food coloring.
Another lie? Online convenience fees. Everyone knows these fees are bullshit, but I’m old enough to remember a time, in the early days of the internet, when digital transactions were supposed to be cheaper, and those savings were going to show up in your wallet. But that was all a ruse to get us online, get us hooked, then nail us with “convenience fees.”
I get it. I sound like an old man, right? Well, you’ve probably heard some bullshit about how when you’re older, you’ll understand. Kids, that’s just not true. All my friends are old, and they’re just as clueless as they were when they were young. So if you’re thinking that you’ll figure things out when you grow up, you figured wrong. Sorry.
Actually, I just lied to you. I’m not sorry. Not at all.
Also, full disclosure: I might not even be real. Going in, they told us life was for real. But then they went and sprang that simulation mind-fuck on us. Is life real, or a simulation? Yes. Also, no.
Now, I realize that this is a graduation speech and that I’m supposed to say something inspirational, something that’ll make you want to get out there and make something of yourselves. Well, as someone steeped in the dark art of advertising, I’m not going to let you kids down. So here’s a lie I made up for your special day: you can do anything you set your mind to.
Congratulations, B. Siegel Academy Class of 2023! And good luck in junior high!
Principal Scopes: I’m not sure you guys get the culture here. Our mantra is “Trust and Heart.”
Michael: Who sold you that line of crap? Can you get a refund?
Dennard: Agreed. And it’s a motto. Religions have mantras. Brands have slogans. Schools without lunch platters for star guests have mottos.
Principal Scopes: They’re just kids. Leave them a little light. They can deal with cynicism later.
Dennard: Interesting. You guys do gifted classes?
Principal Scopes: We call them Thinking Caps. Less pressure.
Dennard: Cool. Consider this an advanced course.
Dennard: No applause? Perfect. That makes my point easier.
Hear that? Behind the lack of applause? Behind the nervous whispering up front, and crying in the back? Listen carefully. It’s louder than mic feedback. Even if I hit this speaker stack.
A demonstration. One sobbing student flees. Two others are led out of the room.
See? You can still hear it.
It’s Silence. I wish someone had told me.
I’ll put this in American terms. Ever thought you were hungry, but you were just bored? Be honest. Entire industries rely on that feeling. Companies list it as a taxable asset. I’ve written more ads about non-hunger than erectile dysfun—right, kids, sorry. I’ve written more ads about it than gun rights.
Let’s see hands.
I’ll wait. We can enjoy more feedback until then.
Thank you. As you can see, it’s a relatable problem.
There’s a romantic version. You think you’re lonely, but you’re just sad. Not the engaging, funeral lobby kind of sadness. Just…bored. Again.
A few amusing movements blame the death of Western masculinity, or spies putting soy in the water. Decent sci-fi, but it’s simpler than that. We think human hearts can distract each other. That love is louder than Silence.
Good news: it isn’t! Nothing is! Silence follows you forever.
That’s why I like mic feedback. It’s not louder than Silence, but there’s a nice numbing effect. Novocaine for ennui. It’s pretty much all I listen to, and much more effective than love. But this isn’t about me.
That gentle gnawing when you stop moving? The hollow echo after a meal, hug, or graduation? It’s just Silence. The universe’s natural state. It sounds a bit like death, so we don’t like it.
The upside? There’s nothing missing! You didn’t miss the boat. You didn’t fail. There’s no hourglass emptying above you. Just a humming hole in the world. Now you can live in peace, instead of marrying a classmate for a month and splitting up at a Dave & Buster’s ticket booth. You’re free!
Feel free to cheer.
You can waste decades rejecting Silence, or even wallowing in it. It makes Jagermeister, ad awards, revenge, booster packs, cruise ships, City Hall weddings, quote-tweeting Elon Musk, and living Trent Reznor lyrics all seem like sane ends in life. If nothing else, you get stories.
Or you can live. And accept that life has an itch.
That clarity is everything. Now you can think about what you actually want, without expecting it to fill the hole in your chest. And you’ll know what’s eating everyone else.
Want to be a decent, balanced person? Embrace Silence.
Want to be an effective, self-aware bastard? Embrace Silence.
Want to join the confused, desperate tangle of humanity? Forget I ever said this. Binge drink alone, marry three identical people, and work thirty-hour shifts for a plaque. And wonder, every morning, why something’s off.
Principal Scopes: Our school psychologist just resigned.
Amran: Snowflake.
Dennard: Of course. I did his job in less than six minutes, and better. Our fee just went up.
Michael: We take cash, checks, credit, Venmo, and Zelle. But don’t try that crypto shit like some other schools. We got burned when we spoke at Liberty University.
Principal Scopes: I’m not paying for this.
Dennard: Maybe. But the good taxpayers of LA are. I’ve got a contract and a lawyer with nothing else in his life.
Dennard: I couldn’t be prouder. This is our greatest triumph since our last triumph.
Michael: We crushed it. No lie.
Amran: Working with children is so rewarding. It’s like rocket fuel for the soul.
Dennard: Great art makes you feel. And that crowd was full of feeling. Lifelong, deep-seated feeling.
Pretty great, huh? Please share these speeches with everyone you know👇
Or, if you’re on Substack Notes, please Restack this post and tag and !
Stick around and chat!Have you ever given a graduation speech? Details please!
Can you share a funny piece of advice with the class of 2023?
Can you share some serious advice with the class of 2023?
Do you remember the speech at your graduation? Details please!
June 7, 2023
Strange things are afoot on the picket line
Hello & welcome to another edition of Situation Normal!
I’ve been a lifelong bagel-eater, but the comments on Sunday’s story about ordering a bagel from a bilingual maniac were a real learning experience for me. Ken Hobbs shared his process for making sure that the capers don’t roll off your bagel. His trick? Embed the capers in the cream cheese. Brilliant! Also, shared a ground-breaking product idea called a “schmear peer,” which is basically a bagel buddy to share all that extra cream cheese with. Attention, Silicon Valley, David’s schmear peer is poised to disrupt bagels and friendship. It’s gonna be huge!
In other news, a big Situation Normal shout to our newest paid subscriber, Trevor! Paid subscriptions from situation normies like Trevor help a lot because they free up time in my freelance writing schedule to amuse you. Thank you so much, Trevor!
Wanna support laughter and see your name in BOLD in the next Situation Normal? Become a paid subscriber👇
Strange things are afoot on the picket line
Flier created by Robert Clarke-ChanA few weeks ago, I told you about the WGA strike and why I think it’s important, as a Hollywood-adjacent writer, to show solidarity with union screenwriters. Since then, I’ve joined friends on the picket line a few times. I always picket at Disney because it’s the closest studio to our house and the street parking is ample. In Los Angeles, even labor actions are dictated by traffic and parking considerations.
Anyway, the above flier was an invite from my hilarious friend, Gina Ippolito, who you may remember from such Situation Normal posts as “I asked 4 friends if middle age is right for them.” Gina organized an East Coast picket, which as far as I can tell was an excuse to stick it to the Mouse by handing out Drake’s Cakes to hungry picketers. I joined in solidarity, but as a West Coast guy, I wore my Dodgers cap and a t-shirt from The Last Bookstore, an LA literary institution. Nobody gave me shit for my LA style, though, because there are bigger fish to fry.
Mostly, picketing is just walking around carrying signs, chatting with people, and eating carbs. I don’t wanna brag, but I’m really good at picketing. That said, sometimes stuff happens on the picket line that’s worth writing about. At Gina’s East Coast picket, two moments stuck out.
The first thing noteworthy moment happened when a man rolled up to our picket line on a bicycle. He looked like an environmentally-conscious studio executive to me, but it turned out that he was California State Senator Anthony J. Portantino. Not that I recognized him. California has 40 State Senators, but according to the state Constitution, none of them are allowed to be famous.
“I’m here to support the writers,” Senator Portantino said.
Then Senator Portantino gave me and Gina a fist-bump before walking away to glad hand a crowd that’s Constitutionally-incapable of recognizing him.
“That’s pretty cool,” Gina said.
“You know what else is cool?” I asked. “His shirt.”
I pointed at Senator Portantino who was wearing—wait for it—a Senator Portantino t-shirt! To me, the sight of a lone State Senator rocking a t-shirt with his name on it felt a little cringe, like a scene out of VEEP. But at least he made the effort. Solidarity!
The second thing I want to tell you about was really strange. As the day was coming to an end, a white Ford Mustang pulled up to the curb. The driver shouted something and waved me over. Something felt off, and anyone with street smarts would’ve stayed put. But I’m more of a book smarts guy, so I walked over to the Mustang to see what the guy wanted.
When I reached the Mustang, I noticed that the driver was an old dude wearing a leather jacket. His passenger was an even older dude who looked like he might be dead. They both gave off 1950s Greaser vibes. Think: American Graffiti meets Weekend at Bernie’s.
“What’s up, fellas?” I asked.
“Give me one of those WGA signs,” the driver said. “I want one for my lawn.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“I want a sign,” the driver said. “Give me one.”
“No.”
“I want a sign for my lawn.”
“They’re not lawn signs,” I said. “They’re for picketing. The WGA puts out the signs at every location so picketers can carry them on the picket line.”
“You don’t want me to put one on my lawn?” the driver asked.
“I mean you can make your own sign and put it on your lawn if you want.”
“Give me a sign. For my lawn.”
The driver was adamant. But the passenger, who was either dead or pretending to be alive, took no position on the matter.
“I can’t give you one of the signs.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
We went back and forth like this a few more times. I tried to hang in there as long as I could because I had questions I wanted answers to.
Why did the driver think we were handing out picket signs so that people could put them on their lawn?
Why couldn’t he to take no for an answer?
Who did this old man think he was fooling by driving around town in a muscle car?
Did they have plans to cruise the strip later that night, maybe meet up with Wolfman Jack, eat some popsicles, and ask about a mysterious blonde woman?
Was the passenger dead, or was he in a position to option his story for Weekend at Bernie’s 3?
Unfortunately, the driver had more will power than me. He kept asking for a lawn sign, and eventually I got tired of saying no. So I walked away. But over my shoulder, I heard the driver’s parting shot.
“They don’t know how to win a fucking strike.”
A moment later, I heard the Mustang’s engine roar as the car sped away on Alameda. It was a strange interaction, but when I got home, I did some Googling. Turns out, the old guy in the Mustang was right. Throughout history, striking coal miner, steel workers, teamsters, and dock hands have universally credited one tactic above all others: the lawn sign.
Thank you for reading Situation Normal. This post is public so feel free to share it.
P.S. I also met a screenwriter named Jude. We had a lovely talk, and Jude decided to check out the Situation Normal community. Hey Jude, see you on the picket lines!✊🖊
Settle a debateThe other night, we ordered shawarma from a nearby Middle Eastern restaurant. Christina placed the order via Door Dash. When the app notified her that our driver was on the way, Christina lost her shit.
“Oh my god, our driver’s name is Vagina K?!”
Naturally, I grabbed Christina’s phone right away.
“Their name is Vaginak,” I said. “There’s no space between the ‘a’ and the ‘k’.”
While we waited for our food, we had a little debate. I said Vaginak was the Dasher’s real name, but Christina claimed that the Dasher chose “vagina” to be funny, but then added the “k” to get past whatever filters Door Dash uses to make sure that their customers aren’t served by people with names like Harry Dick or Ben Dover. Who’s right here, situation normies?
I’m writing books here!I’m a big fan of silly names: I.P. Freely, Amanda Hugginkiss, Jacques Strap. You get it. When I needed a name for the hero of Not Safe for Work, I chose Heywood Jablowme because it felt like a plausible nom de porn, plus it was a nod to an old joke played on unsuspecting journalists. Also, it’s silly.
I’m watching hereOur horror movie streak continues with the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Some people say the 1978 version proves that remakes can sometimes be better than the original. Maybe that’s true. But what’s undeniably true is that if you’re looking for a movie where the hero is a health inspector and the villain is a dentist who loves basketball more than his wife, Invasion of the Body Snatchers is the movie for you.
A little housekeeping
This coming Sunday, I’m doing a collaboration with and . So instead of the usual story, you’re getting three satirical takes on the classic graduation speech.
The Sunday after that is Father’s Day. In honor of my father, I’ll be sharing a Larry story about the time he asked the Sultan of Oman to host my Bar Mitzvah, an unusual gift, and very pissed off Bob Hope. That story will be for paid subscribers only, so if you want in on that one, be sure to upgrade.
⭐️UPGRADGE⭐️
Finally, the Wednesday edition of Situation Normal is going on hiatus until July 12. You’ll still receive the regular Sunday posts, and I’ve got some surprises to share in the coming weeks, but Wednesday is taking a little break.
Stick around and chat!You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
Have you ever met a member of your state legislature? Pretty underwhelming, right?
Do you think the old dude in the Mustang meant well, or was he an old-timey Pinkerton agent, dispatched by the studios to take WGA signs off the street one at at time? Conspiracy theories encouraged!
When the WGA strike is over, is anyone going to write a script for Weekend at Bernie’s 3? Please say yes!
Was Christina right about our Dasher’s name, or was I right? Take a side!
Is the 1978 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers better than the original? Share you cold takes.
June 4, 2023
Meshuga / Loco
Hello & welcome to another edition of Situation Normal!
One of the joys of writing slice of life humor is that you get to cover a really expansive beat. One week, I’m writing about serious topics like taxes, or middle age. The next week I’m writing about silly stuff, like what it takes to avoid the Kardashians (not as easy as it sounds), or enduring a human paraquat at the twenty-fifth anniversary screening of The Big Lebowski. Life is a rich beat, and good stories are all around us.
Before we get to today’s story, I’d like you to take a moment to reflect on what Situation Normal means to you. Do my stories make you laugh? Bring you joy? Have you felt seen reading one of my stories? Has reading Situation Normal broadened your perspective? If the answer is yes to any of these questions, I hope you’ll consider upgrading to a paid subscription.
Paid subscriptions helps me carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to amuse the situation normie community. Also, paid subscriptions provide me with a modest budget for “research.” As a passionate situation normie, you know that one of my writing super powers is turning Lyft rides, 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 to read every Wednesday & Sunday. Please consider supporting all that good stuff by upgrading to a paid subscription👇
Photo by KWON JUNHO on UnsplashThe man behind the deli counter has a question about my bagel order.
“Do you want a regular amount of cream cheese, or a ridiculous amount?”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“A ridiculous amount is when I layer it thick, like from your scalp to the top of your fro.”
I touch my hair. My Jew Fro used to be bigger, lush, vibrant. But that was back in my youth. These days, my Jew Fro is propped up by expensive hair products, wishful thinking, and generational chutzpah. It’s still a solid Jew Fro, but it’s a lousy benchmark for measuring the application of cream cheese.
“Yeah, that’s too much cream cheese,” I say. “Don’t go crazy.”
“But the voices inside my head say I am crazy, brother.”
A wild laughter consumes the man. If he’s trying to look sane, he’s failing miserably. On the other hand, if he’s trying to mess with me, he’s crushing it. I’m open to the second possibility—that the maniacal laughter is the bagel man’s ruse, his way of having a little fun with his customers. But instinctively I take a few steps back from the counter, which means I’m leaning toward the first possibility—that the maniacal laughter is the trademark of a certified maniac who makes his victims bagels before he slaughters them.
Just then, my bagel pops out of the toaster. The man stops laughing. He’s all business again. A real Jekyll and Hyde situation at a Jewish deli.
“OK, so we’re doing like half a schmeer,” he says.
I nod, a little surprised by the change in the man’s demeanor. The way the bagel man shut down the maniac inside him so quickly, so completely, is unsettling. But the bagel man reads the surprised expression on my face from a different angle.
“What? You think a Mexican guy can’t throw around a little Yiddish?” he asks. “I work in a Jewish deli, brother.”
“No, I’m not surprised by the Yiddish,” I say. “It’s cool if the voices in your head are multilingual.”
Once again, laughter consumes the man. Hyde is back. He schmeers the bagel with cream cheese, wraps it in foil, then places it in a brown paper bag.
Then the laughter stops. Jekyll returns. All business. He hands my bagel over the counter.
“I upgraded you to full schmeer, brother.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t ask for that…”
“It’s OK. The voice in my head told me to hook you up. He said it in Yiddish and Spanish, so it’s legit.”
“Cool. Tell the voice… adank and gracias.”
Bagels and stories are best when you share them with friends👇
If you use Substack Notes, you can also share by hitting the “Restack” button.
Want more slice of life humor?Pick up a copy of my book, Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat. It’s fantastic, but don’t take my word for it.
My friend, Mr. Hyde, raved about Michael’s book. I bought a copy and loved every word!
— Dr. Henry Jekyll, society man, deranged chemist, Hyde’s “friend.”
Jekyll & Hyde Present Good/Bad Reads
Stick around and chat!I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
How do you take your bagel? Cream cheese? Flavored cream cheese? Peanut butter? Give us your order!
Do you judge people who order flavored cream cheese? I do.
Was the bagel guy messing with me, or was he a certified maniac? Can both be true?
Are the voices inside your head multilingual? Explain.
If you bought a copy of Ride/Share, have you left a brief review on Amazon? It really helps! Also, thank you for buying books!
May 31, 2023
Rule of 3 Revised
Hello & welcome to another edition of Situation Normal!
Last Sunday, I shared what four of my friends had to say about middle age as follow up to a piece I wrote about middle age. The comments on both posts are amazing because the situation normie community comes to play.
Speaking of people who come to play, we have a new paid subscriber at Situation Normal. A big thank you to Nolan Yuma! Paid subscriptions from situation normies like Nolan help a lot because they free up time in my schedule to amuse you every Wednesday and Sunday.
Wanna underwrite laughter and see your name in BOLD in the next Situation Normal? Become a paid subscriber👇
Photo by Marcel Eberle on UnsplashLast week, I found a check book in the middle of our street. Initially, I thought it was an antique. Who writes checks anymore? But when I opened the check book, I noticed that it had been used recently and regularly. I also noticed that the address on the checks was only a few blocks away.
After I finished work for the day, I went to return the missing check book. I imagined the owner would be happy to see me. A hearty handshake, or an invitation to come inside for a snack seemed inside the realm of possibilities. There was also the matter of the check book’s location. How did it end up in the middle of my street? Maybe the owner could shed some light on the matter, or failing that, perhaps the two of us could entertain ourselves with some wild speculation. I was up for anything.
But the check book’s owner was a dud. He didn’t bother to explain why the check book was in the middle of the road. He didn’t offer a handshake, or a snack, either. Come to think of it, he didn’t even say thanks.
The man’s reaction rubbed me the wrong way, but I didn’t dwell on it. After all, I didn’t return the check book for a reward. I returned the check book because that was the right thing to do.
A few days later, I went to the bank to get some cash. Like checks, paper money is a relic from a bygone age where credit was tight and a dollar cost fifty cents. Technically, checks and cash are still valid financial instruments, but Silicon Valley is working fast to break those things.
I like to carry cash because I’m old school. I bank at Wells Fargo for the same reason. Wells Fargo may sell crypto, but they’ll be damned if their iconic stagecoach is riding off into the sunset anytime soon. Speaking of riding, I prefer to get my cash from the Wells Fargo drive-thru ATM. That way I can withdraw my ancient money while listening to the oldies station on FM radio.
When it was my turn to use the drive-thru ATM, I noticed that the previous customer had left their card in the machine and driven away. For a second, I thought about making a withdrawal from an account that didn’t belong to me. But that felt wrong. Also, the drive-thru ATM has security cameras. So I removed the customer’s card. Then I got my cash from my account, parked my car, and went inside to return the lost debit card.
Unlike the guy with the missing check book, the teller showered me with praise. At first, the praise felt good, but after the fifth thank you, the situation felt awkward, so I told the cashier I was late to meet a client.
“What do you do?” she asked.
The correct answer to that question should’ve been writer, but for some reason I panicked.
“Freelance coroner,” I blurted out.
The cashier looked puzzled by my response. I was puzzled too. But I didn’t stick around to solve the puzzle. I bolted from the bank, leaving the puzzle of the freelance coroner for the cashier to ponder for the rest of her days.
On the way home from the bank, I thought about the lost check book and the lost ATM card. Two ancient financial instruments gone missing in the same week. That was something, wasn’t it? I could do something with this material, I thought.
But then I thought about the Rule of Three. If you don’t know, the Rule of Three is a comedic writing principle that says three occurrences of something in a story is funnier than two, or four, or really any other number. Why is three so damn funny? I think it dates back to the Three Stooges, who invented the Rule of Three, but forgot to patent it. Consequently, the Rule of Three is a royalty-free recipe for comedy gold. If you study Situation Normal stories closely, you’ll see that I’m a big believer in the Rule of Three.
Which brings me to the problem with this particular anecdote. I have a missing check book and a missing ATM card, but that only adds up to two items. To turn a humorous anecdote into a funny story, I need a third missing financial instrument, but I don’t have it.
Yet!
With any luck, that third item will materialize soon. Hopefully, it’ll be a briefcase that contains $3 million in cash, preferably unmarked, non-sequential bills. But if I find that money, I definitely won’t do the right thing. I’ll flee the country and assume a new identity. Situation Normal will vanish. But at least you’ll know why: the Rule of Three always pays off.
Honor the Rule of Three by sharing this post with three friends👇
If you’re on Substack Notes, share this post by hitting the Restack button.🦾
I’m writing books here!Everyone knows that the best way to get rich is to find a briefcase full of cash. But the second the best way to get rich is to write a novel. Well, I wrote a novel called Not Safe for Work. As of this writing, Not Safe for Work is a mere 998,021 sales away from selling 1 million copies. Let’s do this!
Help Michael Sell 1 Million Copies
I’m linking here!Like Willie Sutton said, banks are where the money is. Turn out, banks also have free hugs. Read about a bank robbery that ended in a hug here.
Another way to get rich is to play the lottery, especially if you’re the luckiest woman in Compton (maybe the world). Read about a woman who just can’t stop winning the lottery here.
Another famous get rich quick scheme is to marry the boss’s daughter, then help a psychotic Swede outmaneuver your wife and her two dysfunctional brothers for control of their dead dad’s right-wing media empire. Obviously, I’m talking about Tom Wambsgans, aka Mr. Succession. Whether or not you had Wambsgans on your Succession Bingo card, you’ll enjoy John DeVore’s essay, “The Ballad Of Tom Wambsgans.”
I’m watching here!The Stepford Wives is one of those concepts everyone knows. But I’d never actually seen the film, or the remake, or read the novel. So we watched the 2004 version of The Stepford Wives with Nicole Kidman, Matthew Broderick, Glenn Close, and Christopher Walken. The satire in the film starts out strong, but I felt like the movie pulled its punches instead delivering on its feminist premise. Regardless, if you’re looking for a movie where Christopher Walken gets decapitated with a candlestick, this is the movie for you.
Stick around and chat!You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers (hopefully).
How did the missing check book end up in the middle of the street? Wild conspiracy theories welcome.
Why is three such a funny number? Convoluted answers encouraged.
If you found $3 million in cash, what would you do?
Were you swept up in Succession mania, or does the name Tom Wambsgans mean nothing to you?
Should I watch the original version ofThe Stepford Wives, or read the novel? Remember, I’ll hold you responsible if the novel or the film suck.
