Michael Estrin's Blog, page 19

Porn conventions are decadent and depraved (and also very mainstream)

Hello situation normies! I’m really excited to share a new aspect of my writing with you. Today’s post is from an adult entertainment convention in Las Vegas. I went to the AVN Adult Entertainment Expo to research a sequel to Not Safe for Work, the first book in my Porn Valley Mystery series.

If there’s an operating theory to my writing, it’s this: truth is stranger than fiction, and the truth is usually a lot more interesting. That’s why my novels, like my Situation Normal stories, are rooted in real life experiences.

For example, I really was a reporter at porn’s second best trade publication, just like my novel’s protagonist, although I never solved any crimes. Like my protagonist, I firmly believe that when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. Also, and I’m not proud of this, the real life me and the fictional version of me were both chased through the Angeles National Forest by a butt-naked man in a werewolf mask. But I’m getting WAY ahead of the narrative.

Sorry.

This year, I’m working on the second book in my Porn Valley Mystery series! To fuel my research (and promote the hell out of these kickass novels) I’m revisiting my old profession by writing about the current state of adult entertainment. You’ll find that writing in a new section of my Substack I’m calling Smutty.

You don’t have to do anything to receive Smutty, but if you prefer to receive Situation Normal without Smutty, or to receive Smutty without Situation Normal, you can unsubscribe from one without unsubscribing from both. (Same deal as Situation Bali, if you were around for those stories). Personally, I think you’ll love both newsletters, but I’m biased.

Like everything I do with Situation Normal, the internet’s 57th best humor newsletter, my goal with Smutty is to bring a smile to your face and (maybe) broaden your perspective. I know that’s a tall order, but I’ve got a step ladder, so let’s go!

my work is free, but it ain’t cheap. to support my writing, become a paid subscriber👇

An idiot once told me that porn would go mainstream. Back in 2007, that idiot was my employer.

(To protect the guilty, I’ll refer to my former employer as Oz, the nom de porn I gave to the publisher of The Daily Pornographer, my novel’s fictional trade publication.)

Oz—as in The Wizard of Oz— fancied himself as the man pulling the strings behind the curtain. The way Oz saw it, porn, which he called “adult entertainment,” or simply “adult,” was on the cusp of going mainstream, thanks to the internet’s power to democratize culture and an untapped well of freak flags just waiting to rise up from the analog ashes of late 20th century moral majoritarian America.

In order to work for Oz, you needed to produce clean copy, demonstrate unsound news judgement, and most of all, believe in Oz’s vision of mainstream porndom. I was a believer, not because I thought Oz was right, but because I knew my paycheck depended on my fealty to Oz’s idiotic claim. Like Upton Sinclair once observed, “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.”

Back in 2007, I thought I understood the porn industry. On the one hand, there were the old school producers and porn stars—the Boogie Nights crowd. They mostly operated out of the San Fernando Valley, where they produced movies that were distributed via shady and convoluted distribution channels that brought porn to the local video store, and from there, into the homes of anyone with a DVD player. On the other hand, there were the disruptors—quiet tech geeks with loud online personas who staked out prime online real estate, pioneered digital payments, and christened themselves “webmasters” of an ever-expanding network of adult websites that catered to every imaginable niche.

Just like the disruptors who moved fast and broke the record industry, the news business, and most other sectors of the analog economy, the geeks who moved fast and broke Porn Valley had little regard for the old order. In fact, many of adult’s early online empires were built on foundations of pirated content. But that was before my time.

My time in Porn Valley coincided with the rise of the so-called tube sites. On the surface, the tubes were YouTube knockoffs—porn’s answer to Web 2.0. But the revolution that ushered in user-generated content and social media platforms brought armageddon to Porn Valley in the form of unlimited free content.

As a trade reporter, I thought I was chronicling porn’s death rattle. Sure, porn was more popular than ever, but for webmasters and old school pornographers alike, unlimited free porn—as opposed to promo content like picture galleries and 30-second clips—spelled disaster for the industry. Right before my eyes, the profit was being sucked out of the industry, as legions of budget-conscious wankers discovered that the tubes were loaded with full-length, high-quality videos that could be streamed with the click of a button.

To me, it was obvious that free porn was a sign of the end. How can you have an industry when the product is free, I wondered? But to Oz, free porn was creative destruction—a cleansing fire that would purge the industry of its dinosaurs and usher in new innovators.

Who would those innovators be? According to Oz, anyone and everyone would join the porn industry.

“Your mom does porn,” Oz liked to say.

But Oz wasn’t making a momma joke. He was laying out his vision for an internet where every adult produced, marketed, and consumed porn—an ouroboros of smut that swallowed the ancient distinctions between porn star and fan, between industry and consumer, between mainstream and adult.

“Porn is going mainstream,” Oz told me. “It’s going to happen faster than you think. In a decade, maybe two, the President will be a porn star, but it won’t be a big deal. It’ll be so normal it probably won’t be worth mentioning.”

To me, Oz’s vision for the future sounded like something out of the Mike Judge movie Idiocracy, which is why I thought Oz was an idiot. But then a funny thing happened.

First, Idiocracy fans, myself included, noticed that with each passing year, Judge’s satire seemed to be inching eerily, uncomfortably, toward something prescient. Humanity wasn’t facing famine because we had suddenly decided to water crops with Gatorade (yet), but dang it, things really were getting dumb and dumber out there. Still, I had a hard time believing Americans would elect someone like Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Camacho, a former wrestler and porn star, to the Presidency.

Then came 2016.

America elected a WWE celebrity hall of fame inductee who banged a porn star, then ordered his dipshit lawyer to pay her off with money borrowed against the dipshit lawyer’s condo. As that stormy saga played out over the next few years, I worried that maybe I was the idiot and my former employer was a visionary. There’s a very fine line between idiot and visionary, after all, and only time can truly tell the two camps apart.

Maybe that’s why Christina and I went to the AVN Adult Entertainment Expo. I wanted to see how porn had changed, and if, as my former employer had predicted, an industry that was built by outlaws armed with fake boobs and fake names, was moving toward the mainstream?

Here’s what we found at this year’s AVN Adult Entertainment Expo.

Civilians are cheap, fans are gold

As I walked from the Resort World parking lot to the hotel & casino, I struck up a conversation with a couple from Cincinnati. They were dressed like they were headed for a night out at Buffalo Wild Wings, and since they weren’t wearing credentials, I figured they were civilians (industry slang for outsiders). I didn’t get their names, so I used one of those porn name generators. From here on out, the husband will be known as Kurt Packer, and his wife as Margarita St. McStuffin.

“We just came to see the hotel,” Kurt Packer said. “My wife is a travel agent, so we’re checking out the hotel, because it’s new, and we thought maybe we’d get something to eat.”

“We had no idea there was a porno convention going on,” said Margarita St. McStuffin.

Me thought Margarita doth protest too much. Also, I didn’t like the way she said porno, like the people who made pornos were somehow beneath her. They weren’t being forced to go to this hotel, and they weren’t being shamed for their curiosity, yet they felt the need to act like they weren’t the sort of people who would do this sort of thing. Whatever.

“Are you attending, or exhibiting?” Kurt Packer asked me.

“Neither. I’m press.”

My answer took Kurt Packer by surprise. But Margarita St. McStuffin put two and two together.

“I guess it’s just like a regular industry, huh?”

It’s more like an irregular industry, but I didn’t want to get into the weeds with these two. Instead, I told them to buy a ticket and take the ride.

“How much are tickets?” Kurt Packer asked.

“I think they start around eighty bucks. It’s more if you want to go to the awards show on Saturday.”

“Awards show?” asked Margarita St. McStuffin.

“It’s like the Oscars of porn.”

Kurt Packer started to make a joke about the award for best orgy, but then he remembered that he was from Cincinnati, where flying your freak flag is frowned upon, I guess.

“Eighty bucks seems high,” he said.

There it was, I thought, the free porn monster. Obviously, Kurt Packer and Margarita St. McStuffin watch porn, but after two decades of the digital revolution, they had been trained to believe that they’re entitled to get their jollies for free. Now, here they were, faces pressed up against the peep show glass, their hands unwilling to reach for the quarters in their pockets.

“There’s one! A porno star!”

Margarita St. McStuffin pointed to a lingerie-clad model waiting in line at the Randy’s Donuts located in the Resort World lobby.

“Wow, that’s crazy,” Kurt Packer said. “Will you look at her?”

I looked at her, but I didn’t see anything crazy. I saw a woman dressed in lingerie, waiting in line for a donut. Maybe that’s a wild sight in Cincinnati, but in Vegas, it looked like Thursday to me.

I said farewell to Kurt Packer and Margarita St. McStuffin, but I doubt they heard me. They were too busy gawking, even though there’s probably more skin at their local pool in Cincinnati. Just saying.

Free content ruined porn, don’t let it ruin humor! Upgrade to a paid subscription to support my work👇

Inside the convention, it was a different story. There were thousands of fans who had happily paid the ticket price. There were plenty of industry people there too, but fans easily outnumbered industry professionals by an unofficial count of sixty-nine to one.

Most of the fans were dudes—shocker! But I saw a lot of couples and single women too. At first glance, the crowd looked like the crowds that attended the conventions I covered in the early aughts. Upon closer inspection, however, I detected a slight vibe shift. Dudes still dominated the space, but the dude energy had mellowed quite a bit. To me, it felt like Comic-Con, but with less IP and more sex toys.

There’s a code of conduct and a dress code. For real!

At the risk of sounding like an old man, porn conventions didn’t have codes of conduct in my day.

For the record, a code of conduct is a good thing! But a code of conduct is also a sign of an industry that’s determined to abide by social conventions. That might describe adult entertainment in 2023, but it’s not an accurate description of the industry I covered in the aughts. Back then, pornographers proudly thumbed their noses at society’s conventions because that was the best way to promote their products to a culture that was still capable of being shocked by something lewd, crude, or transgressive. Also, most of the pornographers I covered wore labels like “lewd,” “crude,” or “transgressive” as badges of honor.

Of course, most mainstream conventions in the early aughts probably didn’t have codes of conduct either. But the point isn’t that porn, or society more broadly, has changed for the better. The point is that on the issues of safety and accountability, porn and the mainstream are converging.

To enter, the AVN Adult Entertainment Expo, attendees must sign a code of conduct acknowledging that the following behaviors are prohibited:

Physical assault

Stalking

Unwelcome physical contact

Harassing photography (cameras are allowed, but no means no if an individual declines to pose)

Photographs or recordings that violate privacy (e.g., upskirt shots, shooting in non-public spaces) 

Offensive verbal assaults, including but not limited to negative comments based on race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or gender identity/presentation

Harassment in public restrooms (guests at the AVN Show are welcome to use the restrooms that match their gender presentation or identity)

In addition to the code of conduct, there’s a dress code posted at the entrance to the show. While “sexy attire is expected,” the X-rated crowd is supposed to keep it R-rated. Or, maybe PG-13. I dunno, I never really understood the MPAA ratings, which seem to penalize bad words and boobs far more than they punish violence, but that’s another story altogether.

Cams, Cams & more Cams

I’m using the terms “porn” and “adult” interchangeably, but I probably shouldn’t do that. One reason is that some people in the adult entertainment industry dislike the word porn. To them, porn is a pejorative, although that view, while valid, probably dates them to a time when adult content had an uncertain legal status.

But even if you think porn is a positive word, the descriptor is a limiting one. The adult entertainment industry is a catchall for a range of commerce, from sex toys, to exotic dancing, to sex work, to, well, just about anything that floats someone’s boat, sexually speaking.

But if even we’re focused on content, porn really only describes filmed scenes and movies. Porn content is produced for paid member sites, tube platforms, hotel pay-per-view operators, and yes, DVDs. The performers in these videos are porn stars, although not every porn star achieves actual stardom.

Cams—short for webcam—are a different content play. As a segment, cams are bigger than porn and they’re growing faster, although it’s important to note that data on adult entertainment is notoriously unreliable. Nevertheless, you can tell cams are the main event by the amount of convention floor space cam companies and models command. Cams were everywhere at AVN, and while the models were there to meet their fans IRL, they were also there to livestream from the show floor to audiences all over the world.

Cams were around when I covered adult in the aughts, but unfortunately, we called the performers “cam girls.” Today, it’s more common to call performers “cam models,” which is a big improvement! Models, after all, is more accurate, respectful, and inclusive.

If you’re alive, and you haven’t been living under a rock, you’ve probably heard of OnlyFans. The platform shot to fame during the pandemic, when Bella Thorne and Cardi B launched their OnlyFans accounts.1 But while OnlyFans is a household name, the reality is that there are scores of cam platforms.

“How can there be so many cam platforms?” Christina asked.

“How can there be so many streamers?” I asked.

“OK, but how do these platforms differentiate themselves? What’s their value proposition?”

Another man might’ve teased his wife for asking business questions at a porn convention, but when I was a trade journalist, this was precisely what I would’ve been trying to understand.

“They compete on model payouts,” I said. “They also compete, to some extent, on price for customers. Some platforms are known for serving a particular niche. Other platforms have better tech, or UI, or they do a better job of navigating the laws of a particular country.”

“How do you know this kind of stuff?” Christina asked.

I held up my press pass.

“I talk to people.”

The first cam model I chatted with was a transgender woman called Trinity.

“How’s your show going?” I asked.

Trinity told me it was going really well, and before we knew it we were talking about why she was there repping a platform called SextPanther.

“I’ve used a lot of platforms,” Trinity explained. “SextPanther is just better for trans models.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m more likely to get matched with a customer who wants a trans model. On other platforms, I get a lot of hate and just vile shit, but that rarely happens on SextPanther.”

“Why is that?”

I sounded like a broken record, but I’ve always found that if you keep asking your subjects to expand on their comments, you’re likely to find out all sorts of interesting stuff.

“I think it’s because customers have to book an appointment with the model, and if they don’t show up, or they just show up to be an asshole, they get billed anyway.”

“I see. So, if someone wants to be a dick, they have to pay for it?”

“Exactly.”

“But not many people are will to pay to be a dick?”

“Exactly.”

“And you said they have to make an appointment for you specifically, as opposed to being matched with a random model that supposedly meets their search terms?”

“Exactly. They have to book me. They have to want me.”

“So, the booking experience is like a subtle reminder that, you know, there’s a real human being at the other end of the internet?”

“Exactly. It’s not perfect, but it’s better. And I get to know my clients better too because they can schedule appointments.”

“Are you making good money on SextPanther?”

“Oh my god yes! I’m making twelve grand a month.”

“Holy shit, congrats!”

“I know, right!? Never in a million years did I think I’d make that kind of money.”

I thanked Trinity for her time, then found Christina at a nearby booth.

“They asked me if I was interested in modeling!” Christina said. “I wasn’t expecting that. Talk about an ego boost.”

“I just spoke with a model named Trinity. She’s making twelve grand a month.”

“Holy shit! Maybe I should be a cam model.”

Christina was kidding, but her reaction wasn’t unique. I don’t have the data to prove it, but based on the amount of play cam platforms like OnlyFans get in the mainstream press, it sure seems like millions of people have investigated cam modeling, experimented with it as a side hustle, or like Trinity, made cam modeling their full-time career.

“Maybe my old employer was right,” I told Christina. “Maybe everyone but us is doing porn.”

“It sure seems that way.”

Next, I spoke with a cam model called Natalie Luxxurious.

“I’ve been doing this for six years,” Natalie said. “I work on multiple platforms. My rule is that I’ll work with another model, as long as I’m attracted to them, and as long as they have a presence on at least two platforms.”

Natalie rattled off the list of platforms she uses: LoyalFans, ManyVids, MintStars, IWantClips, and Clips4Sale. On some of those platforms, Natalie sells live shows, which includes performing various sex acts, but also a lot of talking because, as she explained, “camming is about connecting with people, more than it’s about sex.” On other platforms, Natalie sells videos that fans can pay to download.

“Why do you work with so many platforms?”

“I don’t like to put all my eggs in one basket. Also, you never know how fans are going to find you, so it’s good to have a presence in multiple places, especially if you make niche content.”

I thought about telling Natalie that the same logic holds true for writers, but I wanted to keep the focus on her. So, I asked Natalie to expand on her niches.

“I’m a dominatrix,” she explained. “But in my personal life, I discovered that I’m a switch, so I incorporate that into my work too. Lately, I’ve been making a lot of burping videos.”

“Burping videos? At the risk of asking an obvious question, what’s a burping video?”

“It’s a fetish some guys have. It’s mostly guys. Men are… interesting.”

“And these men enjoy watching you burp?”

“Yeah, it’s a thing. They really love it. But you have to be able to burp on command. Not everyone can do that.”

“How does someone discover that they’re into burping?”

“The general category is bodily functions. You’ll see farting content, and burping content, hiccups, etc. Pretty much anything that classifies as a bodily function. I think fans start with the general category, and then they see something like burping, and it just clicks, they’re into it!”

I thanked Natalie for her time. As I walked around the show floor, I found myself wondering what my burps were worth? I Googled it, and Google had an answer! Sort of.

Turns out, adult content creator and 90-Day Fiancé star Stephanie Matto made $200,000 selling her farts in a jar.2 Unfortunately, Matto didn’t produce enough “natural” gas to meet demand, so she switched to a high fiber diet that ended up sending her to the emergency room.3 After reading that, I realized that while bodily functions may be profitable, they don't scale. I decided against monetizing my burps and farts.

Let’s make some money, honey!

I'm not a complicated man. I like cinema. In particular, I like to see people fucking on film. But, I don't want to win an Oscar and I don't want to re-invent the wheel. I like simple pleasures, like butter in my ass and lollipops in my mouth. That's just me. That's just something that I enjoy. Call me crazy, call me a pervert. But, there's one little thing that I'm going to do in this life and that is I'm going to make a dollar and a cent in this business.

— Boogie Nights

As far as I know, there’s no such thing as nonprofit adult entertainment. There are adult entertainment ventures that are unprofitable, sure, but like the Floyd Gondolli character in Boogie Nights, everyone at AVN was there to make a dollar and cent in this business.

One of those people was an outrageously stoned wholesale vape accessory salesman named Nano. Between bites of Oreo cookies, Nano explained why he had paid thousands of dollars for a booth to exhibit has vaping accessories at a porn convention.

“Follow the money,” he said.

“That’s deep throat.”

Nano giggled. I tried to explain that I was referring to the X-rated codename Woodward & Bernstein gave their Watergate source, but Nano’s mind was on his money, and money was on his mind.

“Dude, I’m here to meet retailers. Adult bookstores, adult novelty sellers, those kinds of places. For them, putting in a small display of vaping accessories is a no-brainer. It’s easy money.”

Selling vaping accessories may be easy money, but writing is hard. Upgrade your subscription to paid, otherwise I might have to start working in the vape biz💨👇

At a nearby booth, I met Erik Cancél, the man behind an adult card game called Drinks with Frenemies.

“It’s a drinking game, but you don’t have to drink,” he said. “We make an explicit version. That’s why we’re here. But we go to lots of mainstream shows too.”

Like Nano, Erik was there to meet retailers.

“Say you’re at an adult novelty store with your wife,” he said. “You pick up some sex toys, maybe some costumes, whatever. Our game is right there by the register. It’s good fun!”

Next, I wandered over to a booth that had more pills than a pharmacy.

“What do these pills do?” I asked.

“They make dicks hard,” the salesman said.

“Like Viagra?”

“No, not like Viagra. All natural. No prescription.”

“How much for a bottle?”

The salesman wasn’t sure, which seemed like a bad sign. Also, there might have been a language barrier; his accent was thick. When I asked why his company was exhibiting at this show, he said, “sales.”

“To retailers, or consumers?” I asked.

“You buy?”

“No. I’m a reporter.”

I held up my press pass so he could see my credentials.

“No reporters.”

That ended the conversation. I’m not sure why the salesman gave off shady, incompetent vibes, but I will say that if you’re in the market for penis pills, whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re a reporter.

🍆penis🍆 💊pills💊 are expensive. supporting great writing is a bargain. upgrade to paid👇

My next stop was an exhibitor who sold t-shirts. The owner of the company was busy making sales, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. But one of the booth models asked if I wanted to take her picture, and I said, “sure.”

As I walked away from the t-shirt booth, a random woman handed me a business card, but when I looked at the card, the woman’s name wasn’t on it.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I created a social network.”

“Wow, that’s really impressive.”

She nodded, but didn’t make eye contact.

“What’s your social network called?”

She pointed to the card. The social network was called Freyja. The card gave the website’s address below the name, and below that, the text read: tired of being kicked off social media?

I’ve never been kicked off of a social media platform, but I know that mainstream social media platforms like TikTok and Instagram have strict and often arbitrary rules that make it difficult for adult entertainment professionals to market their goods and services. By way of example, you can’t even say “porn” on TikTok, but the adult performers on the platform have found a workaround by calling themselves “corn stars.”

“Can you tell me more about your social network?” I asked.

“No censorship.”

“OK, what else?”

“Free speech.”

We went around in circles like this for the next couple of minutes, but I had trouble getting more than a few words out of the woman behind Freyja. On the one hand, it’s a bad sign when a social network’s founder struggles with basic social skills, but on the other hand, it worked for Mark Zuckerberg.

Speaking of Mark Zuckerberg, I found a booth promoting the Metaverse.

“Not Zuckerberg’s metaverse,” the dude running the adult metaverse demo told me. “I hate that fucking guy. Why did he have to co-opt the word metaverse? He just confused everybody.”

“I think he was trying to confuse everybody. Tell me about your metaverse.”

“It’s virtual reality,” he said. “You can use whatever VR equipment you like. You can create a space for yourself, like a club, or a cool bar, or a sex dungeon. Then you meet performers and other people in virtual reality and just, you know, have fun.”

The VR company behind this particular metaverse application had partnered with Brazzers, a large porn studio owned by MindGeek, which is a holding company that owns sites like Pornhub, RedTube, and YouPorn. The idea behind the partnership is to pair Brazzers contract stars like Angela White and Abella Danger with the latest tech trend.

“Pretty cool, right?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that I actually found it a little clumsy. The demo featured a scantily clad model showing you around a luxury virtual space that looked like something out of Ready Player One. That part was fine, I guess. But the thought of wearing a clunky VR headset just didn’t seem sexy to me.

“Want to take a photo?” he asked.

I looked at the display, but I wasn’t sure how my phone could capture content inside a VR rig.

“You can’t really take picture of VR, so we hired models for the booth.”

I looked at the models. There was nothing virtual about them. But because this booth was all about the future, the models wore bodysuits that looked like something out of the movie Tron.

“Are those outfits what they wear to make VR content?”

“No, they just look kinda of futuristic.”

I wandered around some more and ended up at a booth for a blockchain / crypto company. The company had a name, but their “card” was a QR code, and I didn’t take a picture of the QR code because the whole thing felt sketchy. So, I’ll call this blockchain / crypto company FuckBucks.

The FuckBucks rep said his name was Jason.

“Just Jason, no last names.”

That part wasn’t too weird, not here anyway. Porn people, just like crypto people, deal in aliases, handles, first names, and other shorthands meant to conceal someone’s real life identity.

“How much do you know about blockchain and crypto?” Jason asked.

“Well, I’m on the internet and it’s 2023, so I guess I know a little about it.”

“Well, let me ask you this. Do you know that middlemen fuck everyone over?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, it’s true. Middlemen fuck everyone over. Middlemen take a cut out of every transaction, and the biggest middleman is the government.”

“OK, what does that have to do with porn?”

“We’re here to cut out the middlemen, so that porn stars keep every dollar they make.”

From there, Jason launched into a very confusing pitch that was more jargon than substance. From what I could tell, porn stars are supposed to turn their content into an NFT (somehow), then their fans are supposed to purchase a crypto currency created by a FuckBucks “sister company.” With that crypto currency, the fans are supposed to purchase NFTs from their favorite performers. Then the performers can exchange their crypto for U.S. dollars, but according to Jason, they’d be “fools” to do that because “crypto only goes up in value” and transacting in U.S. dollars isn’t anonymous. It sounded like bullshit to me, but I wanted to know what Jason and team FuckBucks did.

“We put it on the blockchain.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means it’s on an immutable public ledger.”

“So, it’s not anonymous?”

“The ledger is public, but the people are anonymous.”

We went around in circles on the anonymity question. The more Jason talked, the more I got the feeling that if this thing even worked—a very big if, in my opinion—the only real value proposition was to skirt the law. Either it was a tax dodge, or a way to sell illegal content, I figured. Still, I wanted to know how FuckBucks made money.

“It sounds like you’re the new middleman,” I said.

“No, no. We’re not middlemen because middlemen are evil. We’re the good guys. We’re just here to help.”

“But how do you make money?”

“It’s all DeFi.”

We went around in circles again, only this time there was even more jargon. I was still getting shady middleman vibes, but I wasn’t making any progress with Jason and the FuckBucks business model. Honestly, at a certain point I tuned out and thought about a movie that’s actually called Middlemen. The Luke Wilson film is about the guys who pioneered third-party processing, which allowed early internet porn companies to circumvent credit card company rules banning adult content. I wondered if Jason had seen the movie and if he thought those middlemen were evil? But I didn’t want to go down another rabbit hole, so when Jason stopped talking, I thanked him for his time and promised to buy some crypto and only transact with porn stars on the blockchain from here on out.

“Now you’re talking sense, playa!”

my writing is free, but awesome readers pay to support my work. does that make sense? i dunno. but it works for NPR, so my business model makes more sense than the FuckBucks business model, right?

The last entrepreneur I spoke with was “Jim” Pensacola. I don’t know why “Jim” put quotes around his first name, but there were bigger fish to fry.

“I’m an inventor,” he said. “You ever find yourself fucking—I mean really putting in the work—and you’re wondering how many thrusts you’ve put in?”

Honestly, I had never asked that question in my entire life. But that didn’t matter because “Jim” Pensacola’s question was rhetorical.

“This device right here counts each thrust,” he said. “I call it The Tally Wacker.”

“So… it’s a FitBit for your dick?”

“Exactly! It’s a FitBit for your dick.”

“You can use that slogan if you want.”

“Are you in marketing?”

“No.”

“You should be.”

“OK, so I gotta ask, how did you come up with this?”

“Truth?”

“Or, you can lie to me. I won’t know the difference.”

“God’s honest truth is this: my buddy has a bad back.”

“OK…”

“One day, he tells me he’s got a bad back because of all the fucking he’s doing.”

“That sounds like a humblebrag.”

“Yeah, my friend is a bit of a character. But I said it him, prove it. How many thrusts do you really think you’re doing? He said, a million, or something crazy like that. But I was like, we need data.”

“Smart man.”

“Thank you! So, I went to Google to find out if there was something to measure your thrusts. Turned out, there wasn’t. So I invented it!”

“Are you sure the Apple Watch doesn’t do that? It’s really smart. My Apple Watch knows when I’m asleep, when I’m walking, and when I’m doing yoga. It must know when I’m having sex.”

“It doesn’t. Ask me why.”

“Why?”

“Because I hold the patent on devices that measure your fucking analytics. Apple wants to put that on their watches, Tim Cook has to talk to me.”

I asked “Jim” Pensacola if I could take a picture of his invention. He was happy to oblige, but to me the Tally Wacker looked like nothing more than pedometer grafted onto a cock ring. But what do I know? I never patented anything, and it never once occurred to me to data mine my sex life.

Body diversity

After the convention, I asked Christina if anything surprised her. After all, I was returning to scene of the crime, so to speak, but she was looking at this world through civilian eyes.

“I was not expecting to feel better about my body,” Christina said. “Like, when you say porn star, people have this image in their head of a blonde with big tits, a perfect ass, and a tiny waist. Basically, Barbie, but X-rated.”

“The Platonic porn star ideal. I know it well.”

“Totes. But that’s not it at all. There’s literally all kinds of people doing porn. Black, white, skinny, plus-size, trans. It takes all kinds. I saw several women with butt-acne, and I was like, you go girl, shake that ass!”

Body diversity was a thing when I covered the industry, but we didn’t use that term. Instead, the industry talked about niches. Certain body types—BBW, MILFs, gingers—fit into particular niches, but more often than not, niche-thinking tended to dehumanize performers by reducing people to a fetish.

Sadly, I think that’s still the case in some parts of the industry. But the same trends toward inclusivity and body positivity in the mainstream culture are present in adult entertainment. Whether that’s porn entering the mainstream, or the mainstream influencing porn, however, is a very complicated question. But the long and the short of it is that adult talent more closely resembles the broader society than ever before, and regardless of why that is, I think that’s a very good thing!

He treats objects like women, man

Unless, “you’re a child who wonders into the middle of a movie and wants to know [what’s going on],” you probably caught the pop culture reference that is the title of this subheading. If not, it’s from a scene in The Big Lebowski where the Dude complains about “known pornographer” Jackie Treehorn to the Malibu Sheriff.

The joke is funny because it’s true. In the parlance of the Dude, Jackie Treehorn treated objects like women, and (some elements) of the porn industry treat people that way too.

There’s a lot to say about objectification and exploitation, which is one reason why I plan on writing as many Porn Valley Mystery novels as I can. But as I worked on this piece and thought about how porn had changed for the better—a code of conduct, body positivity, inclusiveness, more opportunities for performers to control their own destiny—I began to worry. Was I presenting the world of adult entertainment through a rose-colored filter?

Maybe.

I saw a lot of progress, but I know that objectification and exploitation are still part of porn because objectification and exploitation are present throughout our society. In my view, porn reflects the culture more than it drives the culture, but that’s debatable.

What seems less debatable, to me anyway, is the existence of a mentality that squeezes out humanity and reduces people to essential organs and one-dimensional avatars. Of course, internet culture—especially as practiced on social media—reduces and dehumanizes too. So while that mentality was on display at AVN, I didn’t have to go to Vegas to find it because all I had to do was log on to social media.

Do you!

One of the liberating things about an adult entertainment convention is that you see so many people embracing their fantasies. It’s empowering to see people live their truth, even if there’s a lot more room for improvement in that department. I suppose that’s why adult entertainment—whether it’s pushed to the fringes of society, or part of the mainstream culture—is so threatening to people who amass power by dishing out shame.

But I didn’t go to AVN’s Adult Entertainment Expo to live my truth. I went to live my fiction. That’s why I put the name of my novel’s main character on my press pass.

While I walked the show floor, several performers noticed the name on my press. At least a few performers looked like they were tempted to say something clever in response to my nom de porn, something like, “no chance,” or “you wish,” or “dream on, sucka.”

But I didn’t choose to call my novel’s main character Heywood Jablowme—as in, hey, would ya blow me?—because of the name’s sexual connotation. I chose it because Heywood Jablowme, like Amanda Hugginkiss, and I.P. Freely are joke names that clever pranksters sometimes manage to slip past unsuspecting reporters tasked with doing person-on-the-street interviews. In other words, it’s a journalism joke, not a porn joke. Maybe that’s why my press pass got the most comments from my fellow reporters.

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Hard truths about Mitch McConnell | Fun facts about Gerald Ford| Charcuterie news!

Hello situation normies! It’s good to be back after the holiday hiatus. Christina and I went to Florida to see her family and celebrate Christmas. We were home for New Years, then we spent the first week of 2023 in Las Vegas to visit my mom and attend a convention (more on that Sunday).

Today’s post is weirdly political, emphasis on weirdly. A lot of the content comes from our time in Florida, so the weirdness tracks, I guess. But before we get to the good stuff, I need to acknowledge a HUGE debt.

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Everybody hates Mitch?

Whenever we see Christina’s parents, we try to avoid politics. By we, I mean Christina, me, and my mother-in-law, Cheryl. We’re team Don’t Talk About Politics because those conversations aren’t productive, unless your idea of productivity is vitriol and tears. But my father-in-law, Steve, is Team Talk About Politics Because It’s a Hoot to Own the Libs and Upset Your Kids.

Over breakfast at Perkins, where “care is baked into everything” they do, team Don’t Talk About Politics seemed to be winning. Despite several probing attacks, we held the floor by discussing news about the extended family, the mediocre play of the Tampa Bay Lightning, and the quality of Perkins biscuits.

But then we dropped the ball. Christina dug into her biscuits & gravy, Cheryl poured a second cup of coffee, and I picked at my omelette. That’s when Steve pounced.

“I’ll tell you what the one problem is with the Republican party,” he said.

Steve’s comment was straight out of left field, except that he’s a right-winger, so metaphors involving left field were canceled, along with French freedom fries, back in the early aughts.

I chewed on my omelette and tried to think of an innocuous non sequitur that might steer the conversation back to safety, but my curiosity got the better of me. After all, Steve had promised to tell us the one problem with the Republican party, and I wanted to know what that singular failing was. Could it be:

The grifters?

The fascists?

The racists?

The white nationalists?

The anti-government wackadoos?

The trolls?

The homophobes?

The misogynists?

The religious zealots?

The antisemites?

Or, the weak-willed enablers who just want their tax cuts?

“What’s the one problem with the GOP?” I asked Steve.

“The one problem is we’ve got about twenty members of Congress who are really Democrats,” Steve said.

That sounded like twenty problems to me. It also sounded like nonsense. But once again, my curiosity got the better of me.

“Who are the secret Democrats?” I asked.

“Mitch McConnell,” Steve said.

Steve’s comment sounded like a joke, but his tone was a perfect MAGA cocktail: bitter, angry, and totally disconnected from reality.

“He rubber stamps everything on the liberal wishlist,” Steve said. “McConnell is a Democrat.”

I was floored. My head spun. Mitch McConnell is a tax-cutting, judicial zealot-confirming, authoritarian-enabling Republican leader of the highest order. Only in MAGA world could Mitch’s conservative bona fides be questioned.

“Mitch has been in Washington for decades,” Steve continued. “He does whatever Joe Biden and AOC want him to do.”

I thought about telling Steve that Joe Biden and AOC don’t agree on much, that the Democrats are a circular firing squad where everyone is armed with water pistols, and that Mitch McConnell, who sometimes goes by “Mitch the Bitch” in our caucus, is a perennial bogeyman of the left—emperor Palpatine to Donald Trump’s Darth Vader. Then I remember that the right-wing media had promised my father-in-law a “red wave” for Christmas, but the Republicans had failed to meet their unrealistic midterm expectations. Now, Steve was pointing the finger at Mitch “The Grinch” McConnell. The way I saw it, I had three options:

Laugh

Cry

Extend an olive branch

“Steve, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I agree that Mitch is a real problem. As a matter of fact, I think you’ve got more in common with the left than you probably realize.”

Now, it was Steve’s turn to look shocked, while I rattled off my concerns about Mitch McConnell. To his credit, Steve listened. We didn’t exactly agree on why America needed to ditch Mitch, but we did agree that turtle from Kentucky had to go. That was progress. Heck, by the standards of previous family political discussions, it was a Christmas miracle!

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Fun facts about Gerald Ford

The last book I read in 2022 was The Invisible Bridge by Rick Perlstein. It’s his follow-up to Nixonland, which I wrote about in August. The Invisible Bridge tells the story of how Ronald Reagan put a happy face on the unhinged conservatism of Barry Goldwater, while consolidating the white discontent Nixon had worked so hard to nurture with his Southern strategy. Most of the book covers the years between Watergate and the 1976 election, which is why I learned more about Gerald Ford than I ever planned to.

One day, while we were watching college football, I turned to Christina and asked what she knew about Gerald Ford.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Come on,” I said. “You must know something about Gerald Ford.”

“OK, he was the President of the United States once.”

“Good start. What else do you know?”

“He had a mustache.”

“Gerald Ford did not have a mustache.”

“For some reason I thought he had a mustache. I told you I don’t know much about Gerald Ford.”

“Anything that comes to mind,” I said. “Anything at all.”

“OK, his wife was Betty. She was an alcoholic. The Betty Ford Clinic!”

“Yes, that’s true. What else?”

“I swear he had a mustache. Are you sure Ford didn’t have a mustache?”

“He didn’t have a mustache,” I said.

“Then who am I thinking of?”

“I have no idea.”

“He was in a movie,” Christina said. “Was there a movie about Gerald Ford?”

“No. Ford wasn’t exactly biopic material.”

“Well, I saw him in a movie, and in that movie he had a mustache.”

“Who else was in the movie?”

“Eddie Murphy and Judge Reinhold.”

Suddenly, Christina’s thoughts about Gerald Ford’s mustache made sense.

“You’re thinking of Beverly Hills Cop Two,” I said. “Taggart had a mustache. At one point, they go to a strip club, where Axel tells them that Taggart is Gerald Ford so they can get a good table.”

“Classic Axel Foley.”

“Why are you asking about Gerald Ford?” Christina asked. “It’s a little random.”

I brought Christina up to speed on The Invisible Bridge, including a few fun facts about how Gerald Ford became President. Hint for the trivia fans: Ford was the only person to serve as President without being elected to either the Presidency or the Vice Presidency. This happened because Richard Nixon didn’t just do crimes, he surrounded himself with criminals, including Spiro T. Agnew, who resigned and ultimately plead no contest to tax evasion because, apparently, the Justice Department can prosecute sitting Vice Presidents. To replace Agnew, Nixon nominated Ford, who was the House minority leader at the time. Later, Nixon resigned and Ford became President. As President, Ford pardoned Nixon, which established a kooky precedent that some people are above the law.

“Cool story, bro. But it’s still kinda random to bring up Gerald Ford while we’re watching… hey, what bowl game is this anyway?”

“It’s the Cobb Salad Bowl,” I said. “And there is a Gerald Ford connection.”

“Hit me.”

“Most Americans don’t know shit about Ford, but one thing they think they know is that he was a real klutz.”

“OK.”

“Now, it’s true he had a few very public accidents while he was President,” I said. “And those accidents were great fodder for SNL. Chevy Chase played Ford, and he really made a meal out of Ford being a klutz.”

“But he wasn’t really a klutz?”

“Nope. He played college football at Michigan. He turned down offers from the Packers and the Lions to play pro ball.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Ford was probably the most athletic person to ever serve as President. But it just goes to show you how powerful one joke can be. Chevy Chase totally changed Ford’s reputation.”

“Wow, the more you know,” Christina said. “Hey. Did Chevy Chase have a mustache?”

“He used to have one, but he lost his mustache in a shaving accident.”

Comedy in the wild

While traveling in Florida, I saw an amazing bumper sticker that might just offer a clue about solving civilization’s energy needs.

Back in Los Angeles, I snapped a photo of a formerly unhappy couple.

Meanwhile, my sister, Allison, and her partner, Craig, took a photo of an appetizing lawyer billboard.

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Mac & Cheese Charcuterie boards are a thing!

Long-time Situation Normal readers know that sometimes the internet’s 57th best humor newsletter prides itself on covering innovations in the charcuterie board space. Case in point: this TikTok video about—gods help us!—a mac & cheese charcuterie board. Click the video to play the TikTok and enjoy the culinary magic👇

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Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you may or may not have answers.

How were your holidays? Did you do anything fun?

I’m toying with the idea of adding a new feature to the Wednesday edition called Crazy Sh!t My Father-in-Law Actually Believes. On the one hand, I don’t want to platform the poison that the right-wing media pumps into Steve’s head. But on the other hand, I want people outside of MAGA world to understand it’s no picnic inside the cult. Thoughts?

Do you think Gerald Ford would’ve been a better President if he had a mustache?

When Mitch McConnell parties with AOC and Joe Biden, do you think he wears a mustache to disguise himself?

The Cobb Salad Bowl isn’t a real college bowl game, but it should be! What’s your suggestion for a college bowl game name?

Are you going to make a mac & cheese charcuterie board?

Leave a comment

Until Sunday, when I’ll have a story from Vegas…

23 predictions for 2023

Photo by Aakash Dhage on Unsplash

During the final yoga class of 2022, our teacher encouraged us to be present in the moment.

“The past already happened,” the yoga teacher said. “Now, it’s that time of year when we look back and reflect on stuff with lists: the ten best movies, ten best tacos, ten best whatever. But you saw the movie, and you ate the taco. They’re in the past. They’re gone.”

That was a bummer. I had seen some good movies and eaten some good tacos in 2022. I knew they were in the rearview mirror, but the yoga teacher’s reminder made me feel empty and maybe a little melancholy. I tried to fill the void with thoughts of future films and future tacos. But once again, the yoga teacher had an answer to quiet my mind.

“The future isn’t even a thing,” she said. “We’re always thinking of the future, but the future doesn’t exist yet, and maybe it never will. The future is nothing.”

Double-bummer. The best tacos and movies were behind me, but there was no guarantee that there would be tacos and movies in the future, either. Actually, if I was picking up what the yoga teacher was putting down, the future might not even happen.

“The present is all we have,” she said. “Let’s live in the present.”

For the next ninety minutes, I put aside culinary and cinematic distractions. I forgot about the past and ignored the future. I lived in the present, or tried to.

When our practice finished, I rolled up my yoga mat. Then I walked around the corner to Cactus Taqueria for some carnitas. I lived in that delicious present for as long as it lasted.

Back at home, Christina and I made plans to go to the movies. Should we see Babylon or Avatar: The Way of Water? One movie was about the past, the other about the future; if we made it a double-feature, that would be six hours of living in the present: three hours in past-present, three hours in future-present.

“I gotta get some work done before we go,” I said.

“What are you working on?”

“Last piece of the year. My predictions for 2023.”

“Nobody can predict the future, Nostradamus.”

Christina was right. Nobody can predict the future. According to the yoga teacher, the future probably isn’t even real. But that seemed like some heavy shit to lay on Christina in the closing days of 2022.

So, I went into my office, shut the door, and fired up my computer. I wrote this list of twenty-three predictions for 2023. I knew my predictions were an an exercise in folly, but in that moment—with the memory of tacos lingering on my lips and the anticipation of a movie on my mind—I lived in the present where I channeled Nostradamus.

Here are my predictions for the coming year.

Situation Normal is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Someone will ask if you think the housing market will collapse. Despite zero knowledge in this area, you will answer with confidence.

Stiffness in your back will ruin your day, but you’ll decide to splurge on a massage, and that’ll work wonders on your back, but you’ll fail to heed the massage therapist’s advice about stretching, which means you’ll return for another massage very soon.

A song from your teen years will return to the music charts, thanks to the fickle tastes of today’s youth and a TikTok algorithm that’s purpose-built to squeeze all the money it can out of old intellectual property.

Despite an intense pressure campaign, doxing, and even death threats, the tenth dentist won’t cave and recommend Crest.

Your friends will ask you what shows you’re watching. You’ll tell them the name of the show you’re watching, but they won’t know it. They’ll promise to check it out, but you’ll know that their promise is as hallow as the promise you made to watch the show they’re currently watching.

One evening, you’ll stop to watch the sunset. You’ll snap a picture, and while the picture won’t be as good as the real thing, you’ll share it on social media, and people will think you’re the sort of person who is living right, but then they’ll scroll on to the next thing, and you’ll go another 300-plus days without posting any sunsets at all.

Someone will try to sell you a used NFT.

At brunch, you’ll order the egg-white omelet with kale, tomato, and shallot. You’ll be proud of yourself (and you should be!), but you’ll vow to return to that brunch joint for the Eggs Benedict over Belgian waffles.

A celebrity you loved when you were a kid, but who isn’t that old, will suddenly pass away, which will put “everything” into perspective. But that perspective won’t last long. After you bond with your friends about losing another childhood idol, you will order the Eggs Benedict over Belgian waffles because “life is short” and carbs make everything feel better.

Lists will remain a popular form of internet content.

The founder of a failed Web3 startup will shift to hawking Web4—a technology that is simultaneously centralized and decentralized, and even though that doesn’t make any sense, people will invest because FOMO is a motherfucker.

The Los Angeles City Council will put aside allegations of corruption and racism in order to sell advertising rights to high speed chases.

A new app will promise to kill email, but email won’t die because email can’t be killed by conventional weapons.

Your friend who cut out refined sugar will fall off the wagon and land in a pile of donuts.

A billionaire man-child will piss off nearly everyone by flaunting norms and breaking laws, but there won’t be any consequences, except that their fanboys will love them more, even though that love can never fill the hole in the billionaire’s heart.

Your friend who doesn’t know shit about shit will suddenly claim to be an expert on everything, but if you listen carefully, you’ll realize that everything they think they know can be traced back to a single podcast.

You’ll go to a party where you’ll eat entirely too much cheese, but it’ll be worth it because cheese make you happy and you’re old enough to know that you should take your happiness where you can get it.

Your flight will be delayed due the fact that so many pilots are retiring and U.S. policymakers and business leaders totally failed to plan for that foreseeable labor shortage. Unfortunately, that context won’t be of any comfort as you wait at the gate and contemplate the horrors of eating at Sbarro.

Nostalgia for the 1990s will reach new heights, but each unearthed artifact of ‘90s culture will be met with indifference by Gen-Xers.

After watching another masterful Ethan Hawke performance, you’ll tell your social media followers that he’s a “national treasure,” and everyone will agree with you, but come Oscar time, Ethan Hawke will be snubbed.

A total blowhard will compare apples to oranges, but when you call them out on the flaw in their methodology, they’ll gaslight you, engage in whataboutism by shifting the topic to bananas, and ultimately, resort to ad hominem attacks.

Labor Day will sneak up on you.

I will eat tacos, see movies, and practice yoga. To the extent that any of those activities leads to a story, I will share it on Situation Normal.

Happy New Year, situation normies!

Hanukkah's marketing miracle | Christmas 1983

Hello situation normies & welcome to the last Situation Normal of 2022! I’ll be back in early 2023 to channel my inner Nostradamus and offer some predictions for the year ahead.

In the meantime, I have two holiday stories for you, but in order to read the second one, you’ll have to click a link because that story, Christmas 1983, is what television viewers used to call a “rerun.”

But before we get to the stories, I want to acknowledge the awesome readers who have stepped up to support Situation Normal.

A big thank you to Peter E., invious, Dave, and Brenna M!

Situation Normal is free, but some readers pay because these stories bring them joy. If that sounds like you, please consider upgrading.

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OK, first up is a Hanukkah story. Just FYI, I wrote this one in 2015, so the Hanukkah-candle-math is going to feel off to readers in 2022, but maybe it’ll be just right for readers in 2047. Freaking lunar calendars, am I right?

ANYWAY, here’s Hanukkah’s Marketing Miracle!

Photo by Robert Thiemann on Unsplash

The menorah at the Grove caught LaMonde’s eye.

“Some of those lights are broken,” he said. “Actually… most of those lights are broken. What the hell?”

I assumed my friend was messing with me. LaMonde isn’t Jewish, but surely he knew how menorahs worked, right?

“I need to talk to someone,” LaMonde said. “Where’s the mall manager? This is outrageous.”

I giggled a little, but LaMonde didn’t laugh. He really was serious.

“Hanukkah is always an afterthought,” LaMonde said. “I’m not having it. This is messed up. This is bullshit.”

Before I could explain, LaMonde launched into a rant about how Hanukkah gets second billing every holiday season. No Hanukkah ads on TV, LaMonde said. No Hanukkah decorations around town. They don’t even play Hanukkah songs on the mall’s PA, or on the radio, LaMonde said.

“There’s Adam Sandler,” I offered.

LaMonde waved off the mention of Adam Sandler.

“That’s a joke,” he said. “I’m talking about representation.”

At his neighborhood Target—a neighborhood with lots of Jewish people—there aren’t any Hanukkah displays, LaMonde explained.

“But there are two aisles of Christmas stuff,” he said. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Well, the Jewish community in Los Angeles is prominent, but our numbers aren’t exactly huge.”

“And now they put up a menorah with broken lights. Broken lights!”

LaMonde was pissed. Really pissed. Sure, his anger was misguided, but damn if his rant didn’t make me feel seen in a roundabout way.

“I think we need to talk about the story of Hanukkah,” I said.

“I think so too,” LaMonde said. “But save it for the mall manager. I want you to tell them what’s what before I tell them to fix the damn lights.”

“I think it’s better if we get our story straight first,” I said.

LaMonde gave me a curious look. That was my cue.

“Look, I’m not going to get into all the details because it’s been years since I was in Hebrew school, and I’m more of a cultural Jew, so what do I really know? But here’s the deal with Hanukkah.”

First, I gave my friend some historical context. Back in the day, the Jewish people were living under Greek rule, and it wasn’t going well.

“But the Greeks were technically Syrian because history is kind of a mess,” I explained.

I could see that I was already losing LaMonde with the technical stuff, so I cut to the action.

“Anyway, shit was getting out of hand because whoever ruled over the Jewish people had become very uncool.”

“Uncool how?”

I couldn’t remember exactly. But the thing about Jewish history is that the villains are pretty straightforward in terms of their goals. Either they’re trying to kill us, or convert us, or both. I went with a little from column A and a little from column B.

“They wouldn’t let us worship,” I said. “It was their way, or the highway.”

To illustrate that the highway was fucked, I pantomimed slicing my own throat from ear to ear.

“So what happened?”

“Well, a group of Jews called the Maccabees, basically a gang led by Judah Maccabee and his brothers, we’re like, we’ve had it with these motherfucking Greek-Syrian overlords and their polytheistic rules!”

“Then what did they do?”

“They kicked ass.”

“Did they take names?”

“No, they were too busy kicking ass.”

LaMonde rolled his eyes.

“Well, after all the ass-kicking, the Maccabees took back the Temple in Jerusalem. Very big deal.”

“OK.”

“But there was a problem. They needed to rededicate the Temple, and you gotta light candles for that. But there wasn’t enough oil to do that. Like, there was a ridiculously small amount of oil, OK?”

“Got it. Not enough oil to make the Temple right and get right with God.”

“Except the oil they had ended up lasting for eight nights,” I said. “That’s the miracle. The miracle of Hanukkah.”

“Let me get this straight. The miracle is that the oil lasted eight nights, not that they rose up and kicked out their overlords, even though I’m assuming the Jews were definitely the underdogs in that fight. Do I have that right?”

“That’s correct. The rebellion was a DIY thing, the oil was a miracle from God.”

“OK, but that’s even more of reason not to mess up the mall menorah.”

“It’s not messed up,” I explained. “There are eight nights of Hanukkah. We light one candle every night to commemorate each night of the miracle.”

LaMonde looked at the menorah with fresh eyes. Then he counted. Three candles burning. Third night of Hanukkah.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Happy Hanukkah!”

“Thanks!”

“So… you guys light the candles to celebrate. What else?”

“We light the light candles, then we have some wine, then we eat fried food for dinner.”

“Fried food? For real?”

“Yes. Most people do potato latkes, which were the original hash browns, I think. Some people eat donuts for dessert. But as long as it’s fried in oil, it’s Hanukkah-approved. Then after dinner, we spin the dreidel.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s gambling. We bet chocolate coins.”

LaMonde thanked me for explaining Hanukkah and for saving him from making a fool of himself in front of the mall manager. Then my friend repaid the favor by explaining marketing.

“You do realize that if more people knew there was a holiday about eating fried food and gambling, everyone would celebrate Hanukkah, right?”

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OK, now it’s time for a Christmas story!

I wrote Christmas 1983 in 2020. Back then, there were fewer than 200 Situation Normal subscribers, so this story is going to be new for most of you. Also, this story references certain things in 2020 that are no longer things today, but I firmly believe that the themes explored in Christmas 1983 remain deeply relevant to the world of 2022. Enjoy!

To read Christmas 1983, click on the story below 👇

Situation NormalChristmas 1983Time for a quick Larry story. If you’re not familiar with the stories I tell about my dad, Larry, you can read one here about the time he tried to talk the Sultan of Oman into hosting my Bar Mitzvah, and how that irreverent request set in motion a chain of events that pissed off Bob Hope. Or, you can check out my dad’s bio…Read more2 years ago · 8 likes · 12 comments · Michael Estrin

I had the winning tweet! Car trouble update. Plus, holiday submissions.

Hello situation normies! I’m thrilled to tell you about my winning tweet and less than thrilled about moving toward a resolution on my catalytic (or is it cataclysmic?) convertor. But first, I need to acknowledge a HUGE debt.

Some astute readers have noticed that there’s now a paid option for Situation Normal. The paid option works just like the free option, except that money changes hands. Kinda like how public radio works, only I haven’t figured out pledge drives and tote bags—yet. Who would pay for something they get for free, you might ask? Awesome people, that’s who!

Cheryl F., Bill C., Deb M., and Fran P. stepped up to awesomeness by becoming monthly subscribers to Situation Normal! The benefits of the monthly subscription include:

My eternal gratitude

Shout outs

Bragging rights

Kathy C., Mark S., Sara R., Anne K, and Craig G. stepped up to awesomeness by becoming annual subscribers! They’ll receive the same benefits as monthly subscribers, but at a 17 percent discount! That’s some serious ROI, IMHO.

Finally, Jennie Y. and Tom H. stepped up to awesomeness by becoming founding members of Situation Normal! Founding members receive everything annual subscribers receive, minus the discount. By the shortsighted standards of capitalism, that may seem like a raw deal. But there’s a special bonus for founding members: on their deathbed, they will receive total consciousness, so they’ve got that going for them, which is nice.

Situation Normal will continue to be free, but if you value the laughter this newsletter brings to your week, or want to show your appreciation for the hard work that goes into writing Situation Normal, a paid subscription is a really awesome way to go.

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I had the winning tweet! This is my story. Photo by Chris J. Davis on Unsplash

Last week, I had the winning tweet! I’m still basking in the glow of the unearned joy that comes from a winning tweet. Here’s what happened.

The story began when perennial Twitter villain Senator Kyrsten Sinema of Arizona announced her decision to leave the Democratic party, register as an independent, and continue to caucus with the Democrats in the Senate.

A number of serious journalists who cover Congress, including Lisa Desjardins of PBS and the Department of Twitter Awards, pointed out that Sinema’s decision wouldn’t change anything in terms of Senate math (the only kind of math that matters in a democracy). But then a much larger and LOUDER group of people who cosplay as journalists on Twitter, tweeted all kinds of wild shit, and within minutes everyone on Twitter was big mad at Sinema, whose preferred life fuel is unadulterated outrage.

In an effort to give that outrage legs so that it could run into the next news cycle, some political hack emailed reporters who cover Congress. Lisa Desjardins of PBS and the Department of Twitter Awards shared the gist of that email with her followers on Twitter.

Lisa Desjardins @LisaDNewsINBOX: "Anti-Sinema spokespeople available for interviews"Not sure I've seen that one before. For anyone.7:14 PM ∙ Dec 9, 2022129Likes11Retweets

The tweet from Lisa Desjardins didn’t call for a response, but the thing about Twitter is that it exists so that random chuckleheads (me, in this case) can share their “thoughts” with serious people doing serious work. So I replied to Lisa Desjardins.

@LisaDNews Sounds like everyone on Twitter is available for interviews on this topic.","username":"slacker_noir","name":"Michael Estrin","date":"Fri Dec 09 19:20:39 +0000 2022","photos":[],"quoted_tweet":{},"retweet_count":2,"like_count":55,"expanded_url":{},"video_url":null,"belowTheFold":true}">Michael Estrin @slacker_noir@LisaDNews Sounds like everyone on Twitter is available for interviews on this topic.7:20 PM ∙ Dec 9, 202255Likes2Retweets

A few minutes later, Lisa Desjardins of PBS and the Department of Twitter Awards declared my tweet to be the winner.

Lisa Desjardins @LisaDNewsWinning tweet 👇 Michael Estrin @slacker_noir@LisaDNews Sounds like everyone on Twitter is available for interviews on this topic.7:21 PM ∙ Dec 9, 202291Likes5Retweets

Naturally, this was very exciting news because a winning tweet comes with attention, which is the only real currency we have in this bankrupt online world. But in my case, the winning tweet also came with marital hiccups.

“Lisa Desjardins said I had the winning tweet,” I told Christina.

“She better step back, if she knows what’s good for her,” Christina said, before threatening to “cut” a member of the fourth estate.

At this point, I should note that Christina supports freedom of the press and that when she threatens to “cut” someone it’s always in jest. In this instance, Christina was cosplaying as a jealous wife because Lisa Desjardins is one of my celebrity crushes.

“It’s just a silly thing I wrote on the internet,” I told Christina. “It’s not like Lisa Desjardins, who covers Congress better than anyone in the game, is going to call a random dude just because he made a joke on the internet.”

“Bullshit, honey bear,” Christina said. “Your online dating profile had a lot of great jokes. That’s why I agreed to go out with you.”

“Wait. So you’re saying I have a chance with Lisa Desjardins?”

“Not if you fuck things up, honey bear. Did you write a clever response? Slide into her DMs? Retweet her with a funny quote?”

“No, nothing like that. I don’t want to bother her. She’s got work to do. Counting votes ain’t easy, but it’s necessary.”

Christina frowned.

“You blew it, honey bear. But I’ll tell you this, if I get my chance with Matt Smith, I won’t make the same mistake.”

“Matt Smith? He isn’t a celebrity! Is he? He’s a waiter at our local Outback Steakhouse, right? Is that why you always want to go there?”

“No. We go to Outback for the blooming onion—you know this. Matt Smith plays Daemon Targaryen on House of the Dragon.”

“He’s your celebrity crush? I thought your celebrity crush was Seth Rogen.”

“He’s on the list too, along with Kit Harington, the Hemsworth brothers, and Chris Hayes.”

“Wait. How long is your list?”

“Long. I’ll share the Google Doc with you. But just a heads up, I’m not giving you editing privileges, honey bear.”

Situation Normal is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and contribute to the blooming onion fund, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Car trouble update Photo by Documerica on Unsplash

I wouldn’t call it a resolution, but it looks like I’ve made some decisions about my car troubles. If the ongoing saga of my twice-stolen catalytic convertor is new to you, this post, followed by this post, followed by this post should bring you up to speed. Or, I can just bottom-line it for you.

Here’s the bottom-line: I’m going to have to wait eight months for a new catalytic convertor, which means that whatever I do with my Prius (sell it, boobytrap it, or use it as bait in my ongoing attempt to foil the caper) will have to wait.

In the meantime, lots of situation normies shared their sympathies and great advice. I’m truly grateful for those comments and emails, thank you!

One of the most promising suggestions came from Kristen Alexander, the thinker, connecter, fixer-upper, creator, mother, and lover behind the Community Over Capitalism newsletter. Kristen’s suggestion was to contact local junkyard to see about finding an old catalytic convertor. It was a great suggestion, and I thought it might even make for a good story. But when I called around to local junkyards, they confirmed that Kristen’s idea was top-notch by telling me that they’d already been “picked clean” by other Prius owners / victims.

“This is gonna sound crazy,” Christina began, “but do you think the insurance company will just total your car?”

I thought it sounded crazy because the car isn’t a total loss. But I also think it’s crazy that we buy our auto insurance from a lizard, so I called Geico. To my surprise, our adjuster, a lizard named Troy, didn’t laugh at my question.

“Yeah, we can’t do that,” Troy explained. “But I feel your pain. If it helps, you’re not alone. I’ve got more than a dozen claims for stolen catalytic convertors. An eight-month wait for a replacement is pretty typical.”

That didn’t make me feel better, but I filed Troy’s words under Nice to Hear, nonetheless.

“This is the second time this has happened this year,” I told Troy. “It’s a total bummer. I won’t be able to use my car until July. And the way things are going, the thieves will be back in August, and I’ll be done for the year.”

“I hear you. I worked on a claim for a customer who had his catalytic convertor stolen three times. He actually had his mechanic install barbed wire around the catalytic convertor.”

Barbed wire? That sounded like Mad Max shit to me, but if that’s what it takes to be a Road Warrior in Los Angeles, then that’s what it takes.

In the meantime, Christina and I will share one electric car. That’ll be a win for the environment and a good test for our one-car household dream. I’ll supplement my transportation needs with Lyft, and although that won’t help the environment, Lyft rides will help Situation Normal in the story department, so that’s a win for my readers!

Situation NormalSicario bingo: ride share editionAt first glance, the ride share pickup area at the Las Vegas airport looks chaotic. But like so many things in Las Vegas, first impressions can be deceiving. “Wait behind the cement barrier,” says the man in charge of the ride share pickup area. “When your driver is here, they’ll text you the row and space number. It’s…Read more10 months ago · 13 likes · 14 comments · Michael Estrin

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Holiday submissions

I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it: the Wednesday edition of Situation Normal doesn’t write itself, which is why I encourage everyone to submit funny things they overhear in the wild, hilarious pictures, and serious questions that call for silly answers. Since it’s the holiday season, I’ve selected two holiday-themed submissions.

For Hanukkah, Tab sent in a photo of the future of Hanukkah gelt.

For Christmas, my sister, Allison, sent in a photo of the NYPD getting into the holiday spirit. Like I told Allison, I always knew Santa was a narc, and I’m pretty sure his elves are unindicted co-conspirators.

Situation Normal is a reader-supported project. Sharing Situation Normal is a great way to show your support!

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ICYMI

I wrote about my wins for 2022 and why I think it’s important to recognize the link between humor and optimism. You can read that post here. The best part, IMHO, are the wins situation normies shared in the comments. My readers are seriously the best!

Acknowledgments

The decision to offer a paid option for Situation Normal was a long time in the making. Several Substack writers inspired that decision by paving the way, explaining how they went paid, and creating community for writers like me to turn to with my questions, concerns, irrational fears, and wildest dreams. Thank you for leading the way , the Fictionistas community, and everyone who makes time to contribute to Office Hours.

Stick around and chat!

OK, now for the interactive part. I’ve got questions, maybe you’ve got answers.

Have you ever had the winning tweet? How did you do it, and did you get a prize?

Who’s your celebrity crush? Feel free to share a link to a Google doc, if it’s a long list.

Are you a paid subscriber to any other Substacks? If so, which ones?

Have you shared your 2022 wins with the Situation Normal community, or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?

Lyft or Uber? Or, taxi? Or, do you bum rides like you’re Ferris Bueller?

Leave a comment

I’ll be back next Sunday with the final story of the year. Actually, I’ve got TWO holiday stories for you.

27 Wins for 2022

Hello, situation normies! Today’s post is very special to me. At the end of every year, I try to set aside some time and space to reflect on my wins. I do this for two reasons.

First, Christina is a big believer in celebrating your wins, and I’m a big believer in my wife’s good ideas. Second, the optimism that comes from celebrating my wins makes me a better writer and human. I’ll share my wins in a moment, but first I’d like to expand on that second point, if you’ll indulge me.

It’s easy to be cynical. But if you don’t come by your cynicism honestly, the world provides plenty of ammunition. There’s so much cynical ammunition out there that the slightest bump in the road can send skeptics and realists alike spiraling into an inescapable vortex of cynicism. I’ve seen it happen, and I’ll bet you’ve seen it too.

I think of Situation Normal as an antidote to cynicism. I work hard all week to bring a smile to your face every Wednesday and Sunday. Hopefully, you share that smile with the human beings around you. A win-win!

But humor, just like The Force, has both a Light Side and a Dark Side. The Dark Side of Humor draws you in, like a Death Star tractor beam. It’s fun, at first, like hanging out on Jabba’s pleasure barge. But sooner or later, the Dark Side gets its hooks into you. Best case scenario: you become a soulless goon and deploy to Endor to hunt Ewoks. Worst case scenario: you end up a shriveled shell of a person, grasping for the last thread of your humanity from inside an imperial machine you call your body.

The Dark Side of Humor makes you cynical. It’s a total bummer for you, and for everyone else in the galaxy.

In a perfect galaxy, the Light Side of Humor would be readily available wherever supplies are sold. But a perfect galaxy is a long time from now and far, far away. Also, the Light Side of Humor supply chain has been FUBAR from the jump. A lot of times, if you can even find it, The Light Side of Humor you see in stores is fake. Or, it’s toxic. Or, you pay extra for Light Side of Humor that’s labeled “fair trade & organic,” but you can’t enjoy it because you read an article about how those labels are totally meaningless, so you just let your Organic Fair Trade Light Side of Humor sit in the fridge, until it rots.

See how many ways there are to be cynical?

I see writing as an optimistic act. I write humor from a place of optimism, and since my humor comes from my real life, I need to be an optimist.

But optimism doesn’t come naturally for me. Optimism isn’t easy because it’s always something, isn’t it? Sometimes a stepladder falls on your wife’s nose, or thieves steal your catalytic converter, or thieves return to steal your catalytic convertor again. Or, it’s traffic. Or, the news. Or, some other fucking thing. Everywhere you look, there are threats to optimism.

One thing that helps me make lemonade out of these lemons is to nurture my optimism by stepping back, from time to time, and looking at a bigger picture. Each day may feel like a grind, but if you don’t hold space to reflect on what happened over the previous 365 days, what are you even doing with your life?

Which brings me to the subject of this list. Each win says something about how I live my life, and how that life went in 2022. I’m celebrating my wins to acknowledge how far I’ve come, and to refuel for the journey ahead.

Please join me in celebrating 2022 for the wins! And afterward, I’d LOVE it if you shared some of your wins here on Situation Normal !

Photo by Robert Linder on Unsplash

Thanks for reading Situation Normal! Subscribe for free to get new posts & support my work.

After a two-year hiatus, I returned to yoga.

I increased my daily steps average from 8,540 to 9,584.

Several things living rent free in my head were evicted.

I volunteered my time to the fight for democracy and the rule of law in America.

Several friends told me that my civic contributions inspired them to volunteer as well.

Afraid that canvassing wouldn’t be enough to push back against fascism, I teamed up with Dennard Dayle of Extra Evil and Amran Gowani of Field Research to save American democracy. You’re welcome.

I fell back in love with going to the movies.

Knowing nothing about gambling or investing, I made $300 on crypto by spotting the Dogecoin joke early and cashing out before the shitty punchline.

We returned to international travel by going to Bali and bringing situation normies along for the ride.

I made good on my promise to my doctor to embrace salmon and become an overnight oats aficionado.

Situation Normal hit 1,000 subscribers, and it continues to grow at a steady pace.

I helped a few friends find writing jobs that pay reasonably well.

I read 55 books.

Christina and I learned how to make Xiao Long Bao, hummus, Indian street food, and several Balinese dishes.

I finally made it to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, where I had the honor of righting a historic wrong by nominating Warren Zevon.

I reduced the amount of time I spend on social media.

In our ongoing quest to unplug, Christina and I bought a record player, bought some vinyl, including some Creedence, and subscribed to the print editions of The Economist, The Nation, and New York Magazine.

I contributed to the Fictionistas community on Substack.

Christina and I turned our youngest nephew, Evan, onto the beauty of snorkeling.

We flew to Florida to join family to celebrate Zach and Dylan’s wedding.

We visited my mom several times in Las Vegas.

I had an fascinating conversation with my mom about Richard Nixon.

We took an Alaskan cruise with Christina’s parents and I kept a reasonably good passenger’s log.

I showed up “big time” to support Christina, who made a big career move.

We joined a local gym, and we actually go!

I cheered on my sister, Allison, who received her first Emmy nomination.

More than a few times, for no reason at all, Christina and I stepped out onto our porch to watch the sun set over the Santa Susana Mountains.

Your turn! Tell us about your wins👇

Leave a comment

ALSO! If you write on Substack, I hope you’ll cross-post your wins!

Checkout line advice 🌴 Peanut butter boards 🥜 Readers respond to my car woes 🗣

Hello, situation normies! It’s been cold and rainy here in Los Angeles, which is good because we always need the water, and some people need an excuse to wear sweaters, hats, and boots. Personally, I nod to the gods of winter by pairing hoodies with cargo shorts and flip-flops and staying inside when it rains. So far, so good!

Now for the main event. I’m excited about today’s Situation Normal because I’ll be responding to the great advice situation normies had about my car troubles. But first, I’ve got some advice for a Trader Joe’s cashier about her relationship and travel woes. Plus, peanut butter boards!

Ready?

Let’s go!

Checkout line advice Photo by frame harirak on Unsplash

The Trader Joe’s cashier was visibly upset.

“What are you going to do?” asked the woman bagging my groceries.

“I don’t know,” the cashier said. “They won’t even talk.”

“When are you guys supposed to leave for Hawaii?”

“We’re supposed to go in two weeks,” the cashier said. “But now… I don’t know. I think the trip is ruined.”

“Can you get a refund?”

“No, I tried.”

I wasn’t planning to interject because I felt like a child who wanders into the the middle of a movie and wants to know…

“You’re a man,” the woman bagging the groceries said to me. “What should she do about her man problems?”

I wasn’t sure how my gender qualified me to give advice, but I knew I needed more information before answering. So I asked for some context.

The problem was this. The cashier and her best friend had booked a trip to Hawaii for themselves and their husbands. The two couples were looking forward to their Hawaiian getaway, but then a couple of days ago, the two dudes got into a fight “over nothing,” and now both husbands want to cancel.

“I told her to put their butts on the plane,” the woman bagging groceries said. “By the time they get to Hawaii they’ll be fine because you can’t be mad in Hawaii.”

That advice sounded good, but I knew better. It’s a classic mainland fallacy to believe that your problems don’t exist in paradise. The truth is, you can pack anything in your bag that’s TSA-approved, and unfortunately, that includes your problems.

“Have you told them to grow up, make up, and get over themselves?” I asked.

“I did, but my husband won’t even call his friend,” the cashier said. “He’s so stubborn.”

“And the other guy is the same way?”

“Yeah, they’re both stubborn.”

“Well, your coworker might be right. It’s possible that they’ll get to Hawaii, order some tropical drinks with those little umbrellas and forget all of their childish bullshit.”

“That’s what I hope,” the cashier said. “But everyday, he says, I’m not going. He’s so angry.”

This was what I was afraid. Her husband sounded like a total dipshit. Unfortunately, total dipshits are very common, and the only thing you can really do is avoid them like the plague that they are. But I didn’t know the cashier well enough to tell her to divorce the total dipshit she married. Instead, I targeted my advice to the upcoming Hawaii trip.

“Here’s what you do,” I began. “Tell your husband you’re going without him. He won’t like it.”

“He’ll hate it,” the cashier said.

Of course, he’ll hate it, I thought. He’s a total dipshit who can’t see that his childish nonsense is costing him an awesome vacation and maybe costing him his marriage too.

“Every time he complains, just tell him that he’s welcome to come,” I said. “But then remind him that he decided not to go because he can’t be the bigger man. Tell your friend to run the same play on her husband.”

“Do you think that’ll work?” the cashier asked.

I knew the play would work, but I didn’t want to tell her what “work” meant in this case. Either their husbands would fall in line like the man-children that they are, or these two women would enjoy a fun girl’s getaway in Hawaii. That was how it would play out in the short-run. But in the long-run the play might work a different kind of magic—a disappearing spell, if you will, that would make her total dipshit husband vanish for good. After all, aloha means hello and goodbye!

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Peanut butter boards!

When I launched Situation Normal, I had no intention of discussing appetizers. But then one day, my wife sent me to a stranger’s house to buy a cheese board, but it turned out that it was actually a charcuterie board, which led us to snackle boxes, which brought us to butter boards. I thought it would stop there. Actually, I hoped it would end with butter boards. But then TikTok said, “hold my beer.” And while I held TikTok’s beer, it showed me the wonders of a peanut butter board.

@tastyStill on that #butterboard trend? Here’s a surprising delicious twist with peanut butter, banana, AND bacon! Shop the party board via ▶️link in bio! #partyappetizers #butterboard #charcuterieboard #peanutbutter #elvis #bacon[image error]Tiktok failed to load.

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In case you missed it, I wrote about thieves stealing my catalytic convertor for the second time this year. I thought writing the story would be a bright spot in an otherwise shitty experience, but the real bright spot was hearing from so many wonderful situation normies.

Many of you asked good questions that I’m going to answer here. But before I do that, I need to share an update on the catalytic convertor situation.

On Monday, my mechanic called to tell me that I might have to wait seven or eight months for a new catalytic convertor. I’m going to call around to see if anyone can beat the the seven-month estimate, but I’m not hopeful. According to the Ye Olde Google Machine, we’re experiencing a shortage of catalytic convertors. It’s possible the shortage is being caused by a massive crime wave, but it’s also possible that the economic conditions fueling that crime wave (demand for certain precious metals) is hampering production. Either way, I’m fucked.

Which brings me to your questions/suggestions for what comes next. Without further ado, here we go.

What about a motorcycle, scooter, or bicycle?

The two-wheel option is a tempting one for several reasons. First, bikes and motorcycles are a great way to beat traffic. Second, there are electric and human-powered options, which will go a long way to achieving my goal of carbon-neutrality.

But there are also downsides to the two-wheel option. One downside is that you can’t carry a lot of stuff, which is a hassle for a guy who handles the household chores. But the real downside is danger. Motorcycles are inherently dangerous. Bicycles are safe, but not in the suburbs of Los Angeles, where road rage is all the rage and bicycle infrastructure leaves a lot to be desired. Also, I’m a klutz, which isn’t a great trait for a cyclist anywhere.

Why don’t you park in the garage?

Our garage only fits one car, along with boxes of holiday decorations, luggage, a weed whacker, cleaning supplies, our washer/dryer, Christina’s tools, extra chairs for the dining room table in case we ever have a dinner party again, a lifetime supply of Greenies for Mortimer because he buys in bulk, the drink fridge, and several boxes of miscellaneous “stuff.” Basically, the garage situation is a can of worms, but at least the garage door works.

Can’t you just get a new car, ideally an electric one?

Yes, I could always get a new car. But we paid off the Prius in 2020, and our plan was to own the Prius until it died. That’s why you buy a Toyota, isn’t it?

Selling the Prius probably won’t get me enough cash to buy a new car (or new-to-me used car) outright, so I’ll need to finance a portion of the purchase. I was hoping to avoid car payments until at least 2028. So while I could always throw money at the problem, it sort of feels like throwing money away.

Why don’t you just move?

Several people sided with my sister, Allison, by asking about a change of scenery. Suggestions included New York, Chicago, Detroit, Key West, Bali, Amsterdam, and Cleveland. While it’s tempting to relocate, moving kind of feels like I’m letting the thieves win even more. I mean, first they take my car, then they take my hometown?

What about a booby trap?

Several readers wrote in to suggest installing some kind of booby trap on the Prius so that it kills, or maybe just wounds, the thieves the next time they come to steal my catalytic convertor.

I’ll be honest, this option sounds very appealing. But I think there are two things working against it. First, I’m just not that handy, so there’s a very good chance that whatever booby trap I attempt to MacGyver onto my Prius will boomerang on me and send me to the hospital. Second, the legal team advising Situation Normal believes there’s a 50/50 chance I’ll end up in prison, a 100% chance that life will suck for me behind bars, and a “million-to-one” chance of my prison experience being optioned for film or television.

What about better (legal) security measures?

One reader offered some really helpful advice about installing motion-activated lights to scare away the thieves. I love this idea because it’s affordable, reasonable, and it’ll probably lead to a hilarious story about Christina and me installing said lights.

Unfortunately, lighting isn’t the issue. I already park the Prius under a street light, which is something the LAPD recommends. Obviously, the light isn’t a deterrent, but I’m starting to think the street light might be helping the thieves because it’s very difficult to remove a catalytic convertor in the dark.

Isn’t vigilantism dangerous and off brand?

Several thoughtful readers wrote in to warn me about the dangers of vigilantism. They politely pointed out that I am the opposite of tough and that if push comes to shove, I’m likely to get pushed and shoved. Also, they pointed out, writing about the challenges of vigilantism is only relatable to super hero types like Batman, whereas writing about an everyman’s challenges of living in a one-car household are actually super-relatable.

Live that Lyft life!

Many readers wrote in to voice support for supplementing our one-car household with Lyft rides. Several of those readers pointed out that this was a “selfish” request on their part because they just want me to write more Lyft driver stories. But selfishness is a two-way street because I also happen to be selling a collection of my Lyft driver stories. I think this one is a win-win!

Buy your copy of Ride/Share!

A little Substack love for Situation Normal

I’d like to close with some good news. Earlier this year, I wrote about hitting my goal of 1,000 subscribers for Situation Normal. This week, the team included that piece of writing in their roundup of writer milestones. That was a big honor, but it was especially thrilling to be mentioned alongside some excellent newsletters, including , , , , , , , , and !

On SubstackMilestone roundup: Writers reflect on their years on SubstackWriters from Newcomer, The Rebooting, internet princess, Ijeoma Oluo: Behind the Book, Platformer, Community Trail Running, TKer by Sam Ro, Colorado Mountain Running & Living, Situation Normal, and The Problematic Pen share insights that every Substacker could benefit from, from…Read more2 days ago · 102 likes · 37 commentsStick around and chat!

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

What did you think of the advice I gave to the cashier?

Have you ever given advice to a stranger? How did it go?

Will you be serving a peanut butter board this holiday season?

The appetizer board phenomenon will never end. What’s the next board you see trending? Is it a hummus board?

If you’re a Substack writer who attends Thursday office hours, can you give Situation Normal a big old shout out? Thanks!

Leave a comment

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If you’re a returning champ, please👇

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Until Sunday, when I’ll post about winning in 2022…

Return to the scene of the crime

Hello, situation normies! I hope December is treating you well so far. But if December isn’t treating you well, I suggest writing to your member of Congress. If they can’t help, try screaming into the void. And if that doesn’t help, your best bet is to drown your troubles in holiday cookies.

Meantime, I’m excited for you to read today’s story. It’s a funny story, if laughing at another person’s misery is the kind of content you consider funny. It’s also a true crime story, but don’t worry, I’m not going to drag it out into a nine-part podcast. What I am going to do, however, is ask for your advice at the end. Seriously. I’m the victim here, and I really want to know what you’d do if you were in my shoes.

As always, thanks for reading!

— Michael

If you’re new to Situation Normal, please subscribe for free to receive new stories👇

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

One trope of detective fiction is that the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. But real life isn’t a detective novel, or is it?

Earlier this summer, I would’ve answered no to that question. After scoundrels stole my catalytic convertor, I would’ve told you that it couldn’t happen again. Not that I would’ve been able to base that claim on anything concrete, mind you. But I would’ve insisted with the certitude possessed only by male billionaires that I had paid my dues to the mean streets of Los Angeles, that the tropes of detective novels don’t amount to a hill of beans when it comes to real life crimes, that there was no way in hell the larcenous rogues who stole my catalytic convertor would return to the scene of the crime.

Well, guess what.

I would’ve been wrong.

Dead-wrong.

Less than five months after stealing my original catalytic convertor, the motherfuckers came back and stole my replacement catalytic convertor.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Michael, how can you be sure that the motherfuckers who stole your first catalytic convertor are the same motherfuckers who stole your second catalytic convertor?

Great question!

The truth is this: I have no idea if they’re the same motherfuckers. The only thing I know for sure is that my catalytic convertor has been mother-fucked twice in the same year!

The first time my catalytic convertor was stolen, I called our insurance company first thing. Then I posted about the theft on social media, where my Los Angeles friends commiserated with me. It sort of felt like a rite of passage.

This time around, I felt frustrated and hopeless. I needed moral support, or solidarity, or someone who would just listen to my profane rant about how this catalytic convertor situation is FUBAR. Usually, my sister Allison is good fit for these situations, but she lives in New York. Car trouble just ain’t her bag.

“That’s terrible,” Allison said. “But… um… what does a catalytic convertor do?”

“Look, I’m not a car scientist. Hell, I’m not even sure if car scientist is a real job. But you need a catalytic convertor. Otherwise, you won’t pass your smog test, your car will make a terrible farting sound, and you’ll destroy the planet. I mean, you’ll contribute to destroying the planet. You get the idea, right?”

“I guess so. I don’t know. I haven’t owned a car in almost twenty years.”

“Well, just imagine if someone stole your subway card,” I said. “That would suck ass, right?”

“That would suck ass, I guess. Honestly, though, I’m more likely to lose my subway card. I always just buy a new one. But I usually end up finding the old one, so it always kind of works out.”

“Well, ladifuckingda. It’s a transportation paradise in New York City, isn’t it? But here in Los Angeles—city of your birth, Allison—a stolen catalytic convertor means you are shit outta luck.”

“You’re right. And I’m sorry for your loss. But maybe this is the universe trying to tell you something?”

“That I should learn Krav Maga, exercise my Second Amendment right to buy heavy artillery, and become a vigilante so that I can hunt these bastards down?”

“No, you’re a lover not a fighter, remember?”

“Oh yeah, thanks for the reminder.”

“I think the universe is trying to tell you to move to New York, where you don’t need a car.”

An image of me rooting for the Mets flashed before my eyes. I nearly threw up in mouth. Then I hung up the phone.

My next call was to our insurance company. Actually, it wasn’t a traditional telephone call because they say that it’s faster to file a claim through the app.

Faster? Yes.

Effective? Not so much.

After two days of waiting, I checked the app and saw that my claim had been closed. This time, I decided to make an old-fashioned phone call.

I listened to a series of messages about how everything works better on the app, then I pressed a bunch of buttons until a human named Erik came on the line.

“It says the claim is closed because you want to take care of it yourself,” Erik said.

“Absolutely not, Erik. I bought an insurance policy because I prefer stuff like this to be handled by third-parties.”

“Right on,” Erik said. “Give me a moment, and I’ll get this squared away.”

Erik did some typing, then he hit me with a question.

“Who is this claim pertaining to?”

“Um… me?”

“It says here the claim was filed by Christina.”

“She’s my wife. She kept her name. We’ve been confusing people for eleven years running!”

“Right on, right on. My wife kept her name too. We’ve been confusing people for six years.”

“Congrats on that, Erik!”

“Thanks!”

While Erik cleaned up the marital surname confusion, I thought about telling him that my mechanic also married a woman who kept her name and suggesting that the three of us should get beers and start a book club for enlightened men when this is all over. But instead, I told Erik that this was the second time this year that thieves had stolen my catalytic convertor.

“No way,” he said.

“Way.”

“Dang. Those catalytic convertor thefts are a real problem. Did you see the feds made a major bust a few weeks back? We were all excited about that.”

I pictured a sea of claims adjusters high-fiving each other upon hearing the news that the Justice Department had taken down a nationwide ring of catalytic convertor thieves. I hope they ordered pizza to celebrate the triumph of justice. After all, the feds busted 21 individuals in five states, including California. And according to the DOJ press release, the United States is seeking forfeiture of over $545 million in connection with this case. Maybe, if I hold my breath, I’ll get my $500 deductible back.

“I heard about that one,” I told Erik. “But based on my lived experience, it seems like other criminal conspiracies remain at large.”

Erik agreed. Law enforcement still had a lot of work to do. He also said I had a “snow ball’s chance in hell” of getting my $500 deductible back from the feds.

“OK, I’ve reopened the claim,” he said. “You should be hearing from our adjuster in about an hour or two.”

Immediately, my phone buzzed with a new text message. I checked the screen. It was the insurance adjuster.

“Erik, I won’t say a hero, ‘cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a man. And I'm talkin’ about you here, dude. Sometimes, there’s a man, well, he’s the man for his time and place because he understands, without being told, that sometimes married women keep their names, and sometimes insurance claims get fucked up for no reason, and most important of all, he understands how to unfuck those claims, toot sweet.”

Erik thanked me, then reminded me to give him the highest rating on the customer satisfaction survey that was surely headed my way. Before he hung up, we made plans to form a bowling team with my mechanic.

Now what happens?

Now, we wait. And by we, I mean me.

The claims people will do their thing. Then the mechanic people will do their thing. Then the supply chain will do its thing.

With any luck, I should have my new catalytic convertor in time for Passover. But as the lyrics to the old blues song go, “if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.”

Which brings me to the interactive part of this story. After watching my car sit idle for most of the summer and knowing that it’ll sit idle again for the bulk of the winter, I can’t help but worry that I was born under a very bad automotive sign. My fear, and I think it’s a rational one at this point, is that as soon as I get a new catalytic convertor, the thieves will return to steal it.

Help me, situation normies, you’re my only hope!

I’ve been thinking about my next move a lot. I think I’ve got four options. I’m going to run you through those options, then ask you to pick your choice in a poll. After that, I’d love it if you expanded on your answer in the comments.

Option #1: It’s a police matter, let them handle it

This option is a joke, so I’ve selected an appropriate video clip👇

Option #2: Accept that this is life in the big city

Whenever things went sideways, my father used to say, “that’s life in the big city.” I don’t know where he picked up the phrase, which is a cleaner, urban alternative to saying “shit happens.” But every time I think about my stolen catalytic convertors, I hear my father’s voice.

So, that’s an option: do nothing. Except, doing nothing is more complicated than it sounds. Living by the “life in the big city” mantra, means practicing a kind of acceptance of the world as it is, rather than spinning your wheels because the world isn’t as you think it should be. If I take this option, I’ll have to accept that thieves have the power to render my car inoperable at their whim, as well as the fact that I can’t really complain about it.

Option #3: Channel my inner sleuth & foil the caper

Disclosure: I’ve never solved any crimes, unless you count the case of the stolen Garbage Pail Kids. In that case, Allison confessed after I found the stolen property in her hands. But since there were only two people home at the time of the theft, my investigative efforts were more Clouseau than Poirot. Still, when it comes to my stolen catalytic convertors, I’m willing to give it the old college try.

Here’s how Joe College plans to work the case.

First, I’ll get a new catalytic convertor. I’ll ask my enlightened mechanic to put my car’s VIN on the new catalytic convertor, which will help the district attorney make the case after I bring these suckers to justice. I’ll also ask my mechanic to install a cage. This won’t stop or even deter the thieves, but it will slow them down; the next time they fuck with my car, it’ll take them four minutes, instead of two!

Second, I’ll set up a surveillance operation that’ll make Dick Cheney proud. I’m thinking several cameras on our property and some cameras across the street. They’ll activate with motion sensor, naturally. And if I can find the budget, they’ll have infrared capabilities. My goal is to get faces and licenses plates of the thieves, obviously. But I don’t want it to be that low-quality video on Nextdoor. I want the footage to be the high-quality video the local news sources from Nextdoor. Understand the difference?

Third, I’ll place Apple AirTags on the new catalytic convertor. That way I can track the thieves to their fence.

Fourth, once I gather all the evidence I need to takedown the thieves who keep stealing my catalytic convertors, as well as the larger criminal syndicate, I’ll take that evidence to the cops.

Fifth, if the cops won’t do anything about it, I’ll write another Situation Normal post where we can debate my next moves, which are likely to include:

Vigilantism. Duh.

Enlisting the power of the press to shame the authorities into doing their job.

Run for Mayor, win in a landslide, and spend my term tackling the Sisyphean task of police reform, while being criticized in the press and mocked on social media.

Option #4: Take the money and run!

Here’s how this one would play out. First, I’d get the car fixed. Then I’d sell the car. After that, we’d be a one-car family.

This option would be a win for the environment (our other car is electric). It would also be a win for readers who like my Lyft driver stories. Then there’s the financial win. We own the car outright, so there are no car payments to say goodbye to. But I’m sure I can figure out a way to use whatever cash I get from selling a 2015 Prius with low mileage and a new catalytic convertor.

But part of me worries that this option is also a loser. For one thing, it feels like I’m letting the thieves win. That’s not a good feeling, even though they’ve been winning this whole time. Also, as much as I like the idea of becoming a one-car family, the truth is that we live in the San Fernando Valley, the birthplace of car culture. Living the one-car family life is possible, but in this part of the country, it’s a commitment that requires planning, determination, and a willingness to be that guy at parties and social gatherings.

Time for the poll!

As I said, I really want your input, situation normies! But unlike Twitter polls, this one isn’t binding, OK? I’m not going to crack the case just because that’s how the vote went down. The U.S. may be a democracy (for now), but Situation Normal is a benevolent dictatorship. In other words, I value your input, but don’t expect your voice or your vote to call the shots around here.

Let’s talk about it!

Usually, I close each Situation Normal post with some discussion questions. But I’d like to keep this one as open-ended as possible. Please share your advice, thoughts, questions, sympathies, or whatever else you’ve got on your mind in the comments section 👇

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A perfect crime? 🦹‍♀️ LinkMeIn 🖇 Funny Graffiti 🖌 After Twitter 🐣

Hey there, situation normies! I know you’re used to jumping right into the story, but that format feels stale, so I’m changing things up by opening with a quick introduction. I’m back from Bali (you can read about that adventure here), back on Pacific Standard Time, and back on my healthy ish eating plan after Thanksgiving.

Here’s what we’ve got in store for this edition of Situation Normal :

Christina was nosy (and she almost got away with it)

LinkedIn connects ME to ME

A stand-up graffiti submission

What comes after Twitter?

Christina was nosy (and she almost got away with it)

Despite the best efforts of Philippine Airlines, we made it back from Bali on the Monday before Thanksgiving. In order to adjust to the local time in Los Angeles, we spent the first day back puttering around the house like zombies, resisting the urge to go to bed at noon. It was rough, but we made it through Monday.

Then came Tuesday, which turned out to be a real fucking doozy.

My plan was to wake up early, attack a massive backlog of laundry, clean the house, pick up my new glasses at the optometrist, hit the bank to exchange my leftover Indonesian rupiah and deposit unspent U.S. currency, visit the dispensary to buy some organic sugar-free cannabis gummies, call my sister in New York so she could walk me through her recipe for cornbread stuffing, buy the good cornbread at a local bakery, go to the market for the rest of my Thanksgiving shopping, and if possible, start prepping the Thanksgiving meal.

Unfortunately, I slept in until noon because jet lag is a motherfucker.

“I feel like I wrecked myself,” I told Christina.

“Maybe you should’ve checked yourself before you wrecked yourself,” she said. “Also, what are we doing for food? I’m starving, but the fridge is empty.”

“I’m calling an audible. Let’s go get breakfast. Then I’ll drop you off and head for the market.”

“Great. I’ll handle the laundry.”

We broke our huddle with confidence, then went to breakfast. After breakfast, I dropped Christina off at home, then went to the market.

Shopping during Thanksgiving week isn’t for amateurs, but that’s exactly who shows up—amateurs.

Right out of the gate, these amateurs turn the parking lot into a moron convention with their janky parking jobs and a sense of entitlement that tells them it’s OK to leave their shopping carts everywhere, except for the cart return.

Inside the market, the situation is even worse. The produce section is overrun with amateurs who can’t tell mint from sage, and scream out questions like, “which potatoes are the ones you’re supposed to mash?” Over by the butcher, the amateurs are out in force, fondling every turkey in sight, looking for the perfect bird, knowing full well that they’re just going to stick that sucker in the oven, baste the day away, then call the Butterball hotline to ask what temperature is best for cooking a turkey after seven hours of roasting. Then there’s the dairy section, where I shit you not, I had to explain to a grown man that whipping cream—if you channel your inner Devo and whip it real good—will become—wait for it—whipped cream.

By the time I hit the checkout line, I had lost my damn mind dealing with these amateurs. But little did I know that the shit was about to hit the fan.

As I watched the checker bag my groceries, my phone rang. It was Christina, but I sent her call to voicemail because I planned to call her back just as soon as I left the market. Then the phone rang again. That worried me. This time, I picked up.

“I think I broke my nose,” Christina said.

“What!? How!? What happened!?”

Christina started to explain, but her voice sounded like she had stuffed an entire turkey up her nose, so I told her to sit tight.

“I’ll be home in ten minutes,” I said.

I hung up, helped the checker finish bagging the groceries, booked it to my car, put the groceries in the trunk, returned the shopping cart because we live in a society, then hauled ass back home. I made it in nine minutes flat.

“There was a lot of blood,” Christina said. “But I think the bleeding stopped.”

Christina removed the compress from her nose.

“No bleeding, but it looks like you got punched in the face.”

“It was the fucking step ladder. I was putting away our luggage in the garage, and it fell on my head.”

“Ouch.”

We both agreed that our next stop, just as soon as I put away the perishables in the fridge and put out some fresh water for Mortimer, was the hospital. Three minutes later, we were on the road to urgent care. But as it turned out, our definition of “urgent” isn’t shared by the medical community.

“They said it’ll take three hours,” Christina said. “Maybe we should just leave.”

“I’d feel better if you got it checked out.”

“I’m fine. I have a high tolerance for pain.”

“I know. That’s why I want you to get it checked out, honey. You come from tough-as-nails Scotch-Irish stock. I’m talking real Braveheart shit. Some fancy English knight probably cut off your ancestor’s head, but I’ll bet he said it was ‘just a scratch’ that could be cured by rubbing some dirt on it, eating Haggis, and kicking some English ass.”

Christina shrugged.

“Maybe you’re right. You would’ve lost your shit, but I held onto my shit.”

“Congratulations on being a badass.”

“I even cleaned up all the blood,” Christina said. “How badass is that?”

“Very badass.”

“The entire crime scene is pristine.”

“Um… I hate to break it to you, honey, but they say that when you commit a crime, you always make a mistake.”

“Not me. I cleaned up all the blood. There’s no trace of what went down.”

We killed time in the urgent care waiting room by joking about the “crime scene” back at our place.

After X-rays, an exam, and two co-pays, we found out that Christina’s nose wasn’t broken. That was good news, but I was too busy plotting my revenge to celebrate.

“When I get my hands on that step ladder, I’m gonna murder ‘em.”

Christina still thought the crime bit had legs, but she asked me to stop because her nose hurt like hell every time she laughed.

Back at home, Christina curled up on the couch with Mortimer. I went into the garage, grabbed the step ladder, and hurled it against the wall.

“You like punching my lady in the nose?” I asked. “I’m gonna punch you in the nose, fella!”

But I couldn’t find the step ladder’s nose. So, I channeled my inner Macho Man Randy Savage. I picked the step ladder up off the ground by its hair, raised it over my head my head like a trophy, then I threw it to the ground.

The step ladder writhed in pain, but that didn’t stop me from stomping on it over and over again. When I got tired of stomping on the step ladder, I spat on it. Then I stomped on it some more. The step ladder’s pain was my fuel.

When I was done stomping, I went over to my tool box, grabbed a hammer, then went to work on the step ladder. That was good fun, but I didn’t want to kill the step ladder before giving it a chance to beg for it’s life.

“Ask me to spare you, fuck nuts!”

The step ladder gurgled something about sparing its life because it was “just a kid” and had plans to grow up to be a real ladder someday. I just laughed in its face.

“You’re going down for the dirt nap because of what you did to my lady,” I said. “But I like you, kid, you got guts. I’m still gonna kill you, but I’ll kill you quick.”

I used some bungee cords to tie up the step ladder because I’ve seen enough movies to know that you don’t fuck in these situations. Then I went into the kitchen, grabbed a Ginsu knife that cuts cans, and returned to the garage, where I carved up that step ladder like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“What are you doing, honey?” Christina called out from the living room.

“I’m doing crimes!”

Then I opened the garage door, picked up the hulking carcass of the step ladder, and threw its remains in the trash.

“You sleep with the fishes,” I said. “Also, Michael Corleone says hello.”

Having done crime, I decided I didn’t want to do time. So, I went back into the house to clean up the crime scene.

Thankfully, the step ladder wasn’t a bleeder. Also, Christina was right about cleaning up after the step ladder attack. There wasn’t a drop of her blood in the garage. All I had to do was wash my hands. But in the bathroom this farce ran headlong into Macbeth territory.

“Honey, you know how you said you didn’t leave a drop of blood anywhere?” I called out from the bathroom.

“That’s right. I committed the perfect crime.”

“Better come in the bathroom,” I said.

Christina left Mortimer on the couch and joined me in the bathroom.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the problem.

There was the evidence of the crime, plain as day. The white sink was the perfect canvass for Christina’s bloody red handprint.

“Jesus! I left behind blood, DNA, and fingerprints all in one place,” she said. “Wowsers.”

“Perfect crime my ass, Lady Macbeth.”

I found myself! Actually, Michael Estrin found me!

Astute Situation Normal readers will recall that I often receive job offers for the other Michael Estrin, a man with a great name and an even better resume for an era characterized by endless technological disruption and ridiculous salaries for those who do the disrupting. Sometimes I amuse myself (and you) by messing with the job recruiters who rely on bad LinkedIn data, but I never considered the possibility that LinkedIn might actually help me connect with my namesake. Thankfully, the other Michael Estrin is a LinkedIn power user. I hope to interview him soon.

Good John Mulaney graffiti

A reader who goes by the handle Claus von Chürro spotted this graffiti in their neighborhood. Like all good graffiti, it tells a story. Sure, this story starts out kinda rough, but by the end you’re a small business owner.

Life after Twitter

I’m still on Twitter, where I try to post jokes and resist trolling fascist goons. Frankly, I don’t think I’m all that interesting on Twitter. But I hope to be more interesting on Post.News, which is one of thirty-six thousand platforms currently vying for the title of The Next Twitter.

Post.News is still in beta, so the community is small and there’s a waitlist. But I got in, which means you can get in too, because I’m always the last guy they let into da club. If you want to connect with me on Post.News, I’m right here.

Contribute a thing to Situation Normal!

The Wednesday edition doesn’t write itself. I need your help! Do you have a question about something I’ve written? Got a weird overheard you want to share? See a product or sign that made you LOL, or WTF? Need life advice? Reply to this email, or send your submissions to me at 👇

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When submitting, please say if you’d like an alias. Otherwise, I’ll use your first name. If you write a newsletter, I’m happy to link to it, so let me know!

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Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you may or may not have answers.

Are you investigating Twitter alternatives, or are you one of those enlightened people who never used Twitter in the first place?

What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a thing you ended up breaking because you never really understood it to begin with? Was it less than $44 billion?

If you had $44 billion burning a hole in your pocket, what would you do with it, after paying off all your debts, funding your retirement, and throwing a pizza party for Situation Normal readers?

If I land an interview with the other Michael Estrin, what should I ask him?

I know you’ve never committed the perfect crime because there’s no such thing. But if the statute of limitations has run, can you share a little about a crime you got away with?

Leave a comment

Until next Sunday, when I’ll have an un-fucking-believable true crime story for you, as well as some questions that could change the course of my life… One last thing! Hit that ❤️ button🙏👇

Imperial estimates at the hotel pool

Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash

Olympic gold medalist and former Subway spokesman Michael Phelps once told me the “secret” to surviving the flight back from Asia: hit the pool, then hit the bong.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t any weed at the airport Hilton in Denpasar, Bali, but there was a big-ass pool, and since I had two long-ass flights ahead of me, I decided half-assed prep was better than no prep at all.

I swam for fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I know this because my Apple Watch kept track of my workout, even though I didn’t ask it to do that. As I’ve mentioned before, my Apple Watch tells me how to live, but the price I pay is that it tells Tim Cook how I live. Life is a series of compromises and tradeoffs, I guess.

I didn’t count the laps because the point was to swim until my watch buzzed, alerting me that I had reached my daily exercise goal, and as a result, succeeded in closing the green ring on my watch. I’m a sucker for gamification, that’s for sure.

Another thing that’s for sure. I am not a swimmer. At least, that’s not how I’d describe myself. I can hit the bong with the best of them, and I can still take down a footlong sub, and I know how to swim, more or less, but I am no Michael Phelps.

Not that I’m trying to subvert your image of me. If you prefer to picture me as as an aquatic bong-ripping adonis who takes down foot-long subs two at a time, I’m not going to stand in your way. In fact, I encourage you to think of me as an aquatic bong-ripping adonis who takes down foot-long subs two at a time because that’s how another man at the hotel pool saw me.

“Sir, you are good,” he said. “Very hard to swimming. You are good, sir.”

I was resting against the wall near the entrance to the pool. My breathing was heavy. Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had to squint to see the man paying me this compliment. He may have been Chinese, maybe from China, maybe ethnic Chinese from another country in Southeast Asia. I couldn’t be sure about that stuff. All I knew for sure was that the man was on the youngish side and blurry. Also, he thought I was a really good swimmer because he kept telling me so.

“Sir, you are good swimming,” he said in heavily accented English. “Good swimming, sir.”

I didn’t like being called sir; it made me feel old. But I liked the compliments. I’ve been swimming since I was five, but I’ve never been called a “good swimmer,” not once. On my best days, I am an adequate swimmer.

“Swimming good,” he said again. “Strong, sir.”

This time he made a pantomime of the breast stroke. Since I had been doing the breast stroke, I assumed he was imitating me, and since imitation is the highest form of flattery, I was flattered. For the first time in my life, I had managed to unlock that Michael Phelps feeling, without ingesting high-quality THC and low-quality deli meat.

“Thank you.”

“I not good.”

I smiled. He smiled. Or, maybe he didn’t smile. Maybe the blurry man I was looking at frowned. But I like to think he smiled.

“I take swimming test next week,” he said.

He explained that he needed to pass his swimming test, but didn’t say why exactly. I figured the swimming test had something to do with finishing his studies, or securing a job. Believing that he believed in my swimming abilities—for some peculiar reason—I decided to give the stranger some encouragement.

“You’ll pass,” I said. “Just takes practice.”

“Practice,” he agreed. “I practice.”

Then he turned to face the far end of the pool. He pressed his back against the wall, ready to practice. This was good, I thought. He needed to practice to pass the test, and watching me do laps had inspired him. This wasn’t exactly a mitzvah, but I think it qualified as a solid.

“How long pool? How many meters?”

“I’m not sure about meters,” I said.

“How many meters?”

“Sorry, I’m American, and we use the imperial system.”

“American?”

“Yeah, American. We use a different system, for some reason. I’m not good at estimating in meters.”

“Twenty-five meters?”

I hesitated because I had no clue. To me, twenty-five meters might as well be twenty-five cubits.

“Fifty meters?” he asked.

“Sorry, I can only estimate in feet.”

Actually, that wasn’t true. I can also estimate in yards, like any red-blooded, metric-ignorant American. But I didn’t think yards would be helpful in this situation. Only after I got out of the pool and consulted Google, did I learn that one meter is just shy of one yard. If I had known that at the time, I would’ve tried to imagine myself throwing a football to the far end of the pool. If the throw made it all the way to the other end, I could estimate the length of the pool to be twenty-five yards, or meters, which is the limit the Football Gods imposed on my mortal arm.

Not that my aquatic admirer cared about any of that. He just wanted to know the length of the pool, and he wanted the answer in meters, because that’s how most of the world measures distance.

“Fifty meters?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Fifty meters?” he asked again.

I thought about referencing that bit from Pulp Fiction, where John Travolta explains that in Europe a quarter-pounder with cheese is actually a royale with cheese on account of the metric system. But I never got the chance.

“Fifty meters,” he declared.

I didn’t want to argue, so I didn’t argue with the blurry man.

“Yeah, sure, fifty meters, I guess.”

Suddenly, the man gave me a blurry thumbs up. Then he sunk below the waterline, and used his feet to springboard off the wall.

Right away, I could tell the man was in trouble. Instead of surfacing to begin his stroke, his body writhed under the water in a series of disjointed contortions. I couldn’t discern a stroke. He kind of looked like a spastic version of the eight-bit centipede from the video game Centipede. Or, maybe that’s just how my mind’s eye filled in the gaps of the blurry figure thrashing about below the water.

Either way, this wasn’t good. I worried that I might have to save the blurry man’s life, not because he had flattered me, but because he was a human being who appeared to be in danger.

I needed to act fast.

I needed to formulate a plan.

I ran down a list of questions in my mind.

Question: Is there a lifeguard on duty, or is it up to me alone?

Answer: No life guard. Like everything else in Bali, you swim at the hotel pool at your own risk. Bali isn’t just paradise, it’s a paradise for corporate lawyers.

Question: Do I have enough energy and skill to save him?

Answer: I was tired. And I had never saved anyone from drowning before. But I knew I had to try. Between the adrenaline burst that would certainly come with whatever hero shit I was about to undertake and the energy I had left in tank after my workout, I thought I could do it.

Question: Wait a second. How deep was this pool? Shallow enough to stand?

Answer: I remembered the markings outside the pool said it was 1.2 meters.

Question: How many feet in a meter, damn it!? And why don’t American schools teach the metric system? It’s a way better system. It has more scientific utility, which is why Americans do things like chemistry in metric, plus the rest of the world uses it, so why should we be different?

Answer: Royale with cheese!

I took in a deep breath and prepared to swim as fast as I could toward the flailing blur of a man. But a split-second before I took off to rescue him, the man shot to the surface like that Russian sub at the end of The Hunt for Red October.

I heard him gasp for air.

Then I noticed that he was standing in the pool.

Standing and walking.

Walking toward the steps.

His practice session was over, thank the gods!

Despite my earlier advice, I didn’t think practicing would help him pass his swimming test. He needed to learn how to swim first, then practice. In the meantime, I hoped that he would fail his test, not because I wanted to deny him whatever achievement was contingent upon passing, but because I wanted him to know that pools could be dangerous, if you don’t know how to swim.

Not that I was in a position to teach this man about the dangers of pools. There was a language barrier to consider, as well as the fact that I am only an adequate swimmer. Only an aquatic newb like the blurry man could mistake Michael Estrin for Michael Phelps.

But as I watched the blurry man walk through the water to safety, I realized that he had taught me something. After all, he was standing up in chest-deep water. Since the blur was about the same height as me, I could deduce that the pool, which had a marked depth of 1.2 meters, was about four-feet deep!

After nearly thirty hours of traveling, we made it back from Bali. You can read all thirteen Situation Bali travel dispatches here. In the meantime, it’s good to be home, and it’s great to get back to writing Situation Normal. I’m thankful for each and every one of you who reads my silly stories.

Usually, I close with questions related to the story, but since this post is coming out the Sunday after the U.S. celebrates Thanksgiving, I’m going to leave you with some Thanksgiving-related discussion questions.

Did you celebrate Thanksgiving? If so, what did you do?

If you contribute to the Thanksgiving meal by cooking, what’s your best dish? I make a bitching cornbread stuffing, but I also roasted some Delicata squash that really brought the meal together.

Are you a Black Friday / Cyber Monday warrior? If so, tell us about the deals?

What’s your favorite Thanksgiving-themed episode of television, and why is it the “Turkeys Away” episode of WKRP in Cincinnati?

Pumpkin pie? Apple pie? Pecan pie? Or, do you eat all three on Thanksgiving because you’re livin’ right?

What are you thankful for?

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