Michael Estrin's Blog, page 21

We came here to leave it all behind

The journey took longer than we planned, but we finally made it to Bali. From a purely logistical standpoint, the credit (and the blame) goes to Philippine Airlines, which rebuffed my hostile takeover bid by serving me a dodgy chicken satay. My lawyers are looking into the matter, but based on my limited knowledge of aviation law, doing someone dirty isn’t actionable.

No matter.

We are in Bali!

See👇

Seminyak beach

On our first morning in Bali, Christina and I tried to remember the last time we went abroad. I thought it was Amsterdam. Christina thought it was our trip to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

“It was definitely before the pandemic,” I said.

“Technically, we were in Canadian waters on our Alaskan cruise,” Christina said.

That was true. When we went to Alaska in June, we also went to Canada. But what we were actually trying to recall was the last time we felt that feeling you get when you leave it all behind. For some reason, Mexico counts on that score, but Canada doesn’t. Don’t ask me why; I don’t make the rules.

One of the joys of traveling abroad is that you get to leave your country behind for a time. In fact, the farther you go from home, the more you find yourself out of synch with the mothership. I consider that asynchrony a joy because, frankly, sometimes you just need a break. Maybe that’s why we chose Bali. It’s so far away from the U.S. that you can’t help but drop out of the daily dramas that occupy America’s attention.

By way of example, the Indonesian man who drove us from the airport to our hotel didn’t ask about inflation, or the upcoming election, or the shit-show at Twitter. Instead, we talked about the rain, Hindu temples, Bali’s popularity with the TikTok crowd, and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. The conversation was a delight, even if far too much praise was heaped on Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines.

Hanging out by the pool, I eavesdropped on a French family. I don’t speak French, but I’m sure they weren’t talking about free speech, guns, or the culture wars. I’d like to think they were talking about Jean-Luc Godard’s masterpiece Breathless, because I like to think that cinema is the essential subject for all French people. But that’s probably wishful thinking on my part. Regardless, the experience was delightful, even if it was indecipherable.

When we got massages, nobody spoke at all. That was also a delight, but in a different way. For the first time in a long time—for seventy-five blissful minutes—I didn’t think about America, or my life, or anything at all. For the first time since the last time we went abroad—wherever it was that we went—I felt as though I had left it all behind, in the best possible sense of that phrase.

Like Arnold, we’ll be back one day. But for now, we are in Bali. And now that we’re finally here, it feels as though we’re beginning to unplug from what we know and plug into something new.

Thanks for reading the Situation Bali edition of Situation Normal! Be sure to subscribe for more adventures.

Layover in Manila

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

Hello from Manila!

You thought I’d be writing to you from Bali, and frankly, so did I. But the Gods of Air Travel had other ideas. Let me explain.

The original plan was to fly from Los Angeles to Manila, change planes, then head for Bali. Our layover in Manila was supposed to last about an hour. Like I said, that was the plan. But to paraphrase an old Yiddish proverb: Man plans, and the Gods of Air Travel laugh their asses off while you stew in layover hell.

When we checked in at LAX, the gate agent told us our flight to Manila would be delayed by three hours. That didn’t sound too bad, but then the gate agent explained that we’d have to wait approximately twenty hours in Manila for the next flight to Bali. In other words, instead of arriving in Bali on November 3, we’d get there at the same time on November 4.

Christina took the bad news in stride. She used the delay to book us a hotel in Manila.

“Sleeping in a real bed and showering beats wandering the airport like a zombie for twenty hours,” she said.

My reaction to the bad news wasn’t nearly as practical. Right there at the LAX check-in counter, I went full Kübler-Ross.

Denial - “This isn’t happening. Check the computer. Remember that scene from the movie Summer School? I’m the guy who spent the entire summer in the bathroom, but I got the highest test score! The computer must be wrong. We’re going to Bali. Actually, we’re already in Bali. This. Is. Bali.”

Anger - “You motherfuckers stole a day from us. I’m hiring a lawyer, and we’re going to sue you bastards for a million days! You ever see Bladerunner? I’m Rutger Hauer. I want more days in Bali, fucker!”

Bargaining - “If Elon Musk can buy Twitter, I can buy Philippine Airlines. I don’t care if its for sale or not, I’m paying $420 per share, and you’re taking us to Bali. After that, everyone is fired, except for the finance team, because we’re switching to a subscription model to pay for my folly.”

Depression - “We’ll never make it to Bali. Everything is ruined. Let’s go home. Maybe we can order the world’s smallest violin on Amazon. My sadness needs a soundtrack.”

Acceptance - “Shit happens, I guess.”

Things to do in Manila when you’re waylaid

At this point in the dispatch, it occurs to me that you might be hoping for a win. Like, maybe we used the layover to sample some amazing local cuisine, or see a tourist attractions like Rizal Park? Or, maybe I’m working my way around to a rambling essay about chicken adobo, American empire, the joys of Jollibee, the strange cultural bridges built by outsourcing, the historic walls of Intramuros, how Neal Stephenson’s literary maximalism in Cryptonomicon captures the essence of Intramuros, and the serendipity of traveling to a city you had no intention of visiting. That would’ve been the baller move, the Anthony Bourdain move.

But there’s a reason why Christina and I haven’t been offered a Travel Channel show. Actually, there are several reasons why we haven’t been offered a Travel Channel show, but that’s a different story.

In this story, the Gods of Air Travel handed us lemons, and we took those lemons to a hotel, where we hydrated, showered, slept, hydrated again, showered again, and ate breakfast. The win, if there was one, is that we used the layover to reset our internal clocks and acclimate to the local timezone.

Now, we’re back at the airport, kicking it in some lounge where the internet password is—I shit you not—12345, which also happens to be the combination to President Skroob’s luggage.

ANYWAY, with any luck, we’ll takeoff soon and finally get to Bali—I hope!

Thanks for reading the Situation Bali edition of Situation Normal! Subscribe for free to receive new dispatches (and to see if we ever make it to Bali).

Vote or Die returns

Hi everyone!

The next post you read from me will be Situation Bali. But today I’m pleased to bring you a special election edition of Situation Normal. The following is a satirical collaboration with two very funny writers: Dennard Dayle of Extra Evil and Amran Gowani of Field Research.

Enjoy!

And if you live in the U.S., remember to vote.

DENNARD: First of all, it’s an honor to be here. Voting has always been important to me, and dying is one of my least favorite things. Bottom five, maybe three. But number one is subpar creative.

You won’t find any here. At Virtuosity, we only produce brilliance. Which you’ll need to get the traumatized masses to the polls.

We’ve each prepared ideas to bring Vote or Die into the twenty-first century. Your first campaign was technically this century, but a little off-tone. I think you’ll find we’ve captured the spirit of the moment.

Specifically, we’re focusing on the winning team. We envision the new Vote or Die as a pure conservative initiative. The American experiment is headed one way, and I’m sure you want to be on the right side of the Proscriptions. Why play to a middle that no longer exists? Let’s score some early points with the Grand Only Party.

Before passing the baton to my peers, I’d like to emphasize that I know you didn’t have Mr. Shakur killed. And it’s petty of anyone to suggest so.

MICHAEL: This one is a new twist on a classic of the genre. Remember LBJ’s Daisy ad? An adorable little girl counts as she plucks the petals off a daisy flower. She’s counting up, but the voice-over is counting down: “Ten, nine, eight…”

We zoom in on her face.

“Seven, six, five…”

The little girl’s dark brown eyes fill the screen.

“Four, three, two…”

The screen goes dark for a moment.

“One, zero…”

BOOM!

Mushroom clouds. Big-ass mushroom clouds. Like the ones at the end of Dr. Strangelove, only bigger because we have way better CGI.

Now, here’s the twist. Instead of LBJ, we hear from a real American hero (Ricky Schroder or Scott Baio).

“These are the stakes. If the Democrats win, Sleepy Joe Biden will nuke every Red state in America, then repopulate that post-apocalyptic wasteland with socialist immigrants. Don’t let that happen. Vote or die.”

Here’s the kicker: The original LBJ ad only aired once, but the media covered it to death (pun intended). We buy one primetime slot, then let the media do the rest.

DENNARD: It’s all a little expensive, isn’t it? The media buys, the actors, our overtime. Wouldn’t it be nice to nail this with a simple postcard?

I have.

Consider the valor thief. The moral hypocrite. The poser. From the army to the playground, America hates and humiliates frauds. We’re inches away from bringing back pillories.

It’d be a shame for that to include you, wouldn’t it? To find your guilt in the mail? Like so?

The lie’s as American as hypertension. “I just voted. I didn’t spend today dunking stale Halloween Oreos in Cool Whip. I could name the Secretary of State if you asked.” But nothing can hide the sugar on your fingertips.

This card sends a simple message: we know. We already track what you eat, say, and dream. Finding out if you bothered sleepwalking into a public library takes nothing.

Don’t forget: we’re after the conspiracy-minded. People convinced they’re worth constant attention from hidden powers. Making our name an elegant asset. Vote. Or Die implies we’re willing to act on our knowledge, and that accidents happen. That people have a way of disappearing, especially when they let civic duty slide.

I’d never endorse threatening voters. Explicitly. But implicit threats are the artistry you came to us for. And if you have the courage, we can take that sense of dread a step further. The deluxe version perfects our messaging:

Beautiful. Want to sign off on this now, or pretend to consider the others? I’ll give you a minute. Let us know if you need help with the wire transfer.

AMRAN: We reach voters in their natural habitats. On their TVs. In their mailboxes. And here, through their browsers.

Imagine your target voter’s perusing their favorite, fact-based news source: Breitbart, 8chan, the Wall Street Journal op-ed page. They’re trying to learn the “truth” about the world, but in the corner of their eye they’re distracted.

A Target ad urges them to buy a twenty-dollar jug of Tide. Hello? Inflation?

eBay wants them to bid on bump stocks — as if sophisticated AR-15 connoisseurs don’t keep a dozen backups on hand.

I like to call these wasted opportunities.

Instead of that untargeted, unrefined dross, what if your desired voter saw these instead?

A Chicano gangbanger holding a burrito and a brick of cocaine, with bold, overlaid text reading, “Ever met one of these that didn’t smuggle the American Dream? Vote or Die.”

A thug wearing a BLM hoodie, wielding a TEC-9 with, “Ever met one of these that didn’t loot the American Dream? Vote or Die.”

Kumail Nanjiani with, “Ever met one of these that didn’t outsource the American Dream? Vote or Die.”

A horde of Chinese chemists working in a “gain-of-function” laboratory, one holding a flask labeled “Biohazard: Wuhan flu,” with, “Ever met one of these that didn’t infect the American Dream? Vote or Die.”

An Orthodox Jew flipping through a stack of crisp, hundred-dollar bills with, “Ever met one of these that didn’t sell out the American Dream? Vote or Die.”

At Virtuosity we don’t sell stuff. We sell ideas. Like racial animus. Economic anxiety. Democracy.

DENNARD: High standards! I respect that. These ideas were decoys. We wanted to see if you were serious. Isn’t that right?

MICHAEL: So right, it’s alt right.

AMRAN: You’re not just buying Virtuosity, Virtuosity’s buying you. Now we know you’ve got discerning taste.

DENNARD: Some creative directors would be insulted, and I am. I love it. Insults keep me sharp. Thank you for your insults.

AMRAN: Try this on for size.

AMRAN: To the zealots of the fundamentalist right there’s only one acceptable form of carnal knowledge: missionary-style between God and the Virgin Mary. The concepts of gender and sexual fluidity terrify these people the way a mass shooter ought to.

Let’s set the scene.

Look what they did to that poor Miller boy.

We’re in a sun-drenched kitchen. A Cleveland Browns banner hangs on the wall. A portly, cherubic woman with blonde hair and blue eyes — think the mom from That ‘70s Show — is wearing a red-and-white checkered apron and carving an apple pie. She looks up, directly into the camera, smiles, and says:

“In this house we love God, country, and family.”

Then her face turns ominous. Literal storm clouds roll in, the kitchen goes dark, and she warns:

“But the radical left wants to destroy traditional family values and our Christian way of life.

“I got a form from my ten-year-old daughter’s school asking if her ‘preferred’ gender identity was male, female, or ‘other.’

“Last I checked The Book of Genesis said God created Adam and Eve. There wasn't no other.

“But, according to the woke, Soros-backed, Satan lovers on the radical left there is.

“My daughter’s school is crawling with Godless abominations who ‘self-identify’ as homosexuals, transexuals, furries, and — if you can believe it — unicorns. Some of these shaitans eat from sparkly feed bags, drink out of rainbow-colored water troughs, and require designated ‘petting and play time.’ If those aren’t codewords for grooming, then I don’t love the Lord.

“I heard they even perform abortions for these equine-like affronts to humanity in ‘gender-neutral’ bathrooms!

“The radical left’s so thoroughly corrupted public education we had to enroll our daughter in the local Catholic School. At least there we know she’s safe from sexual deviants.”

We freeze the scene, capturing the righteous fury on mom’s face. Then, an iconic Hollywood voice — think Morgan Freeman — says:

“The radical left: against Christ, against America, for genital mutilation and interspecies miscegenation. The choice is clear: Vote. Or your children dabble in bestiality before they die.”

DENNARD: I’ll admit: we’ve made one or two appeals to emotion. In our craft, jingles and prodding anger come naturally. But our next concept is driven by data. Zeroes, ones, all the rest.

I’ve isolated the most persuasive modern archetype. The face our audience will follow into the final election.

What unites crime reporting, high fashion, Chili’s staffing, pop music, and adult entertainment? Blondes. The single white female is the basic unit of American attention. This includes politics, where birth rates motivate our most influential shooters and justices.

Next, think of the children. Or rather, how often we claim to think of them. The words “child safety” annihilate everything preceding them. They trample statistics, theory, and perspective into dust. Any force that can keep school resource officers employed is strong enough for our purpose.

Ergo, the most persuasive possible mascot is an endangered blonde child.

I have numbers for all that. I’ll send them later. For now, consider this slide.

That’s not a stock photo. Meet Mary Waller from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Her parents have generously volunteered her services — working with us fulfills her junior Social Studies credit. Along with AP Biology, thanks to her co-star.

This is the shortfin mako, a Shark Week favorite and death vortex. The danger posed by most marine life is exaggerated, because they aren’t shortfins. Makos do all the motivated, high-speed murder depicted by Hollywood. I call this one Wanda.

Mary is currently suspended over Wanda’s tank.

The campaign’s simple. If we receive two million photos with “I Voted” stickers, Mary walks. If we don’t, Wanda eats. Meta’s leaking users, so it’ll be close.

It’s not just Vote or Die. It’s Vote or She Dies. Appeals to replacement theory are fun, but abstract. Mary puts a face on the future our base wants to preserve with an iron fist. And Wanda’s hungry.

That said, we’re keeping it humane. We’ve only starved Wanda for a week, and we’ve let Mary keep her phone. If you approve the campaign, we’ll give her Wi-Fi. Then her pleas to live can attract organic engagement, the holy grail of metrics.

We haven’t even launched yet, and our target audience has latched onto Mary’s disappearance. Google’s top three trending searches are “My Mary’s Missing,” “Why, Obama?” and “Black Friday Deals 2022.” And yes, Black Friday’s last.

MICHAEL: This one is so real it could be a documentary, but unfortunately the Project Veritas people are in legal hot water at the moment. So, we see this one as animated.

We’re looking at a gas station. The pumps have been defaced with graffiti. It’s all leftist eco-propaganda: “Save the planet,” “Climate change is real,” “End fossil fuels now!”

At one of the pumps there’s a Ford F-150. This is a true patriot’s truck. Confederate flag painted on the hood. Blue Lives Matter mud flaps. A bumper sticker that reads: “Let’s Go Brandon.”

A man exits the truck. We’ll call him Patriot. He’s a real American: cowboy boots, distressed American flag t-shirt, skin as white as Klansmen’s robes. Patriot walks over to the pump.

Patriot: “Fifty-eight dollars a gallon!? Thanks for the inflation, Joe Biden.”

At the mention of “Biden,” storm clouds darken the sky. The wind howls. Patriot looks toward the gas station's convenience store. He has a bad feeling in his gut. Something ominous is about to happen.

Suddenly, a bolt of blue lightning touches down, then a second later we hear a huge thunderclap, then coughing. Patriot is coughing. There’s blue smoke everywhere. Then out of the smoke comes…

Joe Biden.

Patriot: “Sweet mother of Q. It’s Dark Brandon.”

Joe Biden walks toward Patriot’s truck.

Patriot: “Stay away from my truck, Dark Brandon!”

Joe Biden brushes past Patriot, removes the hose from the pump, and plugs it into the truck. Something is different about this gas station. It’s all wrong. Blue waves of electricity, just like the blue lightning that signaled Joe Biden’s arrival, crisscross around the truck’s body. The Confederate flag on the hood turns into an American flag. The Blue Lives Matter mud flaps turn into Black Lives Matter mud flaps. The bumper sticker now reads: “Stop climate change now, ask me how.”

Patriot: “What the what…”

Joe Biden: “It’s electric.”

The storm clouds part. The sun comes out. Birds begin to chirp.

Joe Biden: “Solar, and it’s free.”

Patriot: “Communism! Or… socialism! Or… Marxism!? It’s bad!”

Joe Biden: “It’s good for the environment.”

Patriot screams. It’s primal. And loud. Really loud. As Patriot’s scream gets louder, we see a crooked smile creep across Joe Biden’s face.

Joe Biden [whispering]: “Benefits everybody, hurts nobody.”

Suddenly, Patriot’s head explodes. Literally. Blood, brains, and pieces of skull fall like rain around Joe Biden.

Narrator: “Don’t let Dark Brandon and the Democrats give you their socialist electro-shock therapy. Vote or die!”

We’ll target this one at truck and SUV owners, but research shows we’ll see a strong crossover appeal with commuter audiences, regardless of vehicle preference. We have an animation studio out of China that’s ready to make this happen.

DENNARD: Don’t say it. I can see it in your eyes: you’re not satisfied. You think we won’t die for Vote or Die.

AMRAN: You’ve obviously done your research. Libs of TikTok fan? Child’s play. There’s no depth we can’t — or won’t — plumb.

MICHAEL: To prepare for this pitch, I wanted to be certain there wasn’t a hidden leftist agenda lurking inside me, so I had Doctor Oz remove my left kidney, left lung, and left testicle. I’m all right.

DENNARD: See? Our creatives give everything. Heart, soul, and pride. Nothing’s off the table, no matter what our families say. I haven’t seen mine in weeks, and they’ve probably left.

Don’t worry. You haven’t seen our best yet.

MICHAEL: This one targets QAnon supporters. According to our research team, there are a shit-ton of QAnon people out there, including the three of us. At Virtuosity, we’re all a little cuckoo-for-Q.

We open on a view of Earth from outer space. Everything looks tranquil, until a satellite comes into frame.

We push in on the satellite. There’s a giant Star of David on the satellite.

Suddenly, the satellite fires a bright blue laser at Earth.

We cut to a Hobby Lobby in Ohio. The parking lot is full of real American families. Red MAGA hats, Trump bumper stickers on pickup trucks, QAnon t-shirts, Gadsden and Confederate flags. It’s a peaceful scene…

Until the blue laser beam scores a direct hit on the Hobby Lobby.

Blue flames consume everything in sight.

As everything burns, we hear screams of dying patriots.

“Trust the plan.”

“We are the storm.”

“Where we go one, we go all.”

The next day, there’s nothing left, except for scorched rubble and charred patriot bodies. A layer of blue smoke clings to the ground.

We focus on a pair of black leather boots walking through the rubble. The boots belong to a woman. At first glance, you’d be forgiven for thinking that this woman is a CrossFit version of Eva Braun. She is Marjorie Taylor Greene.

Marjorie Taylor Greene kneels down beside a little girl. The girl is gasping for air. Any second now, she’ll take her last breath.

Little Girl: “Wha.. what… happen…”

The girl wheezes, tries to sit up, then dies.

Tenderly, Marjorie Taylor Greene closes the little girl’s eyes for the last time. Then she answers the girl’s final question.

Marjorie Taylor Greene: “Jewish space lasers.”

Marjorie Taylor Greene looks directly at the camera to address the viewers. Her tone is stern.

“Jewish space lasers murdered these patriots. It’s too late for them, but it’s not too late to save America. Vote or die.”

AMRAN: We admire your headspace. You’re thinking clearly. You want something edgy, not avant-garde. Powerful, yet refined. More Predator, less Commando.

Here we tap the inimitable essence of cinema.

Your target voter’s in Schenectady, New York. He’s watching the Bills versus the Patriots on Sunday Night Football. It’s halftime. Here’s the first commercial he sees.

An All-American family of four — mom, dad and two girls — are gathered on the couch for movie night. They’re all smiles and laughs but you can’t hear them — the only audio’s a menacing violin chord. Their photogenic faces are illuminated by the large TV in an otherwise pitch black living room. The dad’s pointing the controller at the screen. The mom’s looking admiringly at him. The girls are giggling and sharing popcorn, doe-eyed and pure.

The camera pans over their shoulders, toward the sliding glass door in the background. It zooms into the backyard. A group of Black and Mexican ninjas are scaling the wall. The Black ones have Wu-Tang Ws emblazoned across their chests and untamed afros and dreadlocks popping out of their hoods. The Mexican ninjas carry machetes and wear Lucha Underground-inspired balaclavas and oversized sombreros.

Then, as they approach the door we overlay a semi-transparent image of George Soros — Vincent D’Onofrio basically reprising his role as Marvel’s Kingpin, only this time with a yarmulke — on the screen. Voice-over provided by Clint Eastwood kicks in:

“These are dangerous times.

“Soros-backed Democ-RATS are Defunding the Police. They’re releasing violent animals from prisons. They’re opening our borders to dope-crazed savages, gangs of rapists, and radical guerilla Marxists.

“And they’re coming for you, because your family dared to live the American Dream.”

Kingpin Soros fades away, the camera floats up, out of the house and toward the sky, centering on the full moon. As it slowly fills with blood we hear the sliding glass door shatter. There’s audible indications of a struggle, then screams and lustful grunting.

When the moon’s almost entirely blood-soaked Clint Eastwood says:

“Democ-RATS won’t protect what matters most. The choice is clear: Vote, or be cuckolded and die.”

David Fincher’s already agreed to direct.

DENNARD: How confident am I that you’ll love my crown jewel? I’ve already produced it. I paid the actors, editors, and lawyers out of pocket. If you don’t love it, I’ll spend the rest of my life chained to debt.

No pressure. Take a look.

FADE IN

EXT. IDYLLIC SUBURB — AFTERNOON

The colonial home few own, but many imagine. The grass is a little overgrown, and starting to jut through cracks in the driveway. Neighbors give it a wide berth.

INT. SUBURBAN KITCHEN — CONTINUOUS

An ANACHRONISTIC HOUSEWIFE lies on the kitchen floor in fetal position. She’s unharmed: the pain is mental. A pair of expensive shoes step over her mumbling form.

A semi-notable performer and very notable SCIENTOLOGIST takes a chair. He sits backwards, a la Stand and Deliver. He’s ready to teach the people.

SCIENTOLOGIST

Once, we asked you to Vote or Die.

That was a mistake. We didn’t know how hard life would become.

Confinement. Disrespect. Replacement. Every day, your vision of tomorrow declines. The joy of watching your children grow shrivels before dread for the world they’ll inherit.

That’s assuming there’s a world, and your children survive to inherit it. You’ve entered uncertainty, a state more painful than most outcomes. Some would give anything to escape it.

The brave escape into a cause, or delusion, or both. But you’re not brave. That’s why you take orders on when and where to lash out. You’re dust in a massive world. A world set against you and your people from the beginning, for sins committed before your lifetime. What you need is an exit.

Many of you want to die. And we’ll only let you after you vote.

We have surgeons. Nutritionists. Experts on cutting-edge biotechnology, bordering on the posthuman. Everything we need to keep you alive for a long, long time.

And we will, unless you fulfill your civic duty.

The world’s come a long way from the iron lung. With today’s medicine, cancer only dooms quality of life. We can preserve the human, long after the humanity is gone. Because while not every life matters, every vote does.

Remember who did this to you. Why not pay them back before you go?

Make your remaining life mean something. Get out there, push the cart of empire forward, and then lie down. We’ll have what we need from you.

Vote and Die. Be free.

FADE OUT

DENNARD: What do you want? You’re picky for a dead man’s sidekick. This is where the country’s going. You can get on board, or get run over. Don’t give me any shit about creative integrity. Your last album sucked, just like the rest. You rap like a judge ordered it.

Oh, you liked that one? Excellent.

MICHAEL: Finally, a client who gets it!

AMRAN: A wise choice. Executing your vision makes selling out totally worth it. The money’s not half bad either.

DENNARD: You’ve been an absolute pleasure to work with. Now I’m certain you never put a hit out on anyone. And if you did, they deserved it. Shots?

Introducing Situation Bali!!!

We’re going to Bali!

By we, I mean Christina and me, as opposed to the Royal We, which would include Situation Normal subscribers. I love my subscribers, but bringing 1,350 friends, fans, and internet randos to Bali just isn’t in the Situation Normal budget. Sorry.

But YOU can come along for the adventure by reading Situation Bali, a limited series travelogue featuring dispatches from the Indonesian archipelago.

Photo by Harry Kessell on Unsplash

Here are the details, along with some thoughts on my incurable case of wanderlust and our coming adventure.

How do I receive Situation Bali dispatches?

Simple. Situation Normal subscribers will automatically receive Situation Bali dispatches. In other words, you’re already a winner!

I created a Situation Bali section to give this adventure its own home within the Situation Normal mothership. If the tech gods favor me (a big if), this new section should accomplish three things:

The emails should say something like “from Situation Bali,” which should help clarify that the situations are set in Bali, rather than Los Angeles.

There should be a link on the header of the Situation Normal homepage that will lead you to the Situation Bali archives, so even if you miss an email (or a post in the app), you won’t miss a beat of this adventure.

If you’re not up for this adventure, you should be able to unsubscribe from Situation Bali without leaving Situation Normal. But if you choose this option, you will miss all the fun.

When is this happening?

We leave for Bali November 1. Because international flights are like time travel, minus the opportunity to make a fortune on sports betting, we arrive in Bali November 3. I’m not sure what will happen to November 2, but it wouldn’t be time travel if it wasn’t so confusing, right? ANYWAY, expect to begin receiving Situation Bali dispatches somewhere in this window.

How long will Situation Bali last?

Three weeks! Unless, we decide to move to Bali, in which case I’ll need to rethink everything. But let’s just say three weeks for now.

How often will you post?

Great question! The answer is, I don’t know. When there’s something to share, I’ll share it. But there won’t be a rigid posting schedule for these dispatches. That said, if you’ve read my travelogues from Alaska or Cleveland, you know travel really inspires my writing. So, I’ll probably write a few times a week.

Why do you call them dispatches?

I call them dispatches because “literary postcards” sounded too high-brow and “posts” sounded to mundane. Also, I like the word “dispatch” and I think it more-or-less captures the shortish reports I plan to send from the Indonesian archipelago.

Got it. What’s the story behind Situation Bali?

There’s a lot to that story, actually. Let me start from the beginning. With any luck, some of the markers I put down here will become themes for further exploration in Situation Bali.

A very brief history of our wanderlust

I was born with a case of incurable wanderlust. I come by my wanderlust honestly. My father usually spent at least six months out of every year on the road. Sometimes, if the stars aligned, we’d go with him. Summer vacation in the Estrin household often meant working as a PA in places like, Seoul, South Korea; Hong Kong; Indianapolis, Indiana; New York, New York; Barcelona, Spain; Sydney, Australia; Athens, Greece; and Raleigh, North Carolina.

After college, I used my dad’s frequent flier miles and my PA earnings to backpack through Southeast Asia, Central America, and Eastern Europe. I even wrote an email newsletter about my adventures, which just goes to show you that I was super-early on the whole newsletter trend.

After law school, I worked more and traveled less. That was a bummer, but I managed to take a few trips. I visited Ireland, Chile, and Easter Island, which is part of Chile, but unlike anywhere else in the world.

In 2008, I met the love of my life. I told Christina how important travel was to me. She told me that she had always dreamed of traveling, but so far, she’d only been to Mexico and Canada.

In 2012, with one year of marriage under our belt, the production company Christina worked for went tits up. Some people might’ve panicked in this situation, but I celebrated. Since Christina no longer had a job and I was a freelancer with a flexible schedule, we decided to seize the opportunity to travel. We went to Thailand and Cambodia, where Christina caught an incurable case of wanderlust too. Since then, we’ve traveled together to Singapore, Amsterdam (twice), Belgium, Canada, Costa Rica, Belize, and Mexico (three times).

What does it really mean to value travel?

In 2021, as we approached our tenth anniversary, Christina and I knew we wanted to take an epic trip to celebrate, but there were a few things standing in the way. First, some of the places we wanted to visit were still subject to travel restrictions because of the pandemic. Second, Christina had a demanding corporate job that made longer trips challenging. It was a difficult choice, but we decided to put off international travel until 2022.

Throughout 2021 and 2022, we made several domestic trips to New York, Las Vegas, Cleveland, Alaska, and Florida. These were great trips, but they didn’t exactly speak to our wanderlust. For some reason, our wanderlust is an international kind of deal.

During the pandemic, we also spent a lot of time talking about where we’d go when international travel came back. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. We talked a little about where we wanted to go, but we talked a lot about why we value travel so much. Three things stick out from those conversations.

We both enjoy exploring new places and learning about different cultures. In fact, we both consider the things we learned on previous adventures to be among the best experiences of our lives.

We both like how travel forces you to grow and see the world in a new light. Sometimes that growth can be challenging, like when we visited the killing fields in Cambodia, but neither of us would trade that growth for anything in the world.

We both draw inspiration from one of my parent’s friends, an 80-something woman who has been traveling the world, often times solo, for decades.

“I plan to keep traveling until I fall over and can’t go anymore,” she told us, adding, “when I can’t travel anymore, I’m done because travel is life.”

Those wise words from another human with wanderlust have stayed with us. In fact, those words shape how we think about the rest of our lives. Christina and I aren’t old (yet), but we’re not young anymore. We’re somewhere in the amorphous middle of life. When we’re old, we both want to have the same attitude as our 80-something inspiration. To achieve that goal, we know that we can’t put off the future. Instead, we must make conscious choices to do what we value now—and keeping going as long as possible.

How we decided on Bali

Late this year, the stars aligned for us. Most of the places on our wanderlust list had lifted their travel restrictions. Meanwhile, Christina decided to leave the corporate life and begin a new chapter in her career. She even managed to secure a severance—a first for both of us. For the first time in our marriage, time and money have intersected.

“What do we do with this gift?” I asked.

“We go big! Obviously.”

We set our sights on a November departure—exactly one year, one month, and one week after our 10th anniversary. Then we bought some travel books for inspiration and talked things over.

I threw out Harbin, Manchuria because I’ve always wanted to visit the city where my grandfather, Sam Estrin, grew up.

“Isn’t it crazy-cold there this time of year?” Christina asked.

I checked the weather. November is a cold month in Harbin, but if you wait another month you can see the Harbin International Ice and Snow Sculpture Festival.

“So, you want to go when it’s even colder?” Christina asked.

We tabled Harbin.

“What about Peru?” Christina asked. “We could see Machu Picchu.”

“You got altitude sickness in Denver,” I said.

“Fuck, you’re right. That one might have to be a solo trip for you someday.”

For a time, we were both drawn to Egypt. The Pyramids of Giza. Karnak. The Valley of the Kings. But the more we talked about it, the more we realized that our vision for the trip was actually just clips from Death on the Nile.

“We could go to Colombia,” I said. “If it was good enough for Jack T. Colton and Joan Wilder, it’s good enough for us.”

“Joan Wilder? The Joan Wilder?”

“Or, Bolivia! We could do a whole Butch & Sundance thing!”

“Didn’t they die at the end?” Christina asked.

“Yeah. Kinda. I mean, it depends on how you interrupt the final frame of the film. Personally, I like to think Butch and Sundance are eternal—two outlaws, frozen in time.”

Christina rolled her eyes.

“On second thought, I don’t know if South America qualifies as going big,” I said. “The flights aren’t crazy-long compared to some other destinations we’ve considered, and the time zones align with North America. Honestly, South America is probably the easiest continent for us to visit.”

“Ditto for Europe,” Christina said. “It’s the second easiest for us to get to. Plus, it’s cold in November.”

“What about Africa? We could do a photo-safari. Plus, you’ve always wanted to try glamping.”

“I already priced out some options there.”

“And?”

“Africa might be going a little too big for this trip.”

“How big is too big?”

“Twentieth anniversary big.”

“Wow. OK, that’s big.”

“Yeah.”

We were stumped. Really stumped. Then one day, Christina asked me if I had any travel regrets. Now, I try to avoid regret because that’s the kind of shit that turns into major baggage as you age. Still, I’ve accumulated a few travel regrets over the years. Here are my top five:

To renew my Korean visa, I went with my dad on a 36-hour trip to Tokyo. A friend of my father’s offered to introduce me to Japanese cuisine. I could’ve tried sushi, or ramen, or yakitori, but naive 12-year-old that I was, I asked if he knew any good Italian restaurants. I haven’t been back to Tokyo since, and I’m still kicking myself.

Feeling homesick on my post-college walkabout, I passed on an invitation to stay with a distant cousin who was living in Jakarta, Indonesia at the time. That was dumb.

Tagging along on one of Christina’s work trips to Singapore, we skipped an opportunity to extend the trip by adding a week in Bali. That was shortsighted.

I’ve missed countless opportunities to take the road to Zyzzyx on one of our many trips to Las Vegas. This is complacency, and I need to work on that.

In college, I skipped a road trip with some friends to see Mitch Hedberg perform in Ohio. Mitch is no longer with us, which just goes to show you that sometimes you don’t get a second chance.

“Two of your regrets are related to Indonesia,” Christina said.

“I guess I owe the Indonesian people an apology.”

“I also regret that we didn’t fly to Bali when we were in Singapore,” Christina said. “Everyone in the Singapore office said we should’ve added a vacation to the end of that business trip. Why didn’t I listen?”

“Live and learn, I guess.”

“Oh, we’ve lived, and we’ve learned, babe.”

“Huh?”

“Honey, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That regrets suck?”

“That we have a second chance to go to Bali.”

Christina was right. This was a second chance to go to Bali. Or, maybe a third chance in my case, since visiting my distant cousin in Jakarta would’ve likely brought me to Bali too. After the Mitch Hedberg fiasco, I knew I couldn’t pass up any additional chances.

“Bali certainly is as an epic adventure,” I said. “Plus, there’s great snorkeling in Bali. We love to snorkel.”

“And cultural and historical stuff,” Christina said. “I know how you love to do that. Also, I can bliss-the-fuck-out in Bali.”

“Wow, Bali sounds like a paradise.”

“It is paradise,” Christina said. “At least, that’s what all the TikTokers say.”

“Well, the TikTok crowd knows everything about everything. Let’s go to Bali!”

@kylie_travelsBali vibes #fyp #bali #indonesia #travel #traveltiktok #tiktoktravel #balitravel[image error]Tiktok failed to load.

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Just kidding! We don’t take the TikTok crowd too seriously; otherwise, we’d stay home and make NyQuil Chicken.

But we are serious about Bali, especially the aspects of Bali that don’t make it onto social media. That’s why we’re traveling 8,615 miles from home, instead of scrolling social media’s travel hashtags and binge-watching old episodes of Anthony Bourdain.

We want to see the sights, smell the smells, meet the people, taste the food, and soak it all in. We want to know Bali, and if you want to join us over the next few weeks, we’d love that too!

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A few discussion questions.

What’s a trip you took that you’ll never forget?

What’s a trip you’re dying to take?

Have you been to Bali? Any recommendations?

If you haven’t been to Bali, is there something you’ve heard about that you think Christina and I should check out?

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kindness @ 30,000 feet 🙏 commas ⌨️trolling the mayor's race 🗳 cryptic football 🏈

Photo by Suhyeon Choi on Unsplash

Flying brings mixed feelings for me. On the one hand, I love to travel, I enjoy the people-watching opportunities that airports afford, and I often feel a sense of awe when I look down at the vastness of our planet from a vantage point of thirty thousand feet. On the other hand, I dislike being crammed into a ridiculously small space on the flying metal tubes that crisscross the skies, the number of people who are actually worth watching is frequently eclipsed by the number of people I find annoying, and no matter how fast we fly, the flight always seems to take too damn long.

Not that I thought much about my love-hate relationship with flying on our flight back from Florida. I was too busy reading the second volume in Robert Caro’s book on LBJ and thinking about the profound irony of a man who stole a Senate seat in 1948, then less than two decades later, led the legislative charge for voting rights—and won. On the one hand, LBJ was an anti-democratic goon, but on other hand he was a champion to the disenfranchised. And on both hands, history has a wicked sense of humor.

Of course, it’s not all lofty shit when I fly. After two hours of reading and thinking about our nation’s complicated history, I decided to take a break to watch some HGTV. I don’t know why, but time really flies when I watch Christina and Tarek bungle and bicker their way through home flipping in Southern California. Maybe it’s magic, or maybe I just dig train wrecks.

I could’ve watched HGTV for the rest of the flight without moving. But every thirty minutes, the woman in the window seat asked me to get up so she could use the bathroom.

The first time she asked, I thought nothing of it. The second time she asked, I thought about her beverage order—a ginger ale, no ice—and wondered if flying upset her stomach. The third time she asked, I thought her timing could’ve been better because they were about to reveal a totally fictitious number that represented the “profit” Christina and Tarek had made on the flip. The forth time she asked, I thought something judgmental, but since it was kind of a dick thought, I kept it to myself. The fifth and final time she asked, there was a minor traffic jam in the aisle, and I thought she might have to wait, but Christina popped up from her seat and unfucked the situation.

When we landed, I didn’t give the bathroom breaks any thought at all. But the woman in the window seat tapped me on the shoulder and said, “thank you for being so understanding.”

“Of course,” I said. “No problem.”

“No, thank you. You were both very kind, and I really appreciate that.”

Suddenly, I felt guilty for judging her. But then I thought about LBJ. He was a gigantic asshole, but he also delivered human dignity at scale. I’m an asshole on a much smaller scale (I hope!), but I managed to deliver some human dignity to the stranger sitting next to me. Turns out, a little kindness goes a long way—at least from 🛫Tampa ➡️LAX🛬.

Trolling Rick Caruso

As soon as we returned from Florida, I got hit with a wave of Rick Caruso outreach.

The first wave came in the form of a burly man carrying a clipboard. He knocked on our door, but I was jet-lagged and in no mood to hear about how a leopard named Rick Caruso had changed his spots just in time to file his paperwork for the Los Angeles mayor’s race. Also, leopards don’t change their spots.

“Hard pass,” I told the Caruso canvasser, before I slammed the door in his face.

The next day, another Caruso canvasser knocked on our door. This time I wasn’t jet-lagged, but I was thinking about what the woman in the window seat said to me.

“I’m voting for Karen Bass,” I told the canvasser as soon as I opened the door. “Stay safe out there, have fun, and remember to hydrate and use sunscreen.”

I closed the door gently, and for a moment, I felt good about being so good. But then I remembered that Rick Caruso sucks. I began to worry that treating Caruso canvassers with kindness might be contributing to the problem. I vowed to do better (I mean worse).

The third outreach wave via text. Someone from the Caruso campaign named Josh asked me if I was interested in attending a Caruso event in the West Valley. I wasn’t interested in attending, but I was interested in trolling, so I wrote back asking if there would be snacks.

“No,” Josh wrote.

“What about beverages?” I replied.

“No drinks!” Josh shot back.

I sighed. The Caruso people seemed stingy, which might explain why I was unable to sell them my vote. But Josh’s brief responses made it difficult to troll the Caruso campaign, and in my book that was a problem.

What to do, what to do?

“Will there be any celebs there?” I texted Josh. “Snoop Dogg? Kim Kardashian? Gwyneth Paltrow? Snacks and beverages are the way to my heart, but if I’m being honest, Josh, I’m also a star-fucker. Maybe Wolfgang Puck can give me a buzz? That’ll lock in my vote. I mean, it’d be better if Wolfgang made snacks, because the Karen Bass team has snacks, but they don’t have Wolfgang. What do you say? Do we have a deal, Josh?”

Josh didn’t write back, but I’m not worried because there’s still more than a week to go until the election.

Comment of the week!

While we were in Florida, I used the opportunity to gather string for a piece about the Florida Man meme. You can read that story here.

The best comment on that piece goes to Alex Dobrenko, who combined flattery, which will get you everywhere, with a good television show recommendation.

Alex writes Both Are True, a newsletter that’s hard to explain, but easy to love.

Comma for Comedy

Back in my legal eagle days, commas gave me nightmares. Insert one tiny comma, and you can change the entire meaning of a document. With the stroke of a pen (or a key), a strategically-placed comma can be used to swindle someone out of millions dollars, deny someone else their human rights, and lend an anti-democratic leader the cudgel they need to go full-autocrat. Commas are dangerous, especially in the hands of good lawyers working in service of bad ideas.

But commas can also be funny. They are an essential tool in the humorist’s toolbox. That’s why I love this submission from Lyle McKeany on behalf of his stepdaughter, who deployed a single comma to turn a mundane political sign into a joke.

LYLΞ (✌️,👽) @lylemckeanymy stepdaughter added a comma to this pic and it’s way funnier now 4:32 PM ∙ Mar 21, 202215Likes1Retweet

Lyle’s stepdaughter doesn’t have a newsletter, but Lyle does. It’s called Just Enough to Get Me in Trouble, and it’s excellent. Check it out here.

Christina’s advice for the Raiders

The Raiders kicked some ass last week, beating the Houston Texans 38-20. Christina’s advice and fandom made the difference, obviously. So, I asked her to offer the silver & black some wise words for this week’s game against the New Orleans Saints.

“Get that voodoo under control,” Christina said.

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“The Raiders know what it means,” she said.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

Cryptic words from Christina. But if the Raiders can get that “voodoo under control,” they’ll win, I guess. Meantime, I suggest that smart Situation Normal readers bet everything they own—checking account, savings, retirement, cash advance on your credit cards, stocks, crypto, car, home, etc.—on the Saints to lose.

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

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Has a strategically-placed comma ever screwed you out of your rights or money?

Have robocalls, endless campaign mailers, hysterical emails, and relentless television ads made your life a living hell? If not, what’s your secret, and can you spare some serenity?

Why do so many celebrities, who don’t even live in the city of LA, want to pick our next mayor?

Time to turn the tables. Situation Normal readers, which celebrity should be the next mayor of Los Angeles?

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Until Sunday, when I’ll have a special announcement about what’s in store for Situation Normal in November!

Nine days in Florida, nine potential Florida Man sightings

Beer enthusiast and sector 7-G legend Homer Simpson once called Florida “America’s wang.” Homer wasn’t wrong, but Florida is more than just a dick-shaped state full of orange groves, swamps, and amusement parks. Florida is also the source for the endlessly entertaining Florida Man meme.

Typically, people living outside of Florida encounter Florida Man via clickbait news stories, or through the Florida Man subreddit. Florida Man stories vary wildly, but common ingredients include an unusual mix of cultures, a large population, a high number of transplants from other states, bad life decisions, good drugs, nudity, guns, booze, mental health issues, poverty, encounters with Mother Nature, and the internet’s never-ending appetite for misery disguised as entertainment. In other words, Florida Man is complicated. For reference, here are just a few of the thousands of Florida Man headlines👇

Couple arrested for selling ‘Golden Tickets’ to heaven behind a Burger King

Police arrest Florida man for drunken joy ride on motorized scooter at Walmart

Florida man and son shoot at neighbor returning their mail

Drunk Florida woman pulled over after speeding through checkpoint, takes selfie and flees scene before being pulled over again and arrested

Naked Florida man named “Hercules” attacks woman with machete because she didn’t have a crack pipe

Florida man demands money, urinates on victim

The Florida man who caught the alligator with a trash can? He does the same with snakes, too

Florida man threatened neighbor with machete over dog poop

Florida woman hand-fishing with a hot dog gets whole hand swallowed by tarpon

But that’s the view from outside of Florida. To visit Florida is to know Florida Man in his, or her, or their, natural element. If you’re really lucky (or really unlucky) you might witness, or guest star in, a viral Florida Man story. But those extremes are rare.

What’s much more likely is an encounter with someone I call Florida Man Inchoate. Unlike the internet celebrity that is Florida Man, Florida Man Inchoate can be found everywhere. In fact, Florida Man Inchoate is so common that you might miss him. After all, Florida Man Inchoate is any Florida resident with the potential to go full Florida Man, which means the total population is somewhere around 21 million (and counting).

I recently spent nine days in Florida, and while I didn’t witness, or participate in a viral news story, I did come across plenty of examples of Florida Man Inchoate. Here are the nine best Florida Man Inchoate specimens.

Florida Man Inchoate #1

At the Discovery Cove amusement park, I saw a man with a very bold tattoo. Written in text that arced up over his belly in a half-moon shape, the tattoo read:

Drug Life

Florida Man Inchoate #2

As I exited a Wawa convenience store in Orlando, a man walking toward the store unzipped his fly, reached into his jeans, and exposed himself.

“You never seen a Black man’s dick?” he yelled at me.

At first, I took that as a rhetorical question. But when he yelled the question again, I felt compelled to respond. I have seen a Black man’s dick. Several dicks, actually; I used to be a reporter at the second best trade publication covering adult entertainment. But I didn’t want to yell my bona fides across the gas station parking lot. Instead, I raised the bag of Skittles I had purchased inside the Wawa to my forehead and gave a rainbow candy salute.

Florida Man Inchoate #3

At Busch Gardens in Tampa, I saw a man wearing a pro-gun t-shirt. Gun ownership is popular in Florida, and 2nd Amendment virtue signaling is all the rage. But I found this particular t-shirt to be exceedingly on target—pun intended—for these inflationary times. The t-shirt read:

Ammo is expensive

Don’t expect a warning shot!

Florida Man Inchoate #4

Technically, I never got a look at Florida Man Inchoate #4, but I did overhear his phone conversation. I wrote about it in the Wednesday edition of Situation Normal. The following has been reprinted without permission👇

In the restroom stall next to mine, I heard a man on the phone. Since he was using the speaker phone function, I heard both sides of the conversation.

Man: Hey, baby, what are you up to?

Woman: Oh, you know me. Same old, same old. I haven’t seen you in ages. Are you at work?

Man: No. I left work an hour ago. That place is boring. Going golfing.

Woman: Of course you’re going golfing. You’re always golfing. Hey, am I ever going to see you again? I miss you.

Man: Soon, baby, soon. Hang on. Let me send you a picture of me.

[The phone’s camera goes “click”]

Man: There you go, baby. Just sent you a picture, so you don’t miss me so much.

Woman: What is that? What is this picture?

Man: It’s a cobra, baby.

Woman: You’re an asshole, Jerry.

[The man laughs]

Woman: And it doesn’t look like a cobra. It looks like an Earthworm.

[The man stops laughing]

Florida Man Inchoate #5 & #6

At the original Hooters in Clearwater, I saw a father and son team. Both wore puka shell necklaces, both wore faded Jimmy Buffet t-shirts, and both men struck out with their waitress. It’s a family restaurant.

Florida Man Inchoate #7

At an arcade near Tarpon Springs, I saw a man offer his suggestion for improving dry birthday cake.

“Just add a little beer,” he told his wife.

Then the man added a little beer to the birthday cake and cleaned his plate.

Florida Man Inchoate #8

At a Walmart in Spring Hill, I saw a man making mixed drinks in red solo cups on the hood of his Chevy Camaro.

Florida Man Inchoate #9

This one comes compliments of Caroline, my sister-in-law. While getting a blood transfusion, Caroline met a woman who was undergoing chemotherapy to treat her cancer.

“Turns out, she was doing lots of cocaine,” Caroline told me. “The nurse was like, does your doctor know you’re doing coke and chemo?”

“Those two don’t mix?” I asked Caroline.

“No, Michael, those two don’t mix.”

“Well, why was she mixing them?”

“For the energy. That’s what she said.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I mean, I believe the coke gave her energy,” Caroline explained. “And chemo does take it out of you. But I don’t think she discovered the coke and chemo combo on WebMd. My guess is she was a cokehead who started chemo.”

“So, probably not something the doctor ordered?”

“No! And when the nurse asked if her doctor knew, she said it was ‘none of his fucking business.’ People are nuts, and the nuttiest ones all live in Florida.”

On the other hand

One theory about the Florida Man phenomenon is that Florida’s progressive public records laws make it possible to uncover a motherlode of bizarro human interest stories that fly under the radar in other states that aren’t as press-friendly. A piece in the Miami New Times explains the Sunshine state’s history with so-called “sunshine” laws:

Since 1909, Florida has had a proud tradition that all government business is public business and therefore should be available to the public. That means all records, including photos and videos, produced by a public agency are easily accessible with a few narrow and obvious exceptions. Public officials are also required to open all of their meetings — even unofficial ones — to the public.

Later in the piece, the Miami New Times goes on to explain how Florida’s laws give the state’s journalists an edge in their day-to-day efforts to source bizarro human interest stories.

As journalists, all we have to do in most cases is call the police department and ask for an arrest report, and the cops are required to give it to us. Nowadays a lot of cops simply email the reports, and some departments even post arrest records online. Some of the more dedicated weird-Florida-news reporters go through batches of arrest reports at a time. 

Once you have the report, you pretty much have something to base a story (though always keep in mind that when you see the words “according to arrest report” absent other sourcing, you are just reading the police's version of events). 

Easy access to public records, according to Miami New Times writer Kyle Munzenrieder, is one important reason why you’re unlikely to read about “a man in a dog costume caught making love to a Hello Kitty doll in a mall bathroom” anywhere else but Florida.

Which brings me to California. We’ve got 40 million people, and trust me when I tell you, many of them are true weirdos. We also have a lot of malls. Odds are, at least one of those weirdos donned a dog costume to knock boots with a Hello Kitty doll in a mall bathroom.

Actually, the odds are excellent that similar incidents have occurred in New York, Texas, Ohio, Illinois, Georgia, North Carolina, Michigan, and Pennsylvania. To paraphrase the rocking philosopher kings Bill & Ted, strange things are afoot all across America.

But there is no such thing as California Man, or New York Man, or Texas Man. I won’t go so far to say that Florida gets a bad rap. Rather, I think Florida has the reputation it deserves. The rest of us, I’m afraid, live in glass houses, where we throw Florida-shaped stones across a social media hellscape.

Florida Man and my media diet

Here’s a boring fact about me. I spend a lot time thinking about the various food groups that make up the media diet. I do this because, over the years, I’ve found that the media I consume indirectly impacts my mental health. A sad story won’t necessarily make me sad, just as happy story won’t necessarily make me happy. But low quality stories—the kinds that are stripped of context, devoid of insight, and packaged with addictive additives and unnatural chemical flavors—fuck me up, especially if I consume them “at scale,” as the Tech Bros who disrupted media, like to say.

As far as my media diet is concerned, an individual Florida Man story can go either way. They’re always sweet, but a Florida Man story can be a whole food, like an orange, or junk food, like an Orange Fanta with a Skittles chaser. In moderation, an Orange Fanta and a bag Skittles can be a delight. Maybe that’s why I get so geeked up for our trips to Florida. For me, those trips are as close as I’ll come to walking inside the pages of a Carl Hiaasen novel.

At scale, however, the Florida Man genre is junk food. If I consume too many empty Florida Man calories, I’m at risk for Media Diabetes, a disease that makes me feel superior to the stories I consume. I know that sounds harmless, but overtime, Media Diabetes destroys your humanity and turns your online persona into a dick-shaped troll.

I mention this because I just served up nine dishes of Florida Man Inchoate for your media dining pleasure. They tasted sweet, and maybe they gave you a sugar high, but I’m skeptical of their nutritional value.

In retrospect, I could’ve done more with my subjects in this story. For example, I could’ve asked the man in the Wawa parking lot if there was something wrong with his dick and if he needed me to get him to a urologist. If he had said yes to both questions, I’m sure that would’ve led to a funny story that was bursting with humanity and rich with insights. Or, I could’ve bellied up to the Chevy Camaro bar in Spring Hill and asked the bartender to tell me his story. That would’ve been something, I’m sure. Or, I could’ve engaged the budget-conscious gun enthusiast at Busch Gardens in a conversation. I would’ve learned something, right? Yes, I’m sure I would’ve learned something.

But I didn’t take any of those opportunities to unearth a true human interest story. Maybe that was prudent; talking to strangers isn’t for amateurs, and it can be dangerous. Or, maybe I was just on vacation in Florida, where all 21 million human interest stories look hilarious, as long as you keep your distance.

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If you want more fun, stay and chat!

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

Are you a connoisseur of Florida Man stories? Please share your favorite!

Do you buy the explanations for why Florida Man is a genre and the weirdos in other states fly below the radar, or is there something truly strange happening in America’s wang?

What do you do to improve your media diet? Can you share any tips?

Carl Hiaasen novels are loaded with Florida Man stories. Ditto for Tim Dorsey novels. In fact, some of the funniest crime fiction comes out of Florida. Are you a fan? If so, can you share some recommendations?

Have you ever been to Florida? Tell us about your trip!

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Marriage 💍 Overheard sexting 📱Lost tarantula 🕷Football advice🏈

We’re in Florida this week for my brother-in-law’s wedding and to visit with family. I love my brother-in-law, Zac, but I hate the term brother-in-law because it makes our relationship sound like a court order. In reality, our relationship has nothing to do with the law and everything to do with love. I love Zac like a brother and so I call him brother. But Zac is also Christina’s brother, and Christina is my wife, so it’s important to clarify this stuff because Situation Normal isn’t a George R.R. Martin story.

ANYWAY, Zac and Dylan got hitched without a hitch. There was dancing, two kinds of cake, and a photo booth! Plus, chicken fingers that our three nephews devoured. Yours truly gave a speech, and after I explained that Zac was my brother, I offered some advice for the newlyweds about marriage:

Show up for your partner in good times and bad

Speak from the heart and listen with an open mind

Everyday of your marriage, find a way to express your love for your partner

Overheard: golf course men’s room

In the restroom stall next to mine, I heard a man on the phone. Since he was using the speaker phone function, I heard both sides of the conversation.

Man: Hey, baby, what are you up to?

Woman: Oh, you know me. Same old, same old. I haven’t seen you in ages. Are you at work?

Man: No. I left work an hour ago. That place is boring. Going golfing.

Woman: Of course you’re going golfing. You’re always golfing. Hey, am I ever going to see you again? I miss you.

Man: Soon, baby, soon. Hang on. Let me send you a picture of me.

[The phone’s camera goes “click”]

Man: There you go, baby. Just sent you a picture, so you don’t miss me so much.

Woman: What is that? What is this picture?

Man: It’s a cobra, baby.

Woman: You’re an asshole, Jerry.

[The man laughs]

Woman: And it doesn’t look like a cobra. It looks like an Earthworm.

[The man stops laughing]

Missing Tarantula

Last Sunday, I wrote about a woman who had a pet tarantula. I assumed that pet tarantulas were rare. Really rare. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe pet tarantulas are so common that if you saw a tarantula loose on the street—off leash??—you’d automatically assume it was a lost pet. At least, that’s my takeaway from Becky’s submission. From Nextdoor (naturally)🕷👇

Comment of the week!

My story about a pet tarantula brought out a lot of great comments about pets and pet ownership. One of those comments was from Bill Coffin, who shared his pet ownership policy, which as it turns out, is my pet ownership policy too. Great minds, Bill, great minds…

Christina’s advice for the Raiders

This coming Sunday, the Raiders take on the Houston Texans. Since Christina, who recently became a citizen of Raider Nation, has twenty years of leadership experience in the media and technology sectors, I asked her to take a break from random acts of mayhem to give the Raiders some advice for Sunday’s game. Here’s what Christina said:

The Texans tied the Colts earlier this season. Big red flag. A team that accepts a tie ain’t shit. The Raiders must deploy the Cobra Kai strategy: strike first, strike hard, no mercy. Also, remember eat a balanced breakfast before the game. And hydrate!

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Stick around and chat!

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

Any marriage advice for Zac and Dylan?

Any advice for the Raiders?

If you saw a tarantula off leash, would you smash it with your foot, run like hell, or post about a missing pet on Nextdoor?

Are you watching House of the Dragon, or are you still bitter about the way Game of Thrones ended?

Have you ever overheard a stranger sexting someone? Explain.

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I met a woman who had a pet tarantula

Photo by Damon On Road on Unsplash

Once, when I was walking Mortimer, we met an old woman who wanted to chat.

“He’s such a cute dog,” she said. “What kind of dog is he?”

I knew she was asking about Mortimer’s breed, but I was feeling saucy so I said, “he’s the kind of dog who knows that he’s cute enough to get away with murder.”

Mortimer celebrates his murder acquittal with General Bill Murray

“That’s funny,” she said, but I noticed that she didn’t laugh. “My first husband was funny. Well, he thought he was funny.”

Tough crowd.

“He’s a Coton de Tulear,” I said. “The dog, not your husband.”

This time, the old woman chuckled a little. At least I was funnier than her first husband, I thought.

“A Coton de Tulear? Sounds fancy.”

“Oh, very fancy. According to my first and only wife, Cotons were the favorite dogs of the French aristocracy. He’s bougie as fuck.”

“I’ve never heard of that breed,” she said. “But see, I had unusual pets, so what do I know? I had a pet rat named Renaldo. I loved him, but my second husband got him in the divorce. He was a piece of work.”

“The rat, or your second husband?”

“My second husband. Although come to think of it, he was a real rat.”

“Oh.”

“After that, I got a pet tarantula. I trained him.”

“You trained a tarantula?”

"Honey, it’s easier to train a tarantula than it is to train a husband,” she said. “I read a book about training tarantulas. The secret is sound vibrations. Play the right sound and they do what you want. I taught the tarantula to walk on my face. He had giant fangs, but he never hurt me.”

“You weren’t scared?” I asked.

“What’s there to be scared of?”

I wanted to scream, THE FUCKING TARANTULA ON YOUR FACE. But she seemed like a nice old lady, and I didn’t want to upset her by yelling. She was kooky, sure, with lipstick as purple as a grape soda. She wore a zebra print pashmina and skinny black jeans that made me think her last serving of carbs was in the late ‘70s. And she had on enough costume jewelry to stock a movie studio’s prop department. So like I said, kooky, but nice.

“My third husband kept saying he wanted a tarantula, and so finally his boss bought him one—great. But it turned out the schmuck was scared of tarantulas. He had to change its water dish with a pair of pliers because he was too frightened to put his hand in the cage.”

The pliers made sense to me. What didn’t make sense was the idea of a guy who’s afraid of tarantulas asking his boss for one.

“He put on plastic gloves to pick up the tarantula,” she said. “I was like, HELLO. How can you fly those spaceships to the moon and be so stupid?”

Her ex-husband flew spaceships? Suddenly, I had a feeling like she was about to tell me that she had married a big, strong alien who was afraid of Earth’s insects.

“My ex-husband worked for NASA,” she explained. “I forgot to mention that. He was a genius, but also a dolt. Anyway, the genius thought plastic gloves were going to protect him from those fangs. Seriously, space travel, but not so bright when it comes to tarantulas. Go figure.”

“But you figured it out,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ve always loved animals. I wish someone would name an animal after me. I mean, my ex-husband, number three, called the tarantula Terry T after me. That’s my name—Terry. But I think my ex meant it as a put-down, like look at you and your scary pet tarantula. His real name was Stanley, not Terry T. I named him after my first husband, the one who thought he was funny. Now that I think about it, that may have upset my third husband, the genius.”

This was a lot to work with. Too much, actually. A pet tarantula was one thing. Three ex-husbands—one who thought he was funny, one who was a real rat, and one who flew spaceships—were other things. But all of this together—plus, a pet rat named Renaldo who Terry lost custody of in the divorce—was too much. Terry was bursting with stories and I was bursting with questions. In fact, I had so many questions that they all kind of smashed together in a giant traffic jam between my brain and my mouth. Thankfully, Terry kept talking.

“But I can’t own another pet,” she said. “It’s too hard when they die. I'm a wreck. And at my age, I’ve had enough heartbreak. I could lose another husband, no problem. What’s another lost husband? But a pet? I can’t take losing them. They’re like family. They’re better than family. They’re unconditional love. My rat, Renaldo, had a brain tumor. My sonofabitch ex-husband, the second one, the real rat, gave him back to me when he was sick. I had to put him down. Oh, I was a mess.”

I muttered something about how hard it is to lose a pet. Then I looked down at Mortimer, who was looking for a place to poop.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Mortimer.”

“Fantastic name,” she said.

“You hear that, Mortimer. Terry thinks you have a fantastic name.”

“He knows he has a fantastic name,” Terry said. “He can understand me. I talk to animals, too. It’s a gift. But I never talk to a strange dog without talking to the owner first, because I don’t want to come off as strange.”

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If you want more fun, stay and chat!

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

If you had a pet tarantula, what would you name it?

If you had a pet rat, what would you name it?

Do you own an unusual pet?

What’s the most unusual pet you’ve ever encountered? Explain.

What’s a good title for Terry’s memoir?

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Selling my vote. Spooky charcuterie. Pigeon conspiracy theory

Photo by Cyrus Crossan on Unsplash

I was reading the first volume of Robert Caro’s book on Lyndon Johnson, when there was a knock at our front door. I didn’t want to answer the door because the early years of LBJ, who was a real piece of work, are as compelling as any novel. But the knocking persisted, and then Mortimer began to bark. I better get it, I thought. So I put down the biography of a power-hungry man and went to the door, where I found a man sent by another power-hungry man named Rick Caruso.

“Hi, my name is Roger, and I’m with the Caruso campaign,” he said as soon I opened the door. “Can we count on your vote for Rick Caruso for mayor?”

I nearly blurted out something like, get the hell off my property, you human paraquat. But then I remembered that I also knock doors for candidates. My, or any, aggression would not stand. So, I decided to channel my inner LBJ and play it crooked.

“Rick Caruso? The guy who built The Grove?”

“That’s him,” Roger said. “Los Angeles needs a business leader to clean up our streets.”

“Does he have a broom, or a mop, or one of Dyson gizmos? Our streets are pretty dirty.”

Roger cracked a nervous smile, then continued with his pitch. On day one, Caruso would put four trillion cops on the street, eradicate traffic forever, build seventy-eight billion housing units, abolish taxes, and bring glory to every Los Angeles sports franchise, except for the Clippers, who are immune to glory. That all sounded fine, but reading about LBJ, I learned that a vote has real value. You can trade it for wonky policy solutions that never quite deliver, or for pie-in-the-sky promises like the ones Roger was repeating on behalf of Rick Caruso. Or, as LBJ understood, you can trade your vote for money, and if things go according to plan, a patronage job down the line.

“Time to shoot your shot, Michael,” the ghost of LBJ whispered in my ear.

“Hey, that all sounds great,” I said. “But I’ve heard some stuff about Caruso that makes me concerned.”

Roger smiled and asked me what was bothering me.

“I heard Caruso is trying to buy this election,” I said.

Roger began to shake his head. Maybe that’s why he missed my outstretched arm, hand open, palm up—ready to receive Caruso’s quid in exchange for my quo.

“Rick Caruso isn’t beholden to the special interests,” Roger said. “He cares about Los Angeles. That’s why he’s running for mayor.”

“Well, I care about me. That’s why I’m voting. How much are you offering?”

“Huh?”

“Rick Caruso is trying to buy this election,” I said again.

Roger shook his head again. He was emphatic.

“Hang on,” I said. “I’m not knocking the guy. I’m asking for a thousand bones, or clams, or whatever you want to call them.”

“Huh?”

“The money! He’s buying votes, and I’m selling mine. Let’s make a deal!”

Suddenly, Roger looked shocked. And annoyed. And maybe a little angry. Instead of buying my vote, or at least making me a reasonable counteroffer, he turned around and walked away.

I could’ve been angry, but I decided to treat this as a teachable moment. Did I ask for too much money? Was I too blunt? Should I have hinted at the deal in a vague, roundabout way, since buying votes is illegal? I wasn’t sure, but as I went back to my book, I knew that LBJ, a man so crooked he could only be followed by Richard Nixon, would have all the answers.

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Spooky charcuterie

Last week, we talked about how butter boards are the new charcuterie. But a lot of Situation Normal readers aren’t buying it. Several readers thought butter boards are a hygiene nightmare. A few more readers pointed out that it’s difficult to clean butter off a wood cutting board. Situation Normal remains Team Charcuterie, and to prove it, reader Anna flagged this amazing Halloween charcuterie board that’s making the rounds on Twitter.

Sopranos Vibes @sopranos_vibesOh god oh fuck it’s the gaba-ghoul 5:27 PM ∙ Oct 5, 2022266,101Likes31,399Retweets

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A conspiracy theory about pigeons

About a year ago, I read a strange story in The New York Times about a Gen-Z conspiracy theory that was getting a lot of attention. The theory claimed that pigeons aren’t real, and that the things we think are pigeons are actually government drones that spy on us.

Of course, like so many things about Gen-Z there was more to this story than met the eye. Also, folks over a certain just don’t get Gen-Z and it’s shenanigans. Kids today, am I right? But according to The New York Times story, the Gen-Z creators of the conspiracy theory are in on the joke.

“It’s Gen Z’s attempt to upend the rabbit hole with absurdism,” The New York Times concluded before going on to quote a conspiracy theory organizer who said, “My favorite way to describe the organization is fighting lunacy with lunacy.”

I remember thinking that I liked this attempt to fight lunacy with lunacy, but I forgot all about it until reader Bryan wrote in with this overheard conversation.

I was in a coffeeshop a few weeks back when I overheard the following - earnest - conversation between two university students in the queue behind me:

‘Pigeons aren’t really birds, you know.’

‘What?’

‘No - really. They’re not birds.’

‘What the fuck are they, then?’

‘They’re robots - drones. The government created them to spy on us.’

‘No way!’

‘Yes, really. Think about it - they’re fucking everywhere you go. What better way to find out what people are doing than pigeon drones?’

There was a brief pause. Which made me pause, because her companion seemed to be actually considering the merits of this claim.

‘I don't believe it.’

Whew, I thought. But no.

‘There’s proof.’

‘What proof?’

‘Have you ever seen a baby pigeon?’

‘Fuck. You’re right.’

I left the queue.

At first, I wasn’t sure if Bryan was pulling my leg, or if he had actually witnessed the absurdist conspiracy theory in the wild. Truthfully, I’m still not sure. But I dig it, and so I decided to share it. For the record, though, pigeons are real, and let’s be honest, they’re rats with wings! Also, Bryan writes a cool Substack called The Bus. I recommend you get on the Bus and see where it goes.

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Comment of the week

Last Sunday, I wrote about taking Christina to her first Raiders game and the madness that is Raider Nation. As usual, the comments were top-notch. It was difficult to select just one comment of the week, but I went with Brenna Mayhew’s comment because, much like the Gen-Z pigeon conspiracy absurdists, Brenna was in on the joke. Also, flattery will get you everywhere. Thanks, Brenna!

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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 advice? Send your submissions to me at 👇

michael.j.estrin@gmail.com

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.

I’m still trying to sell my vote. Should I post it Craigslist? Go through a broker? Have a garage sale? Any tips are appreciated!

Have you read Robert Caro’s books on LBJ? Did they inspire you to sell your vote?

Have you seen any Halloween butter boards, or is Team Charcuterie killing the spooky game?

Do you think Bryan is in on the fake pigeon conspiracy theory, or do you think he’s the victim here?

Do you feed pigeons, or do you consider them a menace? Explain.

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Until Sunday when I’ll have another story… Finally, let me know you enjoy Situation Normal by hitting that ❤️ button 🙏👇

My wife went to her first NFL game. Now she's a citizen of Raider Nation

If the intergalactic funkologist and mothership connector George Clinton had his way, America would be one nation, living under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it. Sadly, George Clinton remains criminally under-appreciated, and America continues to be a divided nation, where an ever-expanding fracas of factions, tribes, and associations compete for the spotlight. This is the story of our journey into the silver and black heart of one such group—a band apart, if you will, known as Raider Nation.

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A word about your intrepid explorers

Christina and I are casual football fans, which is something of an oxymoron because there’s nothing casual about football. After all, football is a battle for dominance and a celebration of brutality masquerading as a game. It’s also America’s official religion. Technically, the Constitution says you have the freedom to abstain from worshipping at the alter of the gridiron, but a much more powerful unwritten law demands that all real Americans pay tribute to the football gods on Sundays, Mondays, Thursdays, and late in the season, on Saturdays too.

On any given Sunday, the television in our home is tuned to NFL football, unless of course, Oliver Stone’s Any Given Sunday happens to be playing. For us, football on the television is comforting background content, like a screen saver, but with ads for beer, salty snacks, and life insurance. We watch whatever games the network executives and NFL blackout rules say we can watch, although here I use “watch” in the loosest sense of the word. The game is on, but so are our phones, and maybe the record player too, and magazines are handy, and sometimes I’m in the other room doing meal prep, but—and this is important—we are “watching” as far as the Nielsen ratings and our patriotic duty to worship at the alter of the gridiron are concerned.

We are among America’s football faithful, but the way we worship America’s official religion doesn’t include a commitment to a particular fandom. We are non-denominational football fans. Promiscuous pigskin disciples. Typically, Christina roots for the team that was the subject of HBO’s current season of Hard Knocks, or the team that’s playing against Tom Brady. I root for trick plays, injury-free games, and good audio (in honor of my father, who had the bright idea to put wireless mics on NFL refs so that neophytes and drunks could better understand the game).

Christina has never been to an NFL game. I’ve been to more than a dozen Super Bowls, thanks to my father, who worked on many Super Bowls and other NFL special projects during his career. Attending an NFL game together is something Christina and I have wanted to do together for a long time.

In recent years, we made some half-hearted inquiries into securing tickets for either the Rams or the Chargers at SoFi Stadium. But if I’m being honest, the appeal of pro football in returning to Los Angeles was far greater than the appeal of rooting for the Rams or the Chargers. On a recent trip to Cleveland, we wanted to go to a game, but the Browns were on the road that week. Similar scheduling issues often plague our trips to Florida when we visit Christina’s family, and now that Tom Brady plays for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, I fear Christina’s antipathy toward number 12 could get awkward. But as luck would have it, our recent trip to Las Vegas to visit my mom coincided with a Raiders home game against the Denver Broncos. So, we bought the tickets and took the ride deep into Raider Nation.

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Welcome to the NFL

The Raiders used to play in Oakland, then Los Angeles, then Oakland again. They moved around a lot because raiders pillage, and pillaging is the kind of enterprise that makes it difficult to put down roots. Also, the Raiders wanted a new stadium with luxury boxes and made-for-television visuals. For some reason that couldn’t happen in California. But in Nevada, dreams come true, as long as those dreams are financed by taxes levied on tourists. The Raiders got their new stadium, and to demonstrate to the world that it would be the classiest stadium in the NFL, they sold the naming rights to Allegiant Airlines.

Christina and I left my mom’s house in Summerlin a little before noon. We drove to the Vegas strip and parked at the Delano Hotel for $35. Then we joined thousands of Raiders fans, and about three hundred Broncos fans, for the walk across the bridge that spans I-15 and leads to Allegiant Stadium.

The scene was an immediate assault on the senses. The hot desert sun roasted the Raider faithful in their silver and black jerseys. The smell of dank weed, spilled beer, and outlaw farts hung heavy in the air. Rowdy Raiders fans—a rhetorical redundancy if ever there was one—alternated between shouting “Raaaaiders” and “fuck the donkeys.”

“Who are the donkeys?” Christina asked.

“The Broncos.”

“Fuck the donkeys,” Christina screamed.

The people around us applauded Christina’s disdain for the Broncos. I had to admire my wife. Intuitively, she had grasped the essential group dynamic of NFL fandom—loving your team isn’t nearly as important as hating your team’s rival.

“Wow, these people are intense,” Christina said. “Should we be wearing silver and black?”

“Probably. But as long as we aren’t wearing Broncos colors, we’ll be safe.”

“They’re not wearing anything at all.”

Christina pointed at two women walking ahead of us. The women weren’t wearing much: black g-strings, fishnet stalkings, and silver pasties.

“Do you think they’re strippers, or Raiders fans?” I asked.

“Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?”

(Later, on our way out of the stadium, we would see a courtesy shuttle from the Crazy Horse 3 Gentleman’s Club. I took that as a sign that even the most perverted football fans value carpooling in the fight against climate change).

Halfway across the bridge, Raider Nation ran into a snag: Jesus Christ. Actually, there were dueling Christs on that bridge, and if I’m being accurate, neither man was Jesus Christ. Rather, each man was JC’s self-appointed representative for the greater Las Vegas area. Either way, both street preacher shouted the same message through their bullhorns at the Raider faithful: REPENT!

“Fuck you!” screamed a member of Raider Nation.

“This is my Church, motherfucker!” another Raider fan said.

Then, in a demonstration of unity, a Bronco’s fan told the preacher to “eat a bag of shit.”

For one brief moment, America felt like one nation, living under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it. Or, maybe I just had a contact high. Regardless, I knew that moment wouldn’t last. And as soon as the preachers were out of earshot, the crowd resumed its “fuck the donkeys” chant.

On the other side of the bridge, we headed to our gate. But when we got there, we hit another snag: NFL rules.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t bring your purse inside the stadium,” a security guard told Christina. “It’s a safety thing.”

Christina tried to protest, but it was difficult to hear her over the shouts of nearby Raiders fans who were, at that very moment, vowing to dismember Bronco’s quarterback Russell Wilson, deep-fry his corpse, and feast on his crispy limbs with a garlic aioli dipping sauce.

“There’s a bag check where you can leave your purse,” the security guard said before letting the cannibals pass through the security checkpoint.

We thought about checking Christina’s purse, but it was a long walk to the bag check, and we didn’t want to miss the kickoff. Instead, Christina emptied the contents of her purse—phone, wallet, and a pack of gum. Then she let out a barbaric yawp, tore the purse apart with her bare hands, and set it on fire to the cheers of Raider Nation. We hadn’t even reached our seats yet, but already my wife was finding her place inside Raider Nation.

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We found our seats, then I left to buy some bottled water. After waiting in a really long line, I managed to secure financing and a co-signer for the purchase. All in, I paid $8 million, including origination fees, interest, and taxes for three bottles of water. Not a bad deal in these inflationary times.

When I got back to our seats, Christina was pumped.

“The game hasn’t even started, but the energy is incredible!”

“I just hope they win,” I said.

“Just win, baby. Isn’t that quote?”

Christina had the Al Davis quote down. The thing was, the Raiders yet to win this season. Coming into today’s game against the Bronco, they were 0-3.

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Inside Raider Nation

Anthropologists will tell you it takes years of field work, diligent observation, and rigorous analysis to understand a culture like Raider Nation. But I am not an anthropologist, nor am I looking to set unrealistically high expectations for a silly piece about the Raiders—a franchise that revels in defying expectations, both high and low. What I will tell you is that understanding Raider Nation is as easy as kicking an extra point inside a windless dome.

For my money, Raider Nation citizen and gonzo sheriff candidate Hunter S. Thompson nailed the Raider Nation ethos. “[Raider fans are] beyond doubt the sleaziest and rudest and most sinister mob of thugs and wackos ever assembled.” Thompson meant those words as a compliment.

It’s us against the world

The first thing to know about Raider Nation is that it demands the win, always. That’s what the Al Davis quote—just win, baby—is all about. But there’s an immediate tension there because while Raider Nation always demands the win, the Raiders often lose, and sometimes they lose in ways that boggle the mind, break the heart, and enrage the spirit. Blame for these losses can be laid at any number of feet, as there are no sacred cows in Raider Nation. Popular scapegoats include:

Ownership

Management

The coaching staff

The players

The opposing team

The other NFL owners who hate the Raiders so much that they’ve spent decades conspiring to undermine the silver & black at all costs

But Raider Nation’s favorite scapegoat is the referee. Inside Raider Nation, it is understood as gospel that the refs are on the take and out to get us. That’s why the Raiders are among the most-penalized franchises in NFL history.

But anti-Raiders sentiment among NFL officials goes deeper than throwing penalty flags. One example. On a snowy New England night in 2001, the refs pulled an archaic rule out of their asses that robbed the Raiders of a postseason win and sent Tom Brady, Bill Belichick, and the New England Patriots on a run of nine Super Bowl appearances with six victories. America learned about the Tuck Rule that cursed night, but Raiders fans learned nothing because they already knew that NFL refs live to murder Raider dreams.

Clearly, Raider Nation has a contentious relationship with authority figures like NFL referees. This relationship is the foundation of the us-against-the-world-mentality that defines Raider Nation. As an unknown graffiti artist who tagged the bathroom at Allegiant Stadium wrote:

“If you think the world is out to get you, you might be paranoid, but you’re definitely a Raiders fan.”

Other cultures might view that paranoia as dysfunction, but Raiders fans channel it into an identity. Case in point: the fan seated three rows behind us. Just before kickoff, he introduced himself to the ref, setting expectations for the game.

“I’m keeping my eyes on you, ref! I watch the watchers, motherfucker. I’m gonna be on you like stink on shit.”

True to his word, The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers yelled at the ref the entire game. That’s sixty minutes of playing time, but it’s actually closer to three hours of yelling time. The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers yelled when the ref made a bad call. He yelled when the ref failed to make a call. He even yelled at the ref when the call favored the Raiders.

“For once in your miserable life, you got one right, ref! But don’t you dare think that makes us cool. I’m still watching you, motherfucker.”

To be honest, Christina and I thought The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers was a little extra. But late in the game, when the Raiders sacked the Broncos quarterback in the end zone and the ref failed to rule the play a safety, we were grateful for The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers because he gave voice to our outrage.

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Look like a Raider

Many fans wear their favorite player’s jersey, or a Raiders hat. This is the classic Raiders look, the Basic Raider, if you will. On an individual basis, the Basic Raider says you’re here to kick ass and buy merch. But collectively, it says, we don’t take any shit from anyone because it’s us-against-the-world.

A popular twist on the Basic Raider is to add an accessory, like a gigantic silver chain necklace. This is a real flex by Raider Nation standards because it says you’re willing to look foolish, and you’re reckless enough to ruin your posture doing it. That’s long-term commitment!

Beyond Basic Raider and Flex Raider, a more complex aesthetic emerges. Still rooted in silver and black, Cosplay Raider leverages a variety of pop culture elements: the Mad Max films, Día de los Muertos, and even the band Kiss. Cosplay Raider makes for compelling television, but inside Raider Nation, they are royalty.

From left to right: King Kong Seuss, Darth Raider, Dude drinking a Modelo

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Diversity & inclusion, except for that guy

Anyone can join Raider Nation. Well, anyone except for Tom Brady. You don’t need to wear silver & black. You don’t have to paint your face. You don’t have to die your hair silver & black, put it in a mohawk, then get a tattoo on the side of your skull that reads, in perfect cursive, Raiders. You don’t have to drink Modelo, or even drink beer. All races, genders, religions, and walks of life are welcome because there’s no right way to be a Raider. You can come as you are to Raider Nation because Raider Nation has only one rule: just win, baby.

But like all cultures, Raider Nation does have unwritten rules. A lot of unwritten rules. Examples include:

No Tom Brady

No refs

No long-term leases

During the second quarter, as the stadium settled into a two-minute television commercial break, one of Raider Nation’s unwritten rules was on full display. On the Jumbotron, Raider Nation welcomed rapper Too $hort with a booming cheer. As the applause for Too $hort died down, the Jumbotron cut to Flava Flav. Once again, Raider Nation cheered its approval. But then the Jumbotron cut to YouTuber Logan Paul.

The boos were relentless. To make matters worse, the Jumbotron director took their sweet time cutting away. Raider Nation used that extra time the way the citizens of Oceania in George Orwell’s novel 1984 used the “Two Minutes of Hate” to focus rage at the image of Emmanuel Goldstein.

“Why do we hate him?” asked a woman across the aisle from us.

“I don’t know,” her husband said. “We just do.”

Then they both booed. Knowing what was good for us, Christina and I booed Logan Paul too. Because everyone is welcome in Raider Nation, everyone except for Tom Brady, referees, and Logan Paul.

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Raider Nation Nextdoor

The beauty and the curse of field work is that you’re down in the weeds. There are some real gems down in the weeds, but it often means you miss the stuff in the spotlight.

By way of example, I didn’t get a chance to meet the woman with the mohawk and the Raiders tattoo on her skull. Too bad because I’ll bet three bottles of Allegiant Stadium water that her story is incredible. Likewise, I didn’t get to meet Darth Raider. A shame because I would’ve gotten an amazing selfie that, if deployed correctly, might have catapulted me to viral fame on social media. The closest I came to royalty was a seeing a Leather Daddy Fireman Raider in line for tacos, but he was ten people behind me and I didn’t want to lose my place.

Down in the weeds, we met what you might call everyday Raider Nation citizens. It was more like Raider Nation Nextdoor, but without the racism, homeless-shaming, and missing pets that make the culture of the Nextdoor app such a dumpster fire.

In front of us, sat Mr. and Mrs. Margarita-Yard-Glass, a lovely couple a few years older than us. When they fumbled an attempted selfie just before kickoff, Christina picked up the ball and completed the picture for them. During the second half, as the Raiders marched toward their first victory of the season, Christina and I became high-five buddies with the Margarita-Yard-Glasses.

Next to us, sat Whispering Modelo Man and his girlfriend, Taco Aficionado. They didn’t say much, but whenever they got up to get more tacos and Modelos, he’d whisper, “excuse us.”

Behind us, sat MaddenLegend93 and his son, Mr. Questions. After every play, Mr. Questions would ask about some aspect of the game. MaddenLegend93 explained the basics—time of possession, field position, etc. But when it came to strategy, his video game roots began to show.

“Anyone who’s ever played Madden knows you run a two-minute drill here,” MaddenLegend93 told his son. “If you have the ball with a few minutes to go before the half, you have to score. Have to. Run the two-minute drill!”

“Run the two-minute drill!” Mr. Questions shouted.

“Is that true?” Christina whispered in my ear. “Should they be running the two-minute drill?”

“Yeah, that’s how you play Madden,” I said. “But the players on the field are real people, not avatars or dudes on TV. Their coach has to mange them.”

I pointed to the scoreboard. With just over three minutes to go in the first half, the score was 10-10. Of course the Raiders wanted to score, especially since they had to kickoff to start the second half. But did they need to run the risk of a two-minute drill, where speed can lead to a mistake, and mistake can lead to a pick-six?

“Coming into this game, the Raiders were 0-3,” I reminded Christina. “Going into the locker room tied at halftime has them riding high and the Broncos worried that an 0-3 team is going to beat them. Not saying what the right move is here, but the strategy isn’t as clear cut as a video game.”

As it turned out, the Raiders didn’t run a two-minute drill. MaddenLegend93, Mr. Questions, and most of Raider Nation booed. Then the Broncos took possession and started driving down the field, and the booing grew louder. There were even rumblings about firing Raiders head coach Josh McDaniels and replacing him with whoever wins the next Madden e-sports tournament.

But then the defense stepped up. Big time. Raiders cornerback Amik Robertson recovered a fumble and ran it back 68 yards for a touchdown! The crowd cheered, but the excitement was short-lived. With a little more than a minute to go, the Broncos offense came roaring back with a touchdown of their own to tie the game.

Mr. Margarita-Yard-Glass was livid. Mrs. Margarita-Yard-Glass was despondent. MaddenLegend93 blamed Raiders head coach Josh McDaniels, who he suggested, needed to “put in some work” on an Xbox. The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers blamed the ref, naturally, although that particular accusation suffered from a stunning lack of proof.

“This is bullshit!” Christina yelled.

“Not so fast,” I said. “There’s still a little time left, and Raiders never say die.”

“That’s the Goonies,” Christina said. “Goonies never say die.”

“Well, they would say die if they played the Raiders.”

With about a minute to go in the half, the Raiders offense got it in gear. Combining speed with execution, the Raiders offense marched 54 yards down the field, and capped off a ten-play drive with a thirty-nine yard field goal to take the lead. The score at halftime was Denver 16, Las Vegas 19.

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We just won, baby!

Astute Situation Normal readers will have noticed that I already told you the outcome of the game. Spoiler alert: the Raiders won. You probably saw it on television, or on the internet, or let’s be honest, you just don’t care who won. But if you’ve read this far, you do care about Raider Nation, at least a little. And so you might want to know how they carry themselves in victory. In a word: bedlam.

As soon as the ref blew the final whistle, the Raiders rushed the field. Raider Nation threatened to rush the field too, but security was tight, so the anarchy and ecstasy of a Raider victory was redirected away from the field. In retrospect, that was a really bad idea.

In the stands, dehydrated Raider fans drank Donkey tears, while unsupervised children flicked boogers at security. In the concessions area, ravenous Raider fans “liberated” the taco cart. But the taco cart quickly ran out of chicken and beef, prompting Raider Nation to seize the shoes of departing Broncos fans and cook their footwear over an open flame. Meanwhile, things turned ugly in the bathroom, where according to the rumor, Darth Raider used The Force to juggle urinal cakes.

“We should get out of here before the cops start shooting tear gas,” I said to Christina.

“To hell with that. I want a t-shirt.”

Using our elbows and fists, we battled our way through a series of melees. At one point, I lost an eye, but Christina assured me that I could purchase a Raiders eye patch in the gift shop.

The scene inside the gift shop was like nothing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. It was retail carnage. At one point, I witnessed a Raider fan use his black Amex card to slit the throat of another patron who made the mistake of taking the last Raiders hat.

“Get what you want, and get out!” I told Christina.

Christina looked toward the t-shirt section. A vicious mob ransacked the shelves.

“Maybe we should just order it on Amazon,” I said.

“Fuck that noise,” Christina growled.

Then she grabbed a Cosplay Raider by the spikes sticking out of his shoulder pads.

“You’re with me, Thunderdome!”

“Actually, my costume is inspired by Fury Road,” he said.

“Nice! That’s my favorite one because it’s feminist as fuck.”

“You got that right,” Fury Raider said. “What’s the play, sister?”

“Sack the t-shirt.”

A split-second later, Fury Raider charged at the mob that was ransacking the t-shirt display. Christina followed close behind, using Fury Raider as a blocker.

When they reached the dog-pile, Fury Raider launched himself, like a spear, at silver-haired old lady, who at that very moment, had just taken possession of the t-shirt Christina wanted.

With a bone-shattering crunch, Fury Raider tackled the silver-haired old lady. She screamed something about her spleen as the t-shirt flew high into the air.

Leaping over another senior citizen, Christina grabbed the t-shirt with one hand, then brought her other arm around to tuck the t-shirt close to her body. A moment later, she emerged from the dog-pile with her prize.

“Where’s the register?” I asked. “Let’s hurry up and pay so we can get out of here.”

“Raider Nation doesn’t pay, it pillages!”

I looked at my wife. She was dripping with blood that probably didn’t belong to her. In the span of ten minutes, she had committed thirty-six felonies.

“Are you a Raiders fan now?” I asked.

“Fuck yes! I literally got the t-shirt.”

Then she raised the t-shirt over her head like a trophy and shouted, “Just win, baby!”

The crowd cheered, then went right back to pillaging.

Christina’s journey to the Dark Side was complete. Raider Nation had embraced her with open arms, and she loved every minute of it.

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If you want more fun, stay and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you may or may not have answers. (Remember, one amazing comment will be recognized next Wednesday as the Comment of the Week).

Have you ever been to an NFL football game? If so, what’s your story?

Are you a citizen of Raiders Nation, or do you belong to a different football denomination?

If you’re not a football fan, what on Earth do you do on Sundays?

A thought experiment. Suppose that America had elected George Clinton President instead of Bill Clinton. Would we be one nation, living under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it?

Halloween is just around the corner. You’ve decided to go as Cosplay Raider. What does your costume look like?

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