Michael Estrin's Blog, page 6

And now, we wait

One common misinterpretation of Waiting for Godot is that the play is a meditation on existentialism. Another lesser known, but equally wrong, take is that Samuel Beckett wrote a political allegory about the Cold War, or maybe World War II. And of course, there’s the mass delusion that Vladimir and Estragon are waiting for God. The truth? Beckett wrote a very personal story about waiting for the cable guy. In the end (spoiler alert) the cable guy was a no-show, but Beckett — and the rest of us — got revenge during the streaming wars.

I mention the cable guy because I think you should know that I earned my waiting bona fides in the analog era.

I waited hours for friends who did not call to say they would be late because we didn’t have cellphones. Actually, we had cellphones, but they were fucking huge, and expensive, and remarkably lame.

I waited in line for hours to see movies. To pass the time, I chatted with strangers, or read a book. Again, no fucking cellphones. Which meant that if the movie sucked, I had to go home (or find a pay phone) to tell my friends not to bother waiting in line.

I waited a week between episodes of my favorite shows, and then I waited some more for my program to resume after the commercial break.

I know how to wait. Which brings me to the toilet situation. For reasons I’m still struggling to understand, the mid-range toilets we purchased could not be installed in our home without paying an arm and a leg. Since I value my arms and legs more than the aesthetics of our shitters, I phoned the people who sold us our toilets. They graciously agreed to take them back and issue a full refund. That is where the trouble began.

Two shitters sitting on a shipping pallet in our garage, awaiting return.

A week ago, I received return instructions via email. I was to print out two copies of the shipping label — one for the driver and one for my records. The driver was supposed to pickup the toilets the following Tuesday. Like, Beckett’s cable guy, Godot, the driver was a no-show. The next day, I phoned the shipping company.

The first woman I spoke with asked me for my tracking number. I gave it to her.

“You’re not in the system,” she said.

I gave her the number again.

“You’re not in the system.”

I wanted to ask if there was another way to look up our order, but she hung up on me before I got the chance.

The second woman I spoke with asked for my tracking number. For reasons that cannot be explained, she located our order in the system without any trouble.

“It says here we picked it up yesterday.”

“That’s not correct,” I said. “You were supposed to pick it up yesterday, but you didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ma’am, there are two toilets currently sitting on a pallet in my garage. I am sure they have not been picked up.”

“Well, I need to transfer you.”

I spent the next thirty minutes waiting on hold. The music was decent, but every thirty seconds an automated voice broke in to tell me my call was “very important.”

Eventually, a woman named Patrice rescued me from the purgatory of waiting on hold. Patrice was a revelation. Not only was she able to locate my order in the system on her first try, she believed me when I said the toilets were still here.

“The driver will be there today,” she said.

I wanted to ask Patrice if she was sure, but I thought that might come off as a little too snarky.

“Can you give me a window?” I asked.

“I thought we were talking about toilets,” Patrice said.

“No, I mean a window for pick-up. A timeframe. You know, like, how the cable company used to say they’d be there between one and five.”

“Oh, OK, I got you. The driver will be there between one and five.”

“That’s what it says on your computer?”

“No. It just says the pick-up is scheduled for today. But you wanted a window.”

I accepted the window, even though I knew it was a lie. Then I settled in to wait. It was nine o’clock Wednesday morning.

Since it was my day off, I had planned to run errands, do yoga, and meet a friend for lunch. But since I couldn’t leave the house, I canceled those plans, and told Alexa to play some Tom Petty.

I’m proud to say that as someone born in the waning years of Gen-X, I am a fucking Jedi when it comes to waiting. Here’s how I passed the time:

I made oatmeal.

I ran the dishwasher.

I watched YouTube videos of Quentin Tarantino discussing Alien, A Fistful of Dollars, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Raising Arizona, There Will Be Blood, and Apocalypse Now.

I gave a friend notes on a project.

I followed up on a past due invoice, which took longer than it should’ve because I kept writing the words, “pay up, motherfucker.”

I made notes for a rewrite on a novel I’m working on. The main note was: less James Joyce, more Carl Hiaasen. Another note was: write better jokes.

I cleaned the toilets, which were dirty because when I thought we were going to replace them it seemed pointless to clean them.

I listened to the The Daily with Michael Barbaro.

I practiced my Michael Barbaro impression.

I searched the internet in vain for Quentin Tarantino discussing Waiting for Godot.

I ate a turkey sandwich.

I checked LinkedIn, then I checked myself, lest I wreck myself.

I emptied the dishwasher.

Just after four in the afternoon, my friend Andrea called to discuss a birthday party she’s throwing at our house for her husband Todd. But before we got into the details, we shot the shit. As soon as the shit was riddled with bullets, a truck pulled up in front of our house. I told Andrea I’d have to call her back.

I met the driver and his loader in the driveway. I opened the garage door and offered them a soda or some water from our drink fridge. They declined. Down to business. Fine by me. I handed them the shipping label.

“Where’s this going?” the driver asked.

“Back.”

“You mean you don’t know where this is going?” he asked.

“Technically, I don’t even know where it came from. But it should be on the shipping label.”

“It’s not.”

I looked at the label. The shipping address was at the top, in bold print.

“Yes it is. Right here.”

“OK, fine. But you’re supposed to have three copies.”

“The email said two copies.”

“Whatever.”

The loader shrugged and got his pallet jack from the truck. The driver slapped the shipping label on the boxes, and the loader took away the toilets. The whole experience was as puzzling as it was anticlimactic.

But that’s usually how it goes with the waiting game. You’re never sure why you have to wait so long, and when the waiting is over, it often feels like a waste of time. As Becket wrote while waiting for the cable guy, “Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.”

Bathroom reading

Toilets feature prominently in this post. On the one hand, that’s neither here nor there. But on the other hand, I feel compelled to tell you that my friend Andy says my books make for great bathroom reading. I take that as a compliment.

Pick up a copy of Not Safe for Work on Amazon, or all the other book places, and reading it in a bathroom near you.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

What are you waiting for? Dish!

Why is it that we shoot the shit, but never stab it? Explain.

Are you in the system?

Is there are law against playing good hold music?

Do toilets make you giggle, or is it just me?

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I'm forty-seven (I think)

Whenever I asked my Bubbie her age, she’d tell me she didn’t know how old she was because her birth certificate had been destroyed in a fire. Naturally, I smelled bullshit.

“You just keep count year after year,” I told Bubbie. “Sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six…”

I don’t think she appreciated her precocious grandson demonstrating how counting works, but Bubbie stuck her guns. The hall of records in Winnipeg, Canada burned down, she insisted.

Later, on a trip to Winnipeg, I fact-checked Bubbie’s claims. Yes, several relatives confirmed, there had been a fire at the hall of records when Bubbie was a kid. And yes, that fire had destroyed her birth certificate. But when I asked her age, things got fuzzy. People younger than Bubbie didn’t know how old she was. Like me, the only information they had to go on came from Bubbie, and she wasn’t talking. People older than Bubbie agreed that she was the youngest one in a family of eight children, but concrete numbers were difficult to come by.

“They’re being polite,” my father told me. “It’s rude to ask a lady her age.”

“So you don’t know either, do you, Dad?”

My father shook his head and called me a smart ass. That was fair. I was being a smart ass, but in my book that’s better than being a dumb ass.

Which brings me to my birthday. I turned forty-seven last week. At least, I think I turned forty-seven. For the first time in my life, that whole counting thing that I was so eager to demo as a kid got away from me.

For the previous eleven months, I thought I was forty-seven. Whenever someone asked, I’d say, “I’m forty-seven.” But I even went out of my way to volunteer this information. I’d say stuff like:

As a forty-seven-year-old man, I’m old enough to remember what we did before the internet, but unfortunately, I’m too young to unplug and live that analogue life.

As a forty-seven-year-old man, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m old enough to be the father of this year’s Heisman Trophy winner.

As a forty-seven-year-old man, I’ve learned that only three thing matter in life. The problem is, I can only remember two of them.

But every time I ran my mouth about being forty-seven, I was lying. I discovered my lie less than a month before my birthday. My sister, Allison, was the one who clued me in to my deceit. I called Allison the day after her birthday. She explained that she didn’t pick up when I called on her birthday because she was hungover.

“Forty-five is treating me rough,” she said. “I went too hard, and now I’m paying the price.”

I didn’t think anything of her comment while we were on the phone. But later, while I was on a walk, Allison’s words shook something loose in my head, like when the detective in a mystery realizes that the clues were there all along.

If Allison just turned forty-five, and we were born twenty-three months apart, how can I turn forty-eight this year? The question felt like one of those word problems that gave me nightmares when I was in school. In my mind, Allison and I were both on different trains, traveling at different speeds, trying desperately to figure out when we’d collide—and show our work—before the teacher said, “pencils down.”

Either Allison is wrong, or I’m wrong, I told myself. I opened the calculator app on my phone to find out. I did the math on Allison’s age first, subtracting 1979 from 2024. The answer was forty-five.

Oh shit.

I did the math on my age just to be safe. I subtracted 1977 from 2024. The answer was forty-seven, which meant that at the time I made the calculation, I was forty-six-years-old. I had been lying about my age for the past year.

When I explained the situation to Christina she suggested that I ask my doctor for a neurological exam.

“Just to be on the safe side, babe. You are getting older.”

“That’s not true,” I insisted. “I’m getting younger. When I left for my walk, I was forty-seven. Now, I’m back, and I’m forty-six, baby!”

Christina rolled her eyes.

“I’m not kidding. What if I’m the real life Benjamin Buttons?”

“If you’re the real life Benjamin Buttons, then our relationship is going to get very problematic in the years ahead.”

After consulting WebMD, I ruled out the Benjamin Buttons scenario. Turns out, there are no documented cases of people aging in reverse. But there is a documented case of someone forgetting their age, and that case is part of my family history. Naturally, I phoned Allison to warn her.

“Honestly, I think Bubbie was lying,” Allison said. “You, on the other hand, just fucked up.”

“You mean I’m losing my marbles?”

“No, you’re still pretty with it, for someone turning forty-seven.”

“But I got my age wrong for an entire year. I put the wrong age on medical documents for fuck’s sake. When I had jury duty, I told them I was forty-seven. I was under oath!”

“Mistakes were made, Michael.”

I appreciated Allison’s use of the passive voice.

“But look on the bright side,” she continued. “You just got an extra year!”

“An extra year!? That’s like a leap birthday, or something.”

“It’s something,” Allison agreed. “You need to take advantage of this. This is your year of yes.”

“Year of yes?”

“Yes! You say yes to everything.”

“I dunno.”

“No, you’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to say yes!”

“So you’re saying that if someone asks me if I’m a god, I say yes?”

“Yes.”

“And if a stranger asks for a kidney?”

“Yes.”

“And then another stranger asks for the other kidney?”

“Yeah-well, OK, there are limits. But this is a gift from the universe. Most people only get one trip around the sun for each year, but you’re doing forty-seven twice. Make it count. What do you say?”

“Yes?”

“Work on it. Try saying it with confidence.”

Which is what I’m doing. As of this writing, I’ve been forty-seven for one year and seven days. I’ve said yes to a foot massage, Korean barbecue, and an invitation to watch my friend Nick coach his son’s soccer team. With any luck, that soccer invite will lead to opportunities to say yes to an orange slice and a Capri-Sun.

But somehow I think Allison has bigger things in mind. What opportunities will come my way in second-47th trip around the sun? I don’t know yes. But I’m excited to find out.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

Nobody likes a smart ass, and nobody wants to be a dumb ass, so can we take a moment to appreciate the asses of average intelligence?

Have you ever forgotten your age? Be honest.

Have you ever made a commitment to say yes to whatever comes your way? Tell your story!

How did you celebrate your last birthday? Dish!

I share a birthday with Bernie “Medicare for All” Sanders, Lachlan “My Dad Promised to Leave Me News Corp. in His Irrevocable Trust, But Now the Fucker is Trying to Take it Back” Murdoch, and Ron “Pigpen” McKernan of The Grateful Dead. Who do you share a birthday with?

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You ask, I answer (maybe)

After last week’s bagel story, I’m eager for another assignment. I’ve got some ideas, but in the spirit of this week’s post, I’m putting you in the driver’s seat.

Pitch me a Situation Normal adventure! Think of something silly, or weird, or shockingly normal you want me to write about. Be creative. Think outside the box. Dream big. Then email me your idea at michaelestrin@substack.com.

First draft ✅

Here’s a Mitch Hedberg joke about rewrites:

I wrote a script, and I gave it to a guy who reads scripts, and he read it, and he liked it, but he said he thinks I ought to re-write it. I said, “Fuck that — I’ll just make a copy!”

I thought about that joke yesterday, then I searched for it on YouTube, then I went down a Mitch-shaped rabbit-hole. I didn’t feel guilty about wasting my afternoon writing session. I was celebrating the fact that I had just finished the first draft of a new novel — and psyching myself up for the Sisyphean process of rewriting that novel.

Supposedly, Ernest Hemingway once said, “the only kind of writing is rewriting.” Writers aren’t supposed to argue with Hemingway. There are two reasons for this. First, he’s Hemingway and you’re not. Second, Hemingway’s ghost will fight you; I once saw him kick Tom Clancy’s ass at a bake sale to raise money for the library in Key West, Florida. True story.

But at the risk of getting my ass kicked by a ghost and revealing myself to be a hack, I think Hemingway is wrong. There are two kinds of writing. The first kind is where the writer, somehow, turns nothing into something. The second kind of writing is rewriting, which is the process of turning something into a story.

For me, yesterday marked the end of a five-month process that began with nothing and ended with something. In my case, that something is a manuscript for a mystery novel. I’ve got something — but at the moment that something is a hot mess of exposition, plot holes, under-developed characters, dead-end subplots, and jokes that, quite frankly, suck. But that’s OK. Actually, that’s great! Now, I have something to work with. I can rewrite a scene that doesn’t work, but I can’t rewrite a scene that doesn’t exist. This is progress.

Getting to the first draft on this project put me through the ringer. I’m still unpacking the details, but the gist is that I’ve struggled with depression my whole life, and now that I’m somewhere in the messy middle of that life, I’ve recognized a pattern where my depression undermines the work I want to do, ultimately driving me into a dark place where I actually believe that I never wanted to do that work in the first place. Like I told my therapist, it’s a “clusterfuck of negative thoughts.”

Back in March, I wrote about depression. Or, more specifically, I wrote about how it feels to hit bottom, seek help, and find yourself in Joseph Heller’s shitty first draft of Catch-22. Facing that particular episode of my depression, and eventually seeing and coming to terms with a depressive pattern in my life, was painful. It was also liberating. Once I understood that the negative voice in my head — a voice I call K-Fuck Radio — wasn’t my voice, I learned to tune it out. (Note: tuning it out remains a work in progress, and in my case, the right drugs help a lot).

With my head relatively free from a “clusterfuck of negative thoughts,” two things happened. First, I rediscovered my passion for reading and writing crime novels. Second, I learned that if you drop the bags of emotional crap you never needed to carry in the first place, it’s a lot easier to get shit done.

And get shit done, I did. It took me exactly five months and two days to go from nothing to something. I kept track of my progress with an un-patented system that involves color stickers and a calendar that features natural objects that look like dongs. If that sounds silly, it’s because it is. But there’s a method to the madness. For me, depression is a kind of sadness that lives simultaneously in the past and the future. If left untreated, depression swallows the present. The stickers are an effort to live in the now, to paraphrase Garth Algar. The dong calendar is a cheap way to make sure the present — especially those writing sessions where you just aren’t feeling it — is more silly than sad.

Which brings me to the second kind of writing — rewriting. Tomorrow, I start revisions. It’ll be a slog. The process will likely take another five months, maybe longer. When I think about the work ahead, I want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my eyes, and convince myself that quitting is the only sane move because I never really wanted to write a novel in the first place. But that’s not true. The only thing I want more than to finish writing this novel is to share it with you.

Which is exactly why I’m working so hard to focus on the present. In the present, the past can’t haunt me and the future can’t taunt me. The present is where I get shit done. For me, rewriting is one word at a time, one scene at a time, one sticker at a time, one day at a time, one dong per month.

I’m on a podcast talking about fiction!

My friend invited me onto her podcast to talk about writing fiction, self-publishing fuck-ups, and being a medium-sized deal on Wattpad. You should listen.

Stock Fiction 09 | Absolute Hilarity Ensues Absolutely Listen now4 days ago · 9 likes · 5 comments · Meg Oolders and Michael Estrin Have I got a story for you!

My novel is called Not Safe for Work, and it’s the perfect book for anyone who loves slacker noir stories like The Big Lebowski, Fletch, or Inherent Vice.

Pick up a copy of Not Safe for Work on Amazon, or all the other book places.

The Courage To Tell The Truth About Courage Bagels

Here’s a headline that’ll start an internet flame war: The Best Bagels Are in California (Sorry, New York). The headline is from The New York Times, which back in 2021 declared, “West Coast bakers are driving a great bagel boom.”

Sacrilege.

That’s the only way to describe New York’s hometown paper talking shit about New York’s hometown product. When it comes Big Apple pride, the bagel ranks somewhere between The Yankees and the Statue of Liberty. But unlike The Yankees, who lose sometimes, and the Statue of Liberty, which made a questionable cameo in Ghostbusters 2, New York bagels never let you down.

When I lived in Brooklyn, everyone told me New York had the best bagels. I’d say something like, “that pigeon is shockingly aggressive, do you think he’s on drugs?” Invariably, the response would be, “New York has the best bagels.” Once, I got hit by a cab and I screamed out, “I’m walking here!” The response? “New York has the best bagels.” I even tried out the line on a mugger. When he stuck a knife in my face and demanded that I hand over my wallet, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “New York has the best bagels!” He settled for a fiver so he could buy a sesame bagel with scallion cream cheese from the place around the corner.

The point is, New Yorkers are proud of their bagels. Whether or not you want to hear their opinion, they’re going to tell you just how fucking good their bagels are.

But Los Angeles?

No.

We are not a bagel town.

Growing up, my family ate Western Bagels, where the motto is: a cinematic logo for an unremarkable bagel.

There are better bagels in Los Angeles, of course. Personally, I’m fond of Sam’s on Larchmont. I know Sam’s is good because as an overweight Jew my bagel bona fides are unimpeachable. Still, I appreciate the validation whenever a New Yorker says, “You’re right, Michael, Sam’s is good,” before adding, “but not as good as New York.”

Which brings me back to The New York Times. Those turncoat motherfuckers crowned California the bagel champ three years ago. Then back in June, they had the chutzpah to run a piece about an outfit called Courage Bagels, where customers actually take pride in the fact that they wait in line for an hour or more. The situation at Courage Bagels sounded FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition) to me, so naturally I had to investigate.

I checked the internet, aka the only source of truth in this mixed up world. Everyone on the internet seemed to agree that you will wait “forever” at Courage Bagels. Most people seemed to think the wait was “worth it.” The way I saw it, there were only two possibilities. Either these people had found the best bagels in the world, or they were total dipshits.

So I went to Courage Bagels to see for myself. The drive from my house took about forty minutes. Parking took another twenty minutes and it might’ve taken longer, but I decided to ignore signs for street sweeping and park illegally—just like everyone else in East Hollywood. When I finally got to Courage Bagels, I was shocked to see a very short line.

The view from the back of a line that has fewer than ten people

The wait to place my order took eight minutes. I timed it. The woman in front of me worried that the wait was “too short” because she needed more time to figure out her order. Behind me, two French content creators complained that the crowd was too small to produce compelling footage. I thought about turning around and telling them that Jean-Luc Godard had the courage to shoot whatever was in front of him. But before I could say a word, it was my turn to order.

I got the smoked salmon on an everything bagel with cream cheese. It came with tomato, red onion, capers, and dill. On the side, were three of those tiny cornichon pickles that give me flashbacks to reading about the Lilliputians from Gulliver’s Travels whenever I encounter them. I also ordered a pink lemonade, because fuck it. With tax and tip, the total came to $31.51.

Next, I walked over to the other side of the building to wait in the shade. The crowd skewed young and hip. I eavesdropped on two women who were debating how many steps it would take to “erase” their bagels, but that conversation quickly grew stale. I shot dirty looks at a twenty-something dude who wore a vintage Padres baseball cap and a Shohei Ohtani Dodgers jersey. What the fuck was wrong with that kid? I tried to guess who was there on a date, but then I remembered an article in The New York Times that said zoomers aren’t having sex, and that made me sad for them, but then I thought, at least they have overpriced bagels. Finally, after twelve minutes, my overpriced bagel arrived.

I’ll cut right to the chase: the bagel was good. It wasn’t earth-shattering. It didn’t change my life. And no, it wasn’t the best bagel I’d ever had. It was just a good bagel.

And that’s OK!

Good bagels are one of life’s great joys. They’re right up their with bank errors in your favor, long phone calls with old friends, and taking solace in the fact that while your team may not have won the World Series, the Yankees didn’t win either.

But I don’t think a bagel from Courage Bagels is worth waiting for an hour in line. Why? Because it’s just a fucking bagel. The thing is, I don’t think people wait for the bagels. I think they wait for the clout. Waiting at Courage Bagels is a way to tell the world you appreciate quality, while at the same time signaling that you’re one of the cool kids.

In other words, the hipster snobbery of Courage Bagels is LA’s answer to New York’s bagel propaganda. Where New York’s bagels score reputation points through reach and frequency à la the mass appeal of Madison Avenue, LA’s bagel reputation is all about the boutique if you know, you know vibe that speaks to the TikTok generation. It’s east coast cool versus west coast cool, but as anyone who has graduated from high school knows, the cooler they pretend to be, the more insecure they are. But maybe that’s a good thing for business at Courage Bagels. In a city that’s been told for years that it’s bagels suck ass, there are bound to be insecure bagel fans lined up around the corner.

Badges bagels? We don’t need no stinking badges bagels.

Did this story need to be written? No, it did not. But I wanted to write it, and enough situation normies felt the same way, thus this piece of bagel journalism came to be. What I’m saying is:

I got my best-seller badge back, thanks to the 100-plus generous situation normies who pay for this absurdity, and in return, we all got to learn the truth about Courage Bagels.

That

is

a

win-win,

people!

Of course, there are levels to Substack’s best-seller badge, just like a multi-level marketing scheme. I’m currently at level one. I’d like to get to level two, but that requires thousands of paid subscribers. That won’t happen overnight, but it will happen with more Situation Normal adventures—and you’re generous support.

I’m still working out what the next Situation Normal adventure should be, but I’ve set a target. When we reach 125 paid subscribers, we’ll go on another Situation Normal adventure. Promise.

I’ll announce the next Situation Normal adventure soon. In the meantime, you can help unlock joy by upgrading your subscription👇

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

Is this piece the future of journalism, or what? Wrong answers encouraged!

Paying $31.51 for bagel, lox, and a pink lemonade is too much. But who can I blame? Hipsters? Inflation? Big Bagel? The fishy business practices of the lox industry? The commie pinkos behind pink lemonade? Pull no punches.

The Statute of Liberty needs a new agent. Can you help? Lie to me.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with that guy that he thinks he can wear a Padres baseball cap and a Shohei Ohtani Dodgers jersey? Answers that use profanity will be given priority.

The best bagel in the world is the one you’re about to eat, right?

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Poolman Was a Bad Film, Or Was It?

You probably didn’t see Poolman. Chris Pine’s slacker noir earned $159,596 at the box office—a flop at any budget. With a score of 21% on Rotten Tomatoes, it’s not like Poolman is in danger of cracking the Netflix top ten, or breaking VOD records. Also, the critics hated it. Writing in The Hollywood Reporter, Michael Rechtshaffen called it a “shrill misfire.” In IndieWire, Siddhant Adlakha wrote, “[Poolman is] only 100 minutes long, but upward of 99 of those minutes are likely to be spent in silent boredom, if not irritated disbelief at being subjected to such guileless, artless nonsense.” Finally, there was this from Owen Gleiberman in Variety:

I’m a fan of Chris Pine: the early Shatner-smooth charisma, the powerful chops he’s displayed in movies like Hell or High Water, the authoritative snap of his performance as the cult-leader heavy in Don’t Worry Darling. So I take no vicious pleasure in saying that Poolman, a movie that Pine co-wrote, directed, and stars in, is not only the worst film I saw during the fall festival season but would likely be one of the worst films in any year it came out. Okay, maybe I’m taking a bit of vicious pleasure in saying that, since I had to sit through the goddamn thing. At the Toronto Film Festival showing I attended, there were a lot of walkouts.

I sort of agree with the critics, but I also liked Poolman, and for reasons I’ll get into, I think the film might age better than the critics think.

When I saw the trailer for Poolman, I knew it was my kind of film. Slacker noir—a genre that blends the dark cynicism of noir with the absurdity of slacker / stoner comedy—isn’t just my vibe, it’s my ethos. (That’s why I write slacker noir novels).

I wanted to see Poolman in the theater because I prefer the theatrical experience and because I hoped my tribe—slacker noir fans—would be there too. Sadly, Poolman opened and closed so fast I never got a chance to see it on the big screen, surrounded by other slacker noir enthusiasts. Instead, we rented the movie and watched it in our living room. I’m sure the picture and the sound would’ve been better at our local multiplex, but what I really missed was the crowd.

By definition, an offbeat comedy hits the off beats. The laughs aren’t obvious. Instead of a set-up, followed by a punchline, followed by (hopefully) roars of laughter from the crowd, offbeat humor is about mining little moments that usually fly under the radar. Watching a movie like Poolman with an audience reveals the smaller, offbeat moments. The throw-away line that made the guy in the back row lose his shit? That idiosyncratic expression on an actor’s face that made you giggle uncontrollably? That incongruous moment where the comedic tone clashes with a serious setting, or vice versa? These are the offbeats. They’re perfect, little jokes aimed at a few people, but if you string enough of them together, you have the makings of a quotable movie, which is to say, you have the makings of cult classic.

But the thing about a cult classic is that it takes time to achieve that status. When I was a kid, the movie I always wanted to see was the “sleeper hit.” Usually, the sleeper hit was an offbeat comedy; sometimes it was a slacker noir. Slowly, over many years, the really good sleeper hits became cult classics. In a roundabout way, I’m talkin’ about the Dude here, to reference a not-so-deep cut from The Big Lebowski, the platonic ideal of slacker noir.

The Big Lebowski clearly inspired Poolman. The film follows Darren Barrenman (Pine), a quirky Los Angeles pool cleaner who’s obsessed with Erin Brockovich. Barrenman lives in an old apartment complex owned by Jack (Danny DeVito) and Diane (Annette Bening) who serve as oddball parental figures. Barrenman’s relationship with his girlfriend (Jennifer Jason Leigh) is on the rocks, and he’s suffering from some sort of trauma that makes him what you might call a high-functioning kook. But his main schtick, aside from cleaning pools, is pitching zany ideas at city council meetings to make Los Angeles a better place to live. Which is how he becomes embroiled in a mystery that’s an homage to Chinatown and mixed up with a femme fatale.

As I said before, while I agree with the critics (to a point), I also liked Poolman. The quirky characters intrigued me. The convoluted plot, which turned out to be a deceptively simple story not unlike what you get from a noir master like Raymond Chandler, hooked me. Here and there, the offbeat jokes made me laugh. But I don’t know if I loved Poolman because I think I need another decade to think about how I truly feel.

That’s how I felt when I first saw The Big Lebowski too. I saw the movie in the theater when it came out in 1998, and I kinda sorta got it, but not really. The story is ludicrous, to quote Maude Lebowski. But the story is also straightforward, at least insofar as it asks what would happen if Philip Marlowe was a stoner seeking justice for a rug that really tied the room together? I liked The Big Lebowski the first few times I saw it, but it took many subsequent viewings, always with other fans aka Achievers, to truly fall in love with the movie.

I want to fall in love with Poolman, too. But slacker noir is a slow burn. At first, you think it’s a dumb version of a detective story, or a contrived version of a slacker comedy, but eventually, you realize it’s both things, and that together it’s fucking brilliant. That’s how slacker noir works.

Or, maybe that’s how art works. After I saw Poolman, I came across a Variety article where the film’s producer, Stacey Sher defended the movie. Sher, if you don’t know, has produced a lot of great movies. Some of my favorites include: Get Shorty, Reality Bites, Pulp Fiction, Out of Sight, Man on the Moon, Garden State, Contagion, and Django Unchained. In the Variety article, she explained why a slow burn is probably a good thing:

Quentin Tarantino may have said to me a long time ago: ‘The reviews of your movies aren’t written the weekend they come out. They are written 10, 20, 30 years after they come out. It’s all about how they endure.’ It’s a Wonderful Life got horrible reviews when it came out and there are tons of examples like that. No one was that interested in Contagion as they were when we already had a global pandemic. 

I’ll watch Poolman again next year. And I’ll probably watch it a few more times. Maybe I’ll just end up proving the critics right again and again. But maybe, in time, Poolman will find its audience and I’ll be among those who were early on a very good thing.

If you’re interested in reading a slacker noir that was inspired by The Big Lebowski and a very strange job I had as a reporter at trade publication that covered adult entertainment, check out my novel, Not Safe for Work. In the best slacker noir tradition, Not Safe for Work is slowly catching on.

Pick up a copy of Not Safe for Work on Amazon, or all the other book places.

I want to know what you think!

Have you seen Poolman? Have you even heard of Poolman?

Do you have a favorite cult classic?

That rug really tied the room together, did it not?

Has Danny DeVito ever made a bad movie?

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The greatest oat milk latte ever

Most days I drink shitty coffee. This is a choice. Since I started working from home, where you’re responsible for your own office supplies and snacks, I’ve tried several methods for my morning coffee. The French press. A pour-over. A Moka Pot. The old-fashioned basic-as-shit Mr. Coffee. In theory, any of these methods could be my go-to. In practice, there are problems. But as Taylor Swift says, I’m the problem, it’s me.

My problem is consistency, or rather, a lack of it. Too much coffee one morning, too little water the next. Making coffee isn’t rocket science, but I still fuck it up every damn day.

Which brings me to K-cups. They’re lousy from an environmental perspective. They’re also an abomination, if you’re a coffee aficionado. But K-cups are consistent. You fill the machine with water, pop in a pod, press a few buttons, and that’s it. The coffee is mediocre, but it’s consistently mediocre.

When I want good coffee, I leave the house. The closest option is Starbucks. Some people love their coffee, others say it’s too bitter. But I don’t think of Starbucks as a coffee company. They’re a guilt-free milkshake provider. The milkshakes are listed on the menu under “Frappuccino Blended Beverages.” Frappuccino is code for milkshake. If you order a milkshake, you’re having dessert. But if you order a Frappuccino, you’re drinking a blended beverage, which means you can dishonestly say to your doctor, trainer, or spouse, “I don’t drink milkshakes.” A lot of marketing firepower went into creating the Frappuccino euphemism. As a bullshit artist, I appreciate the effort. But as a ride-or-die milkshake fan, I’m offended. Fuck Frappuccinos. Fuck them in their fake-ass Venti cups.

But this is about coffee, not milkshakes. If I want a good coffee, I drive past Starbucks and head for a local coffee shop. Sometimes I get a drip coffee, sometimes I get a latte. If I’m lucky, I also get a story—on the house.

The other day, I went to a funky coffee shop called Barclays. It shares a strip mall with a dozen other businesses, including a nail salon, an IHOP, a career college, an all you can eat sushi joint, and a tuxedo rental shop called Friar Tux. As far as I can tell, Barclays will hire anyone as long as they know how to make coffee and they’re a bona fide wackadoo.

I ordered an oat milk latte. The wackadoo cashier rang me up, then passed along my order to the wackadoo barista.

“This man wants the greatest oat milk latte of all time,” the cashier said.

“Sheesh, no pressure,” the barista said. “One minute I’m minding my own beeswax, the next minute I’m in the barista Olympics.”

“No pressure from me,” I said. “I’d like a good oat milk latte, but honestly, I just want you to do your best.”

“You heard the man,” the cashier said, “go for the gold!”

“Don’t mind him,” the barista said. “He lives in a fantasy world where every order has super high stakes. If it’s not a gold medal coffee, it’s a supernatural tea that can stop the zombie apocalypse, or an iced matcha latte that can win a James Beard award.”

“I have high standards, and I hate zombies,” the cashier said.

“You’re also delusional,” the barista said.

“Isn’t everyone a little delusional?” I asked. “I keep thinking everything is going to work out, but I’m also a history buff, so I know that optimism is part of the human condition, even if history teaches us that it’s basically an ongoing shit show.”

“That’s not delusional, that’s fact,” the cashier replied. “I’m delusional. Example: you’re wearing a Big Lebowski t-shirt, but maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re actually wearing a leather biker jacket, or a unitard. See what I mean?”

“Maybe the Big Lebowski t-shirt is an illusion. Maybe I’m wearing a gorilla suit and it just appears as a t-shirt.”

“Maybe you’re not even really here,” the cashier countered. “Maybe you and your oat milk latte exist inside my madness.”

“Maybe your madness exists inside a computer simulation. Or maybe you just need to stop watching The Matrix so much and cut back on the hallucinogens.”

“Bingo!” the barista said, placing my oat milk latte on the counter.

“I hear those words,” the cashier said, “but all I see is a talking gorilla drinking the greatest oat milk latte of all time.”

I got my best-seller badge back!

Big news for Situation Normal, and I couldn’t have done it without some generous situation normies. A very big thank you goes out to , , , Gerald L, and ! The five of you put Situation Normal over the top. I’m sending each of you good vibes. I’m also sharing the notes from those who were kind enough to give me permission to do so.

This means bagels!

To celebrate the return of my best-seller badge, I’m going to write about Courage Bagels, a Los Angeles establishment that has the courage—Chutzpah!—to ask patrons to stand in line for an hour or more to get their bagels. Look for that post next Sunday.

It takes dough to make bagels (and newsletters). Situation Normal is free, which mean it depends on the generous support of the situation normie community👇

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

Why is rocket science the go-to shorthand for a really difficult job, when everyone knows that the hardest working professionals in the game are teachers?

Is Starbucks your milkshake provider, or do you value truth in desserts?

Can you think of a better name for a tuxedo shop than Friar Tux?

Since weirdo has become political (at least in the U.S.), I went with wackadoo. Is wackadoo the new weirdo?

Am I monster for using K-cups?

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A Sandwich Artist Shares The Secret To Longevity

Some people like to say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Personally, I think every meal is equally important, except for brunch, which is in a class all its own. What’s important, in my opinion, is that when my wife asks for breakfast, I make it happen. Usually, I cook breakfast, but sometimes I fetch breakfast.

“Hey honey, I’m thinking Subway for breakfast,” Christina said.

“Great thought. But I’m not a union sandwich artist. No can do, babe.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to cross the sandwich artist union. They’re tough.”

“You’re telling me. I crossed a sandwich artist picket line back in ‘98. What a fiasco. I took a meatball to the face, and someone clobbered me with a loaf of stale bread.”

None of this was true. There is no sandwich artist union. I never crossed their imaginary picket line. And while bread and meatballs have added to my waistline, I’ve never been injured by food, unless you count a falafel in Rotterdam that did me dirty. Our back-and-forth is part of a long-running comedy bit that Christina and I rely on to make mundane moments in our life together more fun. Initially, we thought our comedic approach to marriage would make assembling IKEA furniture, home improvement projects, and trips to Target more tolerable. We were right about that. Christina and I have been kicking ass on these fronts since 2011. But during the lockdown phase of the pandemic, we learned the real value of silliness. Our dumb bits, inside jokes, and terrible impressions kept us laughing through the darkest moments. Humor kept us sane.

Anyway, I went to Subway. When I got there, a sandwich artist named Isabella took my order.

“Bacon, egg, and pepper jack cheese on a six-inch wheat.”

Isabella put the sandwich together lickety-split. Then she whacked that bad boy into the toaster oven.

“No wait, sorry. Can you put onions and peppers on before toasting?”

“No problem.”

Isabella took the sandwich out of the oven. As Isabella put the onions and peppers on, I explained that this was my wife’s order, which is to say I was trying to explain why I hadn’t mentioned the onions and peppers earlier.

“How long you been married?” Isabella asked.

“Thirteen years next month.”

“Good job! I think you’re good at marriage because you care about the little things.”

I never thought about it that way, but Isabella had a point. Individually, the little things don’t amount to much. But if you consistently fuck-up the little things, they become big things, and those big things will fuck-up your marriage.

“I wasn’t good at marriage,” Isabella said. “My ex-husband wasn’t good at it either. We got divorced.”

“Congratulations.”

People who’ve never been divorced gasp when I congratulate someone on their divorce. But divorcees get it. They know that it’s better to end a bad situation than to spend your life in misery.

“Thank you,” Isabella said. “And you know, I’m happy. I have three wonderful children. If the marriage had lasted longer, I would’ve had more. I love children. To me, three kids is a small family. I come from a big family. My parents were married fifty-five years. They had twelve kids.”

“Twelve?!”

“Yes. Big Mexican family. Catholic.”

“Twelve kids is hard on your body.”

“Very hard. But my mom is still alive. She’s ninety.”

“Wow.”

“She’s strong. Physically and mentally. No health problems. You wanna know the secret?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m also a caregiver. That’s my other job. I see people who stop doing activities, stop talking to friends and family. They just sit at home. Without work, their body goes. Without people, they’re mind goes. I’m not talking about sick people. Sick is different. Sick happens. You can’t control that. I’m talking about being a part of the world.”

“Community. Activity. People.”

“Yes, exactly. It keeps you young. Well, not young, but it keeps you strong, keeps you alive. My mom lives in Toluca, Mexico. She’s always talking to family and neighbors. She’s always cooking and walking. She is alive. She is ninety.”

“She is an inspiration.”

“Si.”

“So that’s the secret? Get up everyday and engage with the world.”

“That’s the secret. It’s not really a secret. It’s just hard work. But I think it’s easier if you love yourself and you love the people around you. Then it’s OK. Then you do it, no problem, until you can’t do it anymore.”

“That’s a good, long life.”

“Si.”

Thanks for the bagels! We’re almost there.

As I’ve said before, I’m trying to get my best-seller badge back. It’s a vanity thing, to be honest. When I do get that stinking badge back, I’m going to write about Courage Bagels, a Los Angeles establishment that has the courage to ask patrons to stand in line for an hour or more to get their bagels. Chutzpah!

But first, I need a few more paid subscribers. As of this writing, we’re two people away, thanks to , , and . Thank you, Teri, Meg, and Becky! Please look for your good vibes in the mail. Also, because they said I could, I’m sharing the nice things Meg and Becky wrote about Situation Normal.

Clearly, the ladies kicked ass last week. Fellas, it’s your turn. Let’s make the bagel story happen.

Send money, I’ll get bagels 🥯

Stick around and chat

I ask, you answer

What’s the secret to a happy life? Wrong answers only!

Why don’t sandwich artists have a union, or a guild, and what is the difference between a union and guild?

Do you and your part practice relationship silliness? Explain.

Pepper jack cheese is bullshit, right?

Brunch is a portmanteau of breakfast and lunch, but there’s no portmanteau for lunch and dinner. Why?

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I'm trying to save my marriage

I snore. If you feel like unsubscribing from Situation Normal, I understand. My wife threatened to unsubscribe from me. Actually, Christina threatened to sleep in another room. But that was an idle threat. Our house is too small to escape the sound of my snoring. Also, with me in one room and Christina in another, our dog, Mortimer, gets confused. Sleep next to the big guy who feeds him, walks him, and picks up after him, or curl up with the nice lady who sneaks him pieces of string cheese when the big guy isn’t looking?

I’m not sure when my snoring started, but I’ve pinpointed the problem to somewhere between my birth, in 1977, and a few months ago. That was when things got bad for Christina, and by extension, bad for me. I’d wake her up with my snoring, then she’d wake me up by shaking me, or shouting, “honey, you’re snoring again!” A few weeks of that routine, and neither one of us was sleeping.

Since I believe in doing my own research, I asked Google to pull up some SEO-friendly content marketing that masquerades as health advice. Turns out, the internet has a lot of tips to stop snoring.

First, I tried sleeping on my side, but then I remembered that I already sleep on my side. I crossed that tip off the list. I also nixed cutting back on booze because I don’t drink.

“I’m willing to quit smoking,” I told Christina, “but first I’ll have to start smoking. Can I bum a cigarette?”

Instead of cigarettes, Christina bought me breathing strips that attach to your nose. They didn’t work, but I did feel like a pro football player, which was cool.

Next, I tried increasing my hydration. What a disaster. I kept snoring, only now I also had to get up to pee throughout the night.

On Reddit, I found a community of snorers. One solution that received a lot of up-votes was to wear a neck brace. The idea behind the neck brace was that it would keep your throat open and your airway clear. That sounded right, but when I put it on, Christina laughed at me.

“You look ridiculous, babe.”

“Who cares how I look? The lights are out, and your eyes are closed.”

Unfortunately, the neck brace was a bust. It didn’t stop my snoring, but it probably was the cause of that night’s dream, where a medical supply salesman tried to strangle me. Also, it was hot as fuck wearing that neck brace.

“I’m calling my doctor,” I said. “There’s got to be something she can do.”

When I saw my doctor, she asked when I started snoring.

“I’m not sure. Somewhere between birth and a few months ago.”

I thought that was a funny line—so funny I used it twice in this post—but my doctor wasn’t amused. I could’ve asked for a second opinion on the joke, but since laughter is the best medicine and she is a medical expert, we agreed to disagree.

“Why are you coming to see me now?” she asked. “Has something changed?”

“Yeah, my snoring is driving my wife nuts. I don’t think she’ll divorce me over it, but my marriage philosophy is don’t fuck around because you don’t wanna find out.”

My doctor said that was “prudent.” Then she ordered a sleep test.

As it turns out, you don’t have to go to a sleep lab anymore. They send you a test in the mail, but first they call to make sure you’re not an idiot.

“The test is a sensor that goes on your finger while you sleep,” the guy from my doctor’s office said. “There’s also an app. Do you know how to download an app?”

“Yes, I got the hang of it during Obama’s first term.”

A few days later, my sleep apnea test arrived, along with a three-page pamphlet that explained how to download an app, as well as a five-page pamphlet that explained how to put the sensor on your finger.

I read all eight pages, and I’m glad I did. Buried in the fine print, I learned that I’d have to shave my chest to attach the other end of the sensor. The guy who called to ask if I knew how to download an app probably should’ve mentioned that.

After shaving my chest—a thrilling experience I rate right up there with colonoscopy prep—I hooked up the sensors, fired up the app, and went to bed.

The next morning, Christina asked me it went.

“I’m pretty sure the data is going to tell them that it’s really hard sleeping with your finger stuck in a sensor, another sensor taped to your chest, and a bunch of wires connecting all this shit.”

“Well, what happens now?”

“The instructions say I’m supposed to throw out the sensors. It doesn’t explain how to use a garbage can, but I’m gonna wing it.”

“I mean, when do we get the results?”

“They’ll call me in about a week.”

A week later, a nurse called me. She confirmed that I snore, which was helpful because there was the outside chance that my wife, who has a wicked sense of humor, was gaslighting me.

“You have mild sleep apnea,” she said. “The gold-standard for treatment used to be the CPAP machine, but now we use something called the APAP, which works even better and people find it a lot less annoying.”

“So there’s a new gold-standard?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a silver-standard, or a bronze-standard?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, we’ve been watching the Olympics, so I can’t think about gold without thinking about silver and bronze.”

“Would you like to try the APAP machine, sir? I checked your coverage, and it looks like you’re fully covered. No copay.”

“Finally, some good news. Tell me, is there an app with this machine?”

“No.”

“Will I have to shave my chest?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me? Something weird that I’ll discover in the fine print?”

“No, it just helps you breathe.”

“It does more than that.”

“Correct.”

She rattled off some of the benefits of addressing sleep apnea. Increased energy. Reduced risk of heart attacks and strokes. Improved cognition.

“That’s great,” I said. “And I realize those are important goals. But I’m just trying to save my marriage here, so please rush that shipment.”

Fund a Situation Normal Adventure!

I’m within striking distance of getting my Substack best-seller badge back, but I need a few more paid subscribers. My original plan was extortion, but my lawyer told me that was illegal and “really dumb.”

My new plan is to do some serious journalism. There’s a place in LA called Courage Bagels. The New York Times wrote about them because people spend an hour, or more, in line for these bagels.

Are they really that good?

What sort of weirdos wait that long for a bagel?

What kinds of shenanigans happen while these weirdos wait?

I need to know! You need to know! We all need to know.

Here’s the deal. As soon as I get that bestseller badge, I’m putting on my reporter’s hat, slathering on some sunscreen, and going to Courage Bagels, and I won’t come back without a story.

Help fund bagel-journalism by upgrading your subscription now🥯🥯🥯

Stick around and chat?

Do you snore? If so, how are things going in the relationship department?

Does your partner snore? If so, are you thinking of leaving them?

🥯

Do you know how to download an app? Wrong answers only.

If laughter is the best medicine, why don’t comedy clubs take my insurance?

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Seize the identity you want for yourself

Adria Arjona and Glen Powell in Hit Man

I realized not everyone fantasized about the same hit man. Every sting operation was a performance. And each arrest was like a standing ovation. I had it down to a science, until things got, well, complicated. My name is a Gary Johnson, and my simple question for you is, who is your hit man?

The moment I heard about Hit Man, I knew I’d love it. For me, the movie pre-checks key boxes.

Crime comedy✅

Loosely based on a true story first reported by Skip Hollandsworth in Texas Monthly✅

Directed by Richard Linklater✅

Starring Glen Powell✅

A word about Glen Powell

There are two kinds of film fans: people who believe Glen Powell is the greatest movie star of his generation, and people who will come to believe that statement soon enough.

I am in the first camp. I love Glen Powell. He was the best part of Top Gun 2—a movie that has a lot going for it. He is the reason I saw Twisters, a genre I usually pass on, because in the trailer, when Powell said, “if you feel it, chase it,” I felt it, and I chased him… all the way to the theater. He was the weirdest part of Everybody Wants Some!!, a delightfully weird Linklater movie that’s sort of a spiritual cousin to Dazed and Confused, another delightfully weird Linklater movie about bored adolescents who ostensibly party away their idle hours, but in actuality, use those idle hours to try on new identities.

Which me brings back to…

Hit Man

Powell plays a psychology professor who moonlights for the New Orleans Police Department. After a corrupt cop is suspended, Powell becomes the department’s go-to undercover officer whenever they need a fake hit man. Turns out, he’s the greatest fake hit man of all time, not because he has ice water running through his veins, but because he understands that posing as a contract killer is about meeting the client’s expectations. Slick hit man in a suit? Ruthless Russian killer? Redneck enforcer? Everyman charmer? Powell’s character plays these roles perfectly, and those scenes are what makes Hit Man so much fun to watch. But it’s the exploration of the man behind all those fake contract killers that makes Hit Man so interesting.

Gary Johnson was a real person. He worked for the Houston police department and on the side he taught classes at a local community college. If you met the real Gary Johnson at a party, you’d immediately recognize him as the most interesting man in the room. You can read about that Gary Johnson in this Texas Monthly piece by Skip Hollandsworth.

The fictional Gary Johnson is a different story. Powell and Linklater invented that Gary Johnson for the film. The fictional Gary Johnson is a boring nerd. He’s a cat-dad who keeps to himself. If you met that Gary Johnson at a party, you’d forget him even before you finished talking to him. When we meet his ex-wife, we learn that she cares for Gary, but worries that he isn’t living his truth, or as another Linklater character might put it, Gary Johnson isn’t l-i-v-i-n’.

The story in Hit Man is about the fictional Gary Johnson seizing the identity he wants for himself. To get there, he moonlights as something he’s not (professor posing as cop), goes undercover (cop posing as criminal), and then pretends to be a very peculiar version of the bad boy trope (charming contract killer who romances his client). In the end, Powell’s fictional Gary Johnson isn’t any of these identities, but by trying on so many different identities—a big theme in Linklater movies—he ultimately seizes the identity he wants for himself. That is, he finds a way to finally begin l-i-v-i-n’.

Maybe we’re all a little Gary Johnson

Identity is a nice-to-have theme for a crime story, not a must-have. But watching Hit Man, I thought a lot about what draws me to crime stories. There’s no singular explanation there. I like solving puzzles. I find explorations of morality interesting. Crime stories provide a cathartic release that let me confront and process my own fears, anxieties, and darkest impulses. Crime stories are also just plain cool. But in a way, every crime story I consume is also about seizing—if only for a few hours—an aspect of my own identity.

I’m not a bank robber. But when I watch Point Break, there’s a part of me that roots for the Ex-Presidents. It’s the same part of me that fantasizes about casting off the shackles of society and living as an outlaw in the truest sense of that word. It’s not about doing crimes, it’s about living free. The crimes—or in this case, the crime story—are a means to an end for me. If I can lose myself in those stories, I can find Outlaw Michael. I can be free, if only for a moment, and only in my own mind.

I’m not a cop either. But when I read a Harry Bosch novel, or watch the show, I root for the detective. I believe what Bosch believes—everybody counts, or nobody counts. The difference, of course, is that Bosch is prepared to go all the way to hell and back for that proposition, whereas I’m only prepared to go to Barnes & Nobles. I’m kidding, of course. I’m prepared to go further for justice, but not much further, and certainly not as far as Bosch. Losing myself in Bosch’s story is how I find Justice Michael. But the real life Michael, who is deeply concerned with issues of justice, confronts injustice with timid half-measures and pragmatic triangulation. The real Michael asks what is possible, rather than demanding what is ideal. He wants to believe in bold propositions like, let justice be done, or the heavens fall. But when he hears such talk, he is reminded of something one of his law school professors said: “Let justice be done, or the heavens fall sounds nice, unless the heavens fall on your ass. Then you’re good and truly fucked.”

Crime stories are as close as I’ll come to seizing either identity. I get my kicks vicariously, as both a cop and a criminal. But there’s a larger lesson from Hit Man, and maybe all Linklater films more broadly.

The lesson is that we owe it to ourselves to be ourselves. That’s not as easy as it sounds. To live our truth, we have to commit to the bit, as Glen Powell did. But what’s even scarier is that committing to the bit means we’re committing to the possibility that we might fail, and that if we do fail, we’re going to have to keep going. That’s life, isn’t it? You try to be true to yourself, but you never quite get there, and so you keep trying. Or, maybe you don’t try at all. Maybe you simply withdraw into quiet desperation. That sounds like the safe move, but it’s also the most painful move. A series of failed attempts to seize the identity we want is an absurd way to live your life, but it’s far better than the alternative.

I write about the crime genre AND I write crime comedies. My novel is a slacker about a wise-cracking reporter who risks life, limb, and dignity to solve a murder in Porn Valley. Or, in Linklater-speak, Heywood Jablowme (not his real name) is determined to seize the identity he wants before the identity he has can define him.

Pick up a copy of Not Safe for Work on Amazon, or all the other book places.

I want to know what you think!

Have you seen Hit Man yet? Thoughts?

Is Glen Powell the greatest movie star of his generation, or are you waiting for more proof?

Are you a Linklater fan, or do you hate the “hang out” genre?

What identity do you want to seize?

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Our waitress has some thoughts

One way to make my wife happy is to say, “Let’s go to Jumpin’ Java.” There are closer brunch options, but Jumpin’ Java has our heart. It’s where I first discovered that Christina is a food-monogamist.

We’ve been going there since 2010, and she always gets the lavash press. If it’s closer to breakfast, she’ll get the lavash with eggs. If it’s closer to lunch, she’ll get the lavash with chicken. This sounds like an affront to food-monogamy, but I assure you it’s not. What is a chicken, if not a former egg? What is an egg if not a future chicken? This is pseudoscience—a undisciplined discipline that carries a lot of weight on the internet. Bottomline: I am Christina’s forever-human, and the lavash is her forever-brunch.

We were sitting at an outside table, and Christina was about to order her usual, when we were interrupted. A man on a Bird Scooter was blasting what sounded like a combination of heavy metal, techno, and K-pop at full volume from a speaker dangling around his neck. Historically, we called people who force everyone around them to listen to their shitty music assholes. But the video game industry has provided a term I like better: non-playable characters (NPC).

Since the light up ahead was red, we were stuck with Mr. NPC. It was only sixty seconds, but it felt like forever. Here’s everything that happened to me in that minute:

A bead of sweat formed on my brow and dropped, in slow motion, into my coffee, creating a ripple effect that would give Michael Bay a boner.

I realized that Bird’s business model is essentially littering as they encourage people to drop their bikes anywhere.

I came to terms with the old man inside me who yells at people to get off his lawn and turn down that awful music.

I realized that my problem with pigeon pose is not the pose itself, but the way I get into the pose.

I determined that the location next to Jumpin’ Java was cursed as more than a dozen restaurants had failed there in less than a decade.

I did our taxes.

I outlined a novel that revolves around a comedic misunderstanding involving goldfish crackers and goldfish that are actual fish.

I made eye contact with our waitress, and without speaking a word between us, we agreed to yank Mr. NPC off his scooter and shove that speaker up his butt.

“Sorry about that,” our waitress said.

“It’s not your fault,” Christina said. “Assholes are gonna asshole.”

“Can I tell you something? That guy wasn’t even that bad. It’s the guys in fancy cars that are the real problem.”

As a native Angeleno, car culture is my culture. Shortcuts for getting around town are my religion, an article in front of a freeway name is a must, and traffic gives me life. But I belong to a subset of Angeleno males who are not what you’d call car guys. In fact, listening to people shit on car guys is my kink.

“It’s the guys in Lambos who are the worst,” she continued. “They always park in the loading zone so they can keep an eye on the car.”

I looked at the loading zone in front of Jumpin’ Java. It was empty, for now.

“I tell them, you’re gonna get a ticket, but they act like they don’t care, like that’s some sort of flex. Then parking enforcement comes along and they freak out. I’ve had some guys jump in their Lambos and drive away—without paying. That sucks, but they’re not as bad as the guys who bitch and yell at parking enforcement.”

“Douchebags,” Christina said.

“You know what the worst part is? They all hit on me. They think parking their leased Lambo in the loading zone is gonna impress me. I’m sorry. A Lambo is a red flag. It means they’ve got a small dick and an even smaller brain.”

Suddenly, our waitress looked at me.

“You don’t drive a Lambo, do you?”

“No. My dream car is a Toyota Corolla with a driver who gets a living wage, health benefits, and a pension.”

“You’re a very secure man,” she said. Then, to Christina, she added, “He’s a keeper.”

Christina agreed. When she finds a good thing, whether it’s a lavash or a man, she keeps it.

“Also, these guys aren’t even rich,” our waitress continued. “If you drive a Lambo, you pay with an Amex black card, or cash, not a fucking Discover card, or some JCPenney card with your grandma’s name on it.”

“Who are they trying to fool?” Christina said.

“Dumb girls who get their information from Instagram. Their IQs drop when a guy pulls up in a Lambo. And the guys lose fifty IQ points when they see the girls. She’s a gold-digger, but he doesn’t have any gold. And he’s looking for a trophy wife, but that trophy was made by a plastic surgeon. It’s so dumb.”

“Yowsers,” Christina said.

“What a scene,” I said. “We come for the food, but with your commentary we get a free show too.”

“I’m thinking of starting a podcast,” she said. “LamBros & Fake-ass Gold-diggers.”

I thought she needed to workshop the title, but I didn’t mention that. Instead, we talked about podcasting, hypergamy, and the inescapable feeling that something has gone very wrong in this world. Eventually, the conversation ran its course. Christina ordered the chicken lavash, and I ordered the egg lavash.

Which lavash came out first, the chicken or the egg? I’m not sure as I was distracted. One minute there was nothing, the next minute there was a LamBro parked in the loading zone and gold-digger giving him the eye. The former causes the latter and vice versa. A classic chicken and egg problem.

Shout out time!

Big thank you goes out to ! Thank you for becoming the newest paid subscriber at Situation Normal! Sending you good vibes Rhiannon.

Also, we’re one paid subscriber closer to a Situation Normal adventure wherein I put the New York Times to shame by doing some original reporting on Courage Bagels, a place that’s so good (allegedly) it’s worth waiting in line for a whole hour.

Upgrade your Situation Normal subscription because you love it, or because you wanna read a story about waiting in line for an hour to get a bagel🥯

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Which came first, the chicken salad, or the egg salad? Wrong answers only.

Other red flags? Help the single people mingle.

Who are some NPCs you can do without?

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