Michael Estrin's Blog, page 8

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Hi situation normies!

I’m interrupting your regularly scheduled programming to bring you some very cool news.

As of this writing, Situation Normal has more than 5,000 subscribers!

Proof👇

I want to celebrate this milestone, but I’ve had trouble figuring out how. A few ideas I was considering:

Write a piece explaining why I named this newsletter Situation Normal. That could be interesting, right?

Write a piece about how I grew my newsletter and how you can grow your newsletter, too! Nah, nobody needs that crap.

Source the 5,000 best GIFs on the internet! Cool, but I’m pretty sure that many GIFs exceeds the data limit for email.

I think the reason I couldn’t settle on a way to celebrate this milestone is that I couldn’t get one question out of my head:

Who the heck are you people?

Seriously, when I started this thing, there were about 100 situation normies, and I pretty much knew everyone. Now, there are 5,000-plus situation normies and every Sunday, I ask myself, who are these lovely people?

That’s why I’m celebrating with Situation Normal’s first ever reader survey. It’ll help me better understand my readers, I hope.

A few things to know about the survey:

You’re helping me make Situation Normal even better, so please take it!

Your answers are anonymous.

It’ll take 5 minutes or less.

You could win a $100 Amazon gift card! Seriously, to say thank you, Christina will pick one random respondent, and I’ll send them a $100 Amazon gift card (which is why you need to enter your email address).

OK, that’s it.

For a chance to win $100 and to help out Situation Normal, take the survey by clicking here.

What's your apocalypse job?

Greeting and salutations, situation normies!

After my healthcare provider told the entire internet about my embarrassing medical conditions, I was mortified. Thankfully, your comments really cheered me up. But this comment from , who is a freaking funny woman, won my heart with a cure for hiccups and a plan to hire the A-team to get my medical information back:

The prize is bragging rights, Sheila, so tell everyone you know that you’re fucking awesome!

Speaking of awesome, shout out ! Joleen is the newest paid subscriber to Situation Normal! Thank you, Joleen! I sent you some good vibes, so be sure to check the mail. I also want to shout out Hillary C. who sent money via PayPal along with a note that made my day! Thank you, Hillary, the vibes are in the mail📬

OK, let’s get to it!

My wife and I used to have a plan for the apocalypse. Assuming we made it through the initial apocalyptic situation—nukes, zombies, the viral outbreak depicted in the movie Outbreak—we thought we had a pretty clever way to survive, maybe even thrive. We’d start a cult. But not just any cult—The Golden Rule Toilet Paper Cult.

We figured that when the shit hits the fan, people will raid their local big box stores. They’ll steal food, water, weapons, and if they’re smart, medicine. But they probably won’t grab toilet paper. Which means that the people who control toilet paper in the post-apocalyptic wasteland are going to be very popular people.

At least, that’s what I thought before the pandemic. In those frantic early days of the pandemic, people were scared shitless. They hoarded food, water, weapons, and medicine. But they also bought so much toilet paper that there was a shortage for a few months and public officials actually had to go on TV and plead with people to spare a square. Which is why I laughed my butt off when my friend Norm sent me this👇

Come with me, if you want to shit.

So that idea went down the toilet in 2020. But I still believed in the Golden Rule Toilet Paper Cult. Here’s why: necessity. See, everyone in the post-apocalyptic future, assuming the movies and novels are accurate, has to do something to survive. But that something is usually some variation of warrior. Problem is, I’m a lover not a fighter. There are also specialists, like doctors and mechanics, but I’m not great with blood and even worse with machines.

Of course, there are other valuable skills, like hunting, farming, and purifying water. Some people are even learning those skills pre-apocalypse. I once wrote an article about those kinds of people—preppers and survivalists—for the “Bad Ass” edition of Penthouse Magazine (yes, just like Playboy, they have articles too). But if that assignment taught me anything, it was this: I am not a bad ass.

“I’m fucked,” I told Christina. “Which means we’re fucked, assuming you still want to be my wife after the apocalypse, which you can totally get out of, if you want, because that wasn’t covered in our vows, and so maybe you wanna ditch me for a warlord, or a farmer.”

“Nothing is fucked, dude. Also, We’re ride or die to the end, honey.”

That made me feel good. But then it made me feel bad because without a valuable apocalypse skillset, Christina and I wouldn’t ride very long before we died.

“You’ve got skills, babe. You’re an idea man. And I know how to operationalize the fuck out of ideas.”

We talked a little about our plans for surviving and even thriving in the apocalypse. OK, we talked about it a lot—over the course of several days, months, and well, years. The conversation remains ongoing. It’s pretty much a theme in our household.

The first insight, if you can call it that, was that I’d have to stop shaving. Without access to clippers, my beard would quickly mushroom into Jerry Garcia territory. Assuming we came across deadheads in the apocalypse, that could be cool. Pre-apocalypse my resemblance to Jerry had helped me make friends at the Post Office and even resulted in free ice cream a few times. But my beard would keep growing. Soon enough, I’d leave Jerry Garcia behind and enter uncharted territory—Moses Beard.

The second insight was that my glasses would definitely break, and because my eyes suck, I won’t be able to find a new pair. At first, the thought of being legally blind in a lawless wasteland wasn’t appealing. But between the broken glasses and Moses Beard, Christina saw the raw ingredients of a cult leader.

“Babe, people are always asking you for advice. They think you’re wise.”

“Think?”

“You are wise.”

“OK, but wisdom isn’t exactly making it rain.”

“That’s because you’re allergic to business. But that’ll be my department. All you have to do is lose the glasses, let that beard grow, and say wise stuff that gives people perspective about the totally fucked-up situation we’re in.”

“Can’t I just do that with my glasses and a shorter beard that isn’t a magnet for dust and food? I don’t know if there will be hummus in the apocalypse, but if there is, I’d like to enjoy it without getting globs of hummus stuck in my beard.”

Christina shook her head.

“Branding, babe. You gotta cultivate a cult leader brand.”

“Cult leader? I’m not making anyone drink poisoned Kool-Aid, or do weird non-consensual sex stuff. That shit isn’t cool. And it’s not like I’m gonna quote scripture. I’m more of a golden rule dude. Live and let live. Abide.”

“Bingo! Preach the golden rule. Your job is content. I’ll handle branding, marketing, and operations.”

“Operations?”

“Sure. The more people we bring into the fold, the more important systems and processes become.”

“I dunno. It sounds like I’d be the boss. I don’t want to manage people.”

“You’re the figurehead, babe, I’m the boss. Besides, more people means more power.”

“To do good stuff, right?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

And that’s how Christina and I created The Golden Rule Toilet Paper Cult. Basically, we’d treat other people how they wished to be treated, but to emphasize civility during recruitment, we’d focus on something one level above basic needs like food, water, and shelter. We’d focus on that civilized feeling you can only get from having a clean butthole.

Was that the best apocalypse plan? We thought so, until the most recent apocalypse. See, ever since Great Toilet Paper Cock-Up of 2020, my apocalypse planning has been the doldrums. But last week, my sister, Allison, gave me some inspiration.

I texted her to complain about a show I was hate-watching. I think I was hoping that she was hate-watching it too, because misery loves company. But she wasn’t. Instead, she had just finished watching a Fallout.

“Craig and I really enjoyed it,” she wrote.

The Craig part wasn’t surprising. Craig is a fan of the genre, as well as a kickass contributor to the genre. But Allison? She is not an apocalypse person. When I told her I was writing about survivalists and preppers for Penthouse, her reaction was blunt. “Why would anyone want to live through the apocalypse? Kill me quick and be done with it.” And yet, here was Allison, the apocalypse-avoider in the family, telling me to watch a show set in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, where ghouls, robot knights, mutated humans, radiated killer bears, giant carnivorous cockroaches, cannibals, a chicken-fucking snake oil salesmen, and a radio DJ played by Fred Armisen, fight to survive.

“If Allison recommends a post-apocalyptic show, it’s gotta be good,” I told Christina.

And so we watched Fallout. And it was good. Actually, it’s great. But I don’t want to tell you how great it is because I don’t want to spoil anything. Also, this post isn’t a review of Fallout, it’s a serious exploration of my apocalypse plans, and how watching Fallout helped me rethink my place in a world that’s gone to shit.

Without spoiling anything, I can tell you that economics is a very important theme in Fallout. Some people would say the show is a critique of capitalism and the military-industrial complex. And it is that! But it is also a critique of feudalism, vis-a-vis all the stuff with the robot knights. At the same time, it’s also a critique of barter economies, pre-capitalist coinage economies, and pretty much every system of value exchange humanity has ever fucked around with.

Which brings me to my favorite character: Cooper Howard played by Walton Goggins. Before the shit hit the fan, Cooper Howard was a movie star who played cowboys. Think Gary Cooper. But in the apocalypse, Cooper Howard is a ghoul who makes his living as a cowboy. Nifty trick, right? He went from playing a cowboy to being a cowboy.

That’s what got me thinking. Maybe I don’t need a new apocalypse job, like cult leader. Maybe the skills I use to earn a living when civilization is still standing will serve me well when we have to unfuck the apocalypse and bring back civilization. If that’s true, I have three things on my apocalypse resume:

Humorist

PR pro

Journalist

I’d love to be a post-apocalyptic humorist! Lord Humungus knows laughter will be in short supply. But my concern is this: humor is a lousy business in a rich world, so it may not pay the bills in the apocalypse.

I’m willing to do post-apocalyptic PR. I can put a positive spin on anything. Cannibalism? Protein is important! A band of leather daddy car buffs raising hell in the Australian outback? Celebrate alternative lifestyles, let your freak flag fly. Kevin Costner drinks his own urine? Piss is a thirst-quencher, plus it has electrolytes!

But I’d be happiest returning to my roots as a journalist. In the apocalypse, people will pay for news they can use. A column on how to talk a cannibal out of eating you? A must-read! A personal finance piece on where to source leather underwear for frugal Mad Max types? Read all about it! Recipes for turning piss into cocktails, or mocktails if you’re doing the apocalypse sober? Game-changing content!

The point is, the apocalypse is full of untold stories, and I’m just the man to tell them. Sure, I’ll have to figure out details like printing and distribution, but thankfully, I have Christina. She has a fuck-ton of experience in media operations and the can-do spirt of an entrepreneur. But the most important thing is that have YOU!

So here’s my promise to Situation Normal subscribers if / when the shit hits the fan: I’ll be there for you with news you can use and maybe even some humor columns too.

But don’t worry about paying me in stolen toilet paper, or ass-jerky, or the penicillin you made after your biker gang pillaged a fancy cheese shop. You can pre-pay your subscription to Situation Apocalypse. Simply upgrade your Situation Normal subscription, or if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here.

Stick around and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers. Please share them in the comments, and if it floats your boat, share it as Note.

What’s your apocalypse plan? Dish!

What’s the best work of apocalypse fiction and why is it World War Z by Max Brooks? No wrong answers, but again, the right answer is Max’s book.

Why is apocalypse one of those words I always misspell? What words do you always misspell? Let a thousand typos fly!

Why haven’t you seen the adaption of Z for Zachariah? It’s a totally under-rated work of apocalyptic fiction that has some unsettling things to say about the folly of human endeavors. Watch it! Then, see if you can spot the situation normies in the credits.

Are there any rules better than the golden rule? Discuss!

Leave a comment

Your privacy is important to us

Hi there, situation normies! And also, aloha, situation normies!

I wasn’t sure how last week’s story about looking for a late night dinner in San Rafael was going to play. My concern was it might not be relatable— a comedy writer word that means, “will anyone give a rat’s-tuchis about this story?” Turns out, it was relatable! I heard from more than a dozen situation normies who had also been let down by San Rafael’s late night dining options. Based on this statistically insignificant sample size, I can only conclude that San Rafael needs to get its shit together.

There were a ton of great comments to choose from, but I feel compelled to highlight something wrote:

Dude, you could have gotten a Kind Bar, a Snickers, a Twix and another Kind Bar at the movie theater concessions counter!

Holy shit! Anne cracked the case. I totally missed a dinner opportunity when I saw the theater. Thank goodness for careful readers like Anne. If only she had been in San Rafael that night, I could’ve eaten candy for dinner. Also, a comment with a callback is comedy gold, people.

Speaking of gold, Situation Normal has two new paid subscribers! Big shout out to Bonnie! Honored to have your support. Also, big shout out to , whose profile reads, “NY Times Bestselling novelist, Wiccan Elder, Law of Attraction teacher, whole food plant-based coach.” Holy cow tofu, Maggie, you are crushing it! I’m so glad to have you on board, thank you!

Situation Normal is free for everyone. Some situation normies pay because they love this newsletter and they get their kicks underwriting joy for strangers. That’s pretty damn cool. But it’s also totally cool if you don’t want to pay, or can’t pay. Seriously. Situation Normal isn’t about the money.

BUT…

If you want to send money to support the work that goes into Situation Normal, please upgrade your subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here.

You’ll get a shout out and I’ll send you good vibes, which are priceless.

RELATED: if you’re the sort of person who cares about badges and other status symbols, you may recall that Situation Normal used to have a Substack best-seller badge, lost it in a poker game, and is currently FOUR paid subscribers away from getting that damn badge back. But as I said when Substack launched badges:

I had hoped to keep my medical records private, but recent events have forced my hand. My only option is to dox myself. Because whatever you hear about me, I want you to hear it from me first. Away we go:

In 2006, I thought I had vertigo after a screening of Vertigo. My doctor said I was psycho-cinema-somatic.

In 2007, I suffered bouts of uncontrollable hiccups whenever I heard the phrase “too big to fail.” Doctors never solved this medical mystery, but the economy rebounded and my hiccups went away, for the time being.

In 2009, after incidents at a Big 5 Sporting Goods store and several of LA’s finest Italian restaurants, I was involuntarily hospitalized because I thought I was Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda. I did not respond drugs or shock therapy, but after the Dodgers were eliminated from the playoffs, I was fine. But I still crave lasagna.

In 2010, I just couldn’t stop farting.

Also in 2010, I couldn’t pee unless I hummed In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida by Iron Butterfly.

In 2013, I thought I had an erection that lasted longer than four hours, but the ER doctor concluded that I suffered from an over-inflated sense of self and a broken wrist-watch.

In 2016, the hiccups came back, but this time the trigger was the phrase: “take him seriously, but not literally.”

In 2017, my dermatologist removed a mole that bore a striking resemblance to Weird Al Yankovic. According to the lab, the mole was surprisingly funny, but benign, just like Weird Al.

In 2020, I suffered bouts of uncontrollable hiccups accompanied by relentless farting. This time, the trigger was the phrase “flatten the curve.”

In 2023, I couldn’t pee without singing Regulate by Warren G.

In 2024, I was diagnosed with depression, but you knew that.

I’m telling you this because of a recent email from my healthcare provider, Kaiser Permanente. Here is an annotated version of that email:

Dear MICHAEL,

Why you gotta shout, Kaiser? After my last physical, we both know my hearing is perfect.

On behalf of Kaiser Permanente, I am writing to inform you about a privacy matter that may have affected you.

Did your lawyers write this? It sounds like you’re trying to say you fucked up, without saying you fucked up.

What Happened?

On October 25, 2023, Kaiser Permanente determined that certain online technologies (commonly known as cookies) installed on our websites and mobile applications may have transmitted personal information to our third-party vendors Google, Microsoft Bing, and X (Twitter) when members and patients accessed our websites or mobile applications. These technologies are sometimes used by organizations to understand how consumers interact with websites and mobile applications. We apologize that this incident occurred.

No fair! If I’m supposed to stop eating cookies, aren’t you supposed to stop using cookies? Also, you gave my personal information to Google, Microsoft, and Twitter? That’s like seventy-two percent of the internet!

What Information was Involved?

The information that may have been involved was limited to: IP address, name, information that could indicate you were signed into a Kaiser Permanente account or service, information showing how you interacted with and navigated through our website or mobile applications, and search terms used in the health encyclopedia.

I bolded the part that freaks me out. Sounds like you told Google, Microsoft, and Twitter about the hiccups, the farting, the Tommy Lasorda incident, my lasagna cravings, musical urination issues, the Weird Al mole, dick stuff, and my depression. Is this why I’m seeing ads for Gas-X, MLB’s streaming service, Spotify, penis pills, lasagna, and anti-depressants?

Detailed information concerning Kaiser Permanente account credentials (username and password), Social Security numbers, financial account information and credit card numbers were not included in the information involved.

Every cloud has a silver-lining, amirite? Virtual fist-bump (🤜 🤛) to the crackerjack cyber-security team!

What We Are Doing:

We conducted a voluntary internal investigation into the use of these online technologies, and subsequently removed these online technologies from our websites and mobile applications. In addition, Kaiser Permanente has implemented additional measures with the guidance of experts to safeguard against recurrence of this type of incident.

Wait, if these technologies compromised my privacy, why did you use them in the first place?

What You Can Do:

Kaiser Permanente is not aware of any misuse of your information. Your Kaiser Permanente account credentials (username and password), Social Security number, financial account information, and credit card number were not involved in this incident. Regardless, it is always advisable to remain vigilant against attempts at identity theft or fraud, which includes reviewing online and financial accounts, credit reports, and Explanations of Benefits for suspicious activity. This is a best practice for all individuals.

There is no evidence that your information has been misused. If you are concerned about identity theft and would like more information on ways to protect yourself, visit the Federal Trade Commission’s Identity Theft website.

Basically, there isn’t jack-shit I can do about it. That’s what you’re saying, right? I’d have more respect for you if you just wrote, “sorry, dude, you’re shit outta luck.”

Also, not to be a dick about it, but this is the same boilerplate I got when Target, Wells Fargo, Amazon, Olive Garden, Big Five Sporting Goods, and Ticketmaster “accidentally” shared all my private info with the internet.

Since receiving this email, I’ve been vigilant as fuck.

I changed my passwords from “1,2,3,4” to “5,6,7,8.”

I trained our dog, Mortimer, to pee and / or poop whenever anyone gets close to one of our devices.

I called my member of Congress, but he said he already knew about, and shared, my concerns. But, and I think this is related, he won’t stop emailing me to ask for money, even though I’ve unsubscribed a bajillion times.

I bought one of those identity theft protection services. I had to give them all my personal info, so I prayed to the spaghetti monster (the internet’s only official deity) that they wouldn’t get hacked, or use some dodgy ad tech that shared all of my information with the entire internet.

I contacted my sources in the LA underground to see if I can find the A-Team. With any luck, Lieutenant Colonel John “Hannibal” Smith, Templeton “Faceman” Peck, H.M. “Howling Mad” Murdock, and B.A. Baracus can raid Google, Microsoft, and Twitter to get my personal information back.

In the spirit of self-doxing, please share this post with everyone on the internet

Share

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

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

Not Safe for Work is an amateur detective novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️ Strangers have said it’s “very funny.”

Stick around and chat!

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

What embarrassing medical conditions has your healthcare provider shared with the internet? Get out in front of this story while you can!

Is there a cure for hiccups? Asking for me.

What’s your password? Wrong answers only (to be safe)!

What do you think the A-Team charges these days? Would they be open to a GoFundMe?

Internet cookies suck, but real cookies are awesome. Tell us about the last cookie you ate!

Leave a comment

I’m starting to think that maybe Mortimer isn’t cut out to be a guard dog.

If you’re new here, make sure you subscribe so you never miss an issue of Situation Normal👇

Why do you hate me, San Rafael? Why!?

Hi there, situation normies! And also, hey there, situation normies!

Last week, had a great idea that I’m totally stealing. Don’t even try to sue me, Amber. I have a law license and time on my hands. Anyway, here’s Amber’s my idea:

Your questions at the end of your posts are a great way to elicit comments, but showcasing your favorite in the next post is an EXCELLENT way to get us all competing with each other for funniest/most insightful to get the spotlight. That's my advice.

I can’t wait to see the comments after this week’s story! But first, a little business.

Situation Normal is free for everyone. Some situation normies pay because they love this newsletter and they get their kicks underwriting joy for strangers. That’s pretty damn cool. Normally, I use this part of the newsletter to shout out new paid and send them good vibes. But there aren’t any new paid subscribers this week. Which is also totally cool! I don’t want your money if you can’t pay, or don’t want to pay. Seriously. Situation Normal isn’t about the money.

BUT…

If you want to send money to support the work that goes into Situation Normal, please upgrade your subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here.

RELATED: if you’re the sort of person who cares about badges and other status symbols, recall that Situation Normal used to have a Substack best-seller badge, lost it because churn is real, and is currently less than five paid subscribers away from getting that damn badge back. But as I said back when Substack launched badges:

If you believe what you read on the internet, it was Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu who wrote, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” But that’s not true. A journey of a thousand miles actually begins with a single question: where can you get dinner after 10pm in San Rafael, California?

Christina and I went to San Rafael for a wedding. We flew up Friday night on the 6pm Southwest flight from Burbank to Oakland. Before we got on the plane, right around 4:45pm, Christina asked a very smart question: “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“No, it’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner.”

“Yeah, but by the time we land, get our rental car, drive to San Rafael, and check into the hotel, everything could be closed.”

“That’s ridiculous! In America? No way.”

While I sung the praises of a fast food consumer culture that’s always there for you, ran or shine, day or night, Christina ate tacos. The tacos at the Burbank airport aren’t great, according to Christina, in fact they’re an affront to the taco-loving world. But as I later learned, the Burbank airport tacos will sustain you.

Waiting at the gate, I tried to get into Baltimore Blues by Laura Lippman. The novel is a page-turner, but Lippman’s story of murder and corruption had nothing on the guy sitting next to me.

At the time, I took that man at face value. He was a candy bar connoisseur who book-ended his guilty pleasures—Snickers and Twix—with the guilt-free pleasures of the Kind Bar, which is also a candy bar, despite the marketing. As I noted, he was a “damn legend.” Only later did I realize that the man with the voracious appetite was also a harbinger.

The flight up to Oakland was quick—too quick to bother with the complimentary beverage and snack.

The Oakland airport was a shit-show, but all airports are shit-shows, especially when you’re just trying to collect your luggage and GTFO.

The situation at the car rental counter was slow and unremarkable, save for one detail. The rental agent refused waive the fee to add me to Christina’s reservation because we couldn’t prove that we were married.

“Your last names don’t match and neither do the addresses on your licenses.”

I flashed my wedding band and said, “She’s a modern woman, and the California DMV is an archaic bureaucracy.”

The rental agent agreed with both statements, but denied my request. The squabble added a little more time to our journey and few more bucks to our bill. But soon enough we were on our way to San Rafael.

It was just after 10pm when we got to our room.

“I’m starving,” I declared. “Are you hungry?”

Christina reminded me about the tacos, which in hindsight were beginning to look like a very smart decision.

I checked the food options at our hotel and quickly realized that our hotel didn’t have any food options. Then I checked Yelp. I filtered my search to find dining options that were walking distance to the hotel and open. Yelp spat out a few results, but it also gave me cause for alarm. Most of the restaurants in San Rafael were closed, and those that remained open would be closing soon.

“We gotta get a move on,” I said.

“You go. I’m just gonna take a shower and watch TikTok.”

I grabbed the room key, laced up my shoes, and put on a sweatshirt. Like hunter-gathers in the days of yore, I left my woman behind and set out into the dark night looking for dinner.

I felt like a burger, so I chose a bar and grill about a mile from our hotel. The walk gave me plenty of time to take in San Rafael. What a cute town, I thought. Quaint! San Rafael felt like the kind of town where the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker know your name. But it was also the kind of town that rolls up the sidewalks at sundown.

There was a bouncer standing outside the bar and grill. He looked like a member of the Hell’s Angels, but it’s also possible he was just a really big Sons of Anarchy fan.

“I just want to get something to eat,” I said.

The bouncer explained that the kitchen was closed. Evidently, the bar and grill was just a bar at this point in the evening. Since it was getting late and I hadn’t seen any signs of life on my walk through town, I asked the bouncer if he knew where I could get something to eat.

“Not a lot of options this time of night,” he said.

That was fine. I wasn’t picky. All I needed was one option.

“There’s a Chinese restaurant,” he said.

“I’m not from around here. Can you give me directions?”

The bouncer gave me directions that sent me back the way I came. When I got to my hotel, I made a right because that’s what the bouncer said I should do.

I walked another mile. I passed a vegan restaurant that looked open. But when I went inside, the hostess told me they had served their last tempeh “bacon” “cheese” burger.

It was the same story at a falafel joint, a taco shop, and a pizza parlor. Every place that looked open was actually closing up. I tried not to take it personally, but the more I walked and the hungrier I got, the more I began to think that San Rafael had it in for me.

Then I saw an undeniable sign of life. A movie theater all lit up. There was a crowd in the lobby, and the crowd was so big that it spilled out onto the sidewalk. I checked the marquee. A documentary film festival. Surely, I thought, some of these people must want a bit to eat after binging nonfiction films.

I asked a few people in the crowd if they knew where I could get something to eat. A few people told me they weren’t from San Rafael. They had no idea. A few people told me they were from San Rafael. They said I was shit out of luck.

I kept on walking. Had I missed the Chinese restaurant? Had the bouncer lied to me? Had he imagined it? Had I imagined the bouncer? I was willing to believe any of these possibilities, but then I saw a place that was full of people. It was called the Double Rainbow Cafe. If there was a pot of gold at the end of one rainbow, I thought, surely there would be something to eat at the Double Rainbow.

And there was something to eat. Ice cream. And frozen yogurt.

“You don’t have anything that’s like, um, dinner?” I asked the kid behind the counter.

“We have sandwiches.”

OK! A sandwich could be dinner. But then the kid behind the counter broke the bad news.

“But we stopped serving sandwiches. Just dessert right now.”

Fuck!

Was San Rafael plotting against me? Yes it was.

I decided to pull out my phone and consult Yelp one last time. Everything was closed, everything except the Chinese restaurant the bouncer had mentioned. But where was this mythical Chinese restaurant? I had followed the bouncer’s directions, struck out with the vegans, struck out with the Mexicans, struck out again with the Middle East, and made it 0 for 4 with the Italians. Now, the Double Rainbow had led me to fool’s gold.

But the Chinese restaurant was open. It was called Yet Wah, and it would be my salvation, if I could find it.

I pressed the button to map my route to Yet Wah. Then I howled at the moon.

Motherfucker!

The bouncer had told me to make a right, but he should’ve said to make a left. Worse, after walking the empty streets of San Rafael, I knew the town as well as the locals, or maybe better than some of the locals. (Looking at you, Sons of Anarchy).

I knew exactly where to find Yet Wah. It was around the corner from our hotel, roughly three hundred feet from where I had first begun a journey worthy of the Lao Tzu treatment.

I hauled ass back the way I came. I passed our hotel and kept walking. Three hundred feet later, I stepped into Yet Wah. It was crowded, probably because it was the only place that was open in San Rafael this time of night.

I got a table by the window. I waved off the menu and asked for the orange chicken because every Chinese restaurant in America has orange chicken, and looking at the menu would just be a waste of time at this point.

While I waited for my food, I eavesdropped on the table next to me. A couple on a date had gone to the film festival. She was horrified by a documentary about the legal limbo of DACA recipients. He was horrified too, but his horror didn’t stop him from mansplaining.

“I’m not a lawyer…” he began, before launching into detailed analysis of the opaque, and let’s face it, corrupt Kabuki theater that passes for Supreme Court jurisprudence in the early twenty-first century.

How long did the man’s lecture last?

Long enough for his date to down two glasses of white wine.

Long enough for the kitchen at Yet Wah to cook and plate an order of orange chicken and side of brown rice.

Long enough for your intrepid correspondent to eat his dinner, pay the bill, and get his fortune.

Thank you for reading Situation Normal! If you’ve ever eaten dinner, you are legally obligated to share this post.

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

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

Not Safe for Work is an amateur detective novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

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

But don’t take my word for it!

tried to tell everyone on Amazon to read Not Safe for Work, although that was easier said than done, right Amy?

Stick around and chat!

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

Christina kept her name when we got married. I support this! But every once in a while we’re reminded that some people hold traditional narrow-minded views. What is their damn deal? Wrong answers only!

What’s your go-to order at a Chinese restaurant? Dish!

If a man eats four candy bars in one sitting, is he a legend, a harbinger, or a ticking time bomb? Go deep!

Why do Hell’s Angels / Sons of Anarchy fans make good bouncers but lousy tour guides? Get weird with this one.

How do you think the date went for the white wine fan and the mansplaining laymen? No wrong answers here.

Leave a comment

Big thank you to our friend Jennie, who is a founding member of Situation Normal, for watching Mortimer while we were away.

Every hero's got to have theme music

Hi there, situation normies!

There were fewer comments than normal on last weeks post, Nature's Dongs + Stickers. But I stand by the title and my new method for tracking progress. Of course, quantity doesn’t equal quality. And the comments were damn good. My favorite came from , a very funny lady👇

Congrats on your return to the long prose page! I am not alone in standing on the marathon sidelines cheering you with my "GO DONG GO!" sign! The dinner answer is, of course, Admiral Ackbar, but only so I can pitch him my "Admiral SnACKbar" franchise idea. It's gold, Jerry, gold!!!

Time for shout outs! This one goes to , a wonderful author who writes a great Substack called The Spark, which is a warm and thoughtful place for writers and readers alike. Elizabeth, aka Betsy, purchased an annual subscription to Situation Normal. Thank you, Betsy!

Situation Normal stories are free, but some situation normies pay because they love this newsletter and they get their kicks underwriting joy for strangers. That’s pretty damn cool.

To help underwrite joy, please consider a subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here. I’ll give you a shout out, send you good vibes, and add you to the list so you receive the annual stakeholder report.

Also, big thanks to who sent me a lovely note to see how I’m doing with my mental health stuff. You’re a mensch, Marc!

Okay, story time…

I’ve had a lot on my mind this week. Depression. Dongs. Anxiety. A new novel. Why it’s easier to call for war than demand peace. A story on the local news about Lenny Kravitz wearing leather pants to lift weights. Season four of Fargo, which isn’t as good as season five, but still damn good. A grilled buffalo chicken sandwich that’s better than any fried buffalo chicken sandwich out there. A client who had to press pause on a monthly gig I enjoy. An AI-generated image called Shrimp Jesus that’s wildly popular on Facebook. An editor who got me a pay bump I wasn’t expecting. Baltimore Blues by Laura Lippman and how subcultures, in this case rowing, are perfect entry points into murder mysteries featuring amateur sleuths. Challengers, where the only real mystery is whether the two male leads will figure out that they love each other and that the purported object of their affections, Zendaya, only loves tennis. My recent discovery that one of my favorite writing spots sells an iced mint tea that could be a real game-changer this summer. And Mandarin oranges.

My mind is messy. This is normal. Thankfully, one question helped me make sense of this week’s chaos: What would Bear McCreary do? The question comes from my Music League.

(I’ve written about Music League before. Making themed playlists with friends, and voting on the submissions, gives me life.)

The name of the game this week was to pick your favorite movie score. I started by making a list. Usually, this is a good strategy, but when my list hit eighty-two songs, I realized that I might have to take a different approach.

One of my favorite movies—top two hundred, easily—is I’m Gonna Git You Sucka. It’s a hilarious parody of Blaxploitation movies. The scene at the big hat club always kills me. My sister, Allison, and I still quote Chris Rock’s cameo where he attempts to buy one rib and a handful of soda from Hammer (Isaac Hayes) and Slammer (Jim Brown), two former action heroes who retired to run a barbecue joint. But the scene that came to mind was the very last scene, where Jack Spade (Keenen Ivory Wayans) asks John Slade (Bernie Casey) why he’s being followed by a bunch of musicians?

“They’re my theme music,” Slade explains. “Every good hero should have some.”

This line helped me reframe the question. I’m the hero of my own movie (everyone is), so I thought about what my theme music would be. Right away, I cut the theme from Conan the Barbarian because I lack the brutality to go full-barbarian. I cut the theme from Top Gun because with my eyesight there’s no way I could be a naval aviator. I also cut the music from the James Bond movies because I lack the duplicity for spy shit.

The cuts helped me shorten my list, but the right answer still felt elusive. The issue, I realized, was that my theme music was probably situational. So, I thought about recurring life situations.

A lot of my life is running around doing mundane shit like shopping for groceries, cleaning toilets, and walking Mortimer. The theme music that comes to mind for those situations is from The Benny Hill Show. But that’s not a movie! If I submitted that music, I’d get zero votes. Worse, my more barbaric friends would mock me without mercy.

When I write, I like to keep things upbeat. I’m fond of Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass. They did the theme song for the original Casino Royale, but I had already ruled out spy shit.

When I’m on the elliptical, I hear the theme from Chariots of Fire. The upside to that theme is that I feel like I’m doing something epic. The downside is that I often slip into a slow-motion run. Not great for hitting my cardio goals.

I hike the canyons near our house a lot, but I don’t hear movie scores on those hikes. When I’m huffing and puffing uphill, I turn to Guns ‘N Roses. I’m not proud of that, but Axel, Slash, and the fellas made the kind of music—Welcome to the Jungle, You Could Be Mine— that helps me get my ass up a steep hill. On the downhill part, Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees makes me feel like I’m floating.

I spend a lot of time in line at Trader Joe’s, Von’s, and Target. Those moments never feel cinematic, but I often hear We’re Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister. Ironic because I am indeed taking it.

Sitting in traffic also takes up more of my life than I’d care to admit. When I’m running late, Radar Love by Golden Earring is the music cue that helps me make up some time. When the traffic is so bad I want to get out of my car and take a sledgehammer to the sonofabitch in the G-Wagon who won’t stop honking, Rage Against the Machine is my theme music. When the traffic is slow, but steady and I’m feeling OK about it, I bop along to Fantastic Voyage by Coolio. When I get to that mystery spot where the traffic jam starts and I realize that there wasn’t an accident or any fucking reason at all for the slow-down, I see myself shifting gears (even though I drive an automatic) and putting the petal to the metal as Gimme Some Lovin' by The Spencer Davis Group provides the emotional oomph for an otherwise ho-hum scene.

Thinking situationally was getting me off track. I was the hero of my own movie, but that movie, as far as I could tell, was about a writer, who does chores, exercises, and sits in traffic. Accurate! But also boring as fuck.

Had I put too much stock into the wisdom of I’m Gonna Git You Sucka? Just asking that question felt like blasphemy. So I put that question aside, then made a note to mail Keenen Ivory Wayans one rib and a handful of soda as an apology.

“You’re the hero of your own movie,” I said to myself in the mirror, “act like it, motherfucker.”

Then it hit me. Or, rather I hit myself because a slap is the most cinematic way to force a character into an emotional one-eighty.

“You’re thinking about the situation, but you need to think about aspiration.”

I didn’t actually say this, but to move the story along, Christina, the producer of my life’s movie, suggested I add some voice over in post.

What did I aspire to?

I slept on that question, and when I woke up I had an answer, because that’s how it works in the movies.

Detective.

That was the answer.

I aspire to be a detective. I love detective stories. I write detective fiction. Whenever I get the chance, I play detective. I’ve solved five-minute mysteries like The case of the missing laptop. I’m still trying to crack my catalytic convertor caper. My personal hero is, “I won’t say a hero, ‘cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a man. And I’m talkin’ about the Dude here.”

I realized I was searching for a detective theme. That narrowed it down to the usual suspects: Fletch, Chinatown, The Big Lebowski, The Long Goodbye. These were all good choices, but I went with the inspiration for my aspiration, the very first detective who made solving shit look like fun.

My submission: Axel F by Harold Faltermeyer.

Thank you for reading Situation Normal! Take a moment out of your own personal movie to share this post.

Share

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

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

Not Safe for Work is an amateur detective novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

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

Stick around and chat!

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

My father took me to see Beverly Hills Cop when I was seven. My mom was pissed when she found out. Dad said, “Linda, I didn’t know an Eddie Murphy movie would have so much cursing?” Was Dad a bad liar, or a chutzpah hall of famer?

What’s your theme music? Get creative!

The local news really did run a story about Lenny Kravitz wearing leather pants to lift weights. Was it a slow news day, or is journalism in serious trouble? Wrong answers only!

How great is I’m Gonna Git You Sucka? Superlatives encouraged!

Have you seen Shrimp Jesus? What the actual fuck?

Leave a comment

No picture of Mortimer this week because reality is under attack from AI. Also, what the actual fuck is going on here?

Nature's Dongs + Stickers

Hello there, situation normies!

Last week’s post, To live in and leave LA inspired some really great suggestions for movies about Los Angeles. There were no wrong answers, but there was an underrated answer: Repo Man. That movie kicks ass, thanks for mentioning it ! Also, a big thanks to , , , and for sharing their leaving LA stories.

For those following my crime spree, I’m currently reading One-Shot Harry, a slow-burn of an amateur sleuth story by Gary Phillips. I love mysteries that show me new worlds, but I’m especially fond of mysteries that show me Los Angeles in a new light. One-Shot Harry is a story told by a Black freelance photographer covering crime and Civil Rights in 1963 Los Angeles. It gives me Walter Mosley vibes, and those are very good vibes indeed.

Time for shout outs! As you know, Situation Normal stories are free, but some situation normies pay because they love this newsletter and they get their kicks underwriting joy for strangers. That’s pretty damn cool. There no new paying subscribers this week, which also totally cool.

If you want to change that, please consider a subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here. I’ll give you a shout out, send you good vibes, and add you to the list so you receive the annual stakeholder report.

It was either Sisyphus, or my little sister Allison, who first asked the question I grapple with whenever I’m working on a novel: Are we there yet?

Obviously, I’m using the royal we here. When I write a novel, it’s just me and the blank page. Or, sometimes it’s just me and a lot of pages. And other times, I’m alone with those pages, but also not alone, because I’m in a crowd of people, like at a coffeeshop, and some of those people, I assume, are on their own Sisyphean journey through Novel Land, or this being Los Angeles, Screenplay Land, which looks like Novel Land, except there are more explosions and sex scenes, and those scenes are always written in 12-point Courier font.

But back to the question. The operative words in the question are “there” and “yet.” Let’s take them in order.

“There”

There refers to the finish line. But there are many finish lines. In roughly chronological order, they are:

a completed outline

a revised outline

a first draft

a second draft

another fucking draft

a draft that feels like a lateral move

a “fuck it” draft to exorcise the all-demon rock band called Self Doubt that won’t stop playing in your head

a rewrite of an earlier draft, which wasn’t “half-bad,” but nevertheless needs work

another rewrite for shits and giggles

the querying of agents

signing with an agent

finding a new agent because your previous agent stole money from their clients to fund their cocaine habit, then skipped town, then surfaced in a non-extradition country where they rep social media influencers who sling dodgy wellness products and questionable career advice

signing with the new agent and hoping to hell that those sniffles are just a cold and not a harbinger of another commission-based cocaine binge

rejections from publishers

a publishing contract

seeing your book in a bookstore

talking to someone really cool, like Terry Gross, about your book

selling the film & TV rights

using the money from the film & TV rights to put a hit out on the first agent

attending a friends and family screening of the movie or TV show that’s based on your book

searching social media for comments that say the book was better than the movie / TV show and feeling a smug sense of superiority

facing the blank page all over again

“Yet”

Yet is a motherfucker. In the strictest sense, yet is defined as: up until the present or a specified or implied time; by now or then. But in the context of a writing a novel, or a screenplay, or pulling off any long-term project, yet is a taunt, a one-word reminder that you wouldn’t know the difference between spinning your wheels or racing toward the finish line. Yet is every inch of the mountain Sisyphus climbed, except the base and the peak. Yet is every mile of the car ride, from the time we buckle up to the moment we pull into a parking space and switch off the engine. Yet is the impossible burden of boulder that Sisyphus pushed up the mountain AND the constant mockery of the kid in the backseat asking the same question over and over again. Like I said, yet is a motherfucker.

What to do, what to do?

I’m not saying I think about the “are we there yet” question a lot. I think about it constantly. When I’m working on a novel, I’m either sinking or swimming, but can’t tell the difference between sinking or swimming. Over the years, I’ve tried a few different ways of coping with this question.

Ignore it

Yeah right, LOL.

Compare yourself to other writers

Helpful, then harmful, but ultimately, absurd:

Judge Smails: Ty, what did you shoot today?

Ty Webb: Oh, Judge, I don’t keep score.

Judge Smails: Then how do you measure yourself with other golfers?

Ty Webb: By height.

Scene from the movie Caddyshack (1980)

Track word count

Feels like progress, until you realize that writing is rewriting, which means sometimes a good writing session is deleting words. When that moment arrives, word count turns into a busted compass where North is South and progress is regress.

Track page count

Same problem, but with bigger units of measurement, which only increases the absurdity of the situation.

Track time

This one seems reasonable, at first. Lawyers track time. Sex workers track time. Subway sandwich artists track time. There must be something to this time metric, right?

Wrong.

Here’s why.

Question: how long does it take to write a novel?

Answer: No fucking clue.

With apologies to Friedrich Nietzsche and Rust Cohle, time isn’t a flat circle. Time is trap. Ask Admiral Ackbar.

Give up

This one has its merits, at first. If you quit the journey, there’s no need to ask, “are we there yet?” Unfortunately, quitting the journey raises other questions. Uncomfortable questions. Questions like:

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

When I’m old, and I have more perspective on success and failure, how will I deal with the crushing realization that I did not fail, but rather that I failed to try?

Also, what the fuck am I doing with my life?

Better writing through chemistry

A few years ago, I’m not sure exactly when and I’m not exactly sure why, I stopped writing novels. In other words, I stopped asking the question: are we there yet?

At first, quitting was a relief. But I think that relief lasted about an hour or two. After that, I felt like a cork drifting in a calm sea. No strong currents, no big waves, no problem.

Except, there was a problem.

Without the “there” and the “yet” things felt pointless. It wasn’t the destination, but it wasn’t the journey either. There was no journey and therefore no destination.

Initially, I thought this was ennui—a condition that isn’t covered by insurance. Later, I figured out that this was depression—a condition insurance covers in a half-assed way.

Thankfully, the half of the ass that insurance covers entitles you to powerful drugs with low copays.

Initially, my doctor said I should be a Lexabro. That drug stopped the depression, but it also made me feel like a zombie. I had no energy, no passion. But maybe zombie isn’t the right description, because there was something alive in my brain. An idea. Not an idea for a novel. Rather, an idea that had left the building years ago, the idea that I should go back to writing novels.

That’s when I started reading novels again. Mysteries. Thrillers. Crime stories. The kinds of books that inspired me to write novels in the first place.

Then I switched to Wellbutrin. That pretty much ended my zombie apocalypse experience. Suddenly, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I had passion. I had vim & vigor—two ingredients that are essential to kicking ass and making up names.

Christina enters the chat

I started brainstorming a new novel. After a few days, I ditched that idea for another idea. I cycled through a few more ideas. Then I locked in on one idea. I pitched it to Christina.

“I love it.”

Then, as if she stepped into my mind and shinned a flashlight in the darkest corners, Christina asked how I planned to deal with the “are we there yet” question.

“I know you can do it, babe, I’ve seen you do it,” she said. “But here’s my concern: you have this thing where you make a lot of progress on something that’s really fucking hard, but you always get to this point where you convince yourself that you haven’t made any progress at all, and there’s nothing anyone can say to change your mind.”

Christina was right. The enemy isn’t the boulder I’m pushing up the hill, or the demanding kid screaming questions from the backseat, it’s me.

“How are you going to measure progress?” Christina asked. “Actually, let me put it another way. How are you going to measure progress so that when you get to that dark place you can prove to yourself that you are making progress and that you need to keep going?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“I have no fucking clue. But I’m open to ideas.”

Nature’s Dongs + Stickers

Christina suggested a visual marker of progress. Something I could glance at that would immediately prove that I was making progress.

“What about those calendars you see in the movies, where some guy is in prison, or Vietnam, and he marks off the calendar at the end of each day?”

That sounded good to me, except for the prison part and the Vietnam part.

“It’s a good time to buy calendars,” I said. “It’s April, so all the 2024 calendars will be on sale.”

I went on Amazon. I searched for funny calendars. I wanted images that would immediately make me smile. Writing a novel is too hard to look at things that make you frown.

When I saw a calendar called “Nature’s Dongs,” I knew I had hit pay dirt. There were pictures of rock formations that looked like dongs. Dong-shaped mushrooms. A proboscis monkey with a dong-face. It had dongs for days! Even better, the calendar costs only $2.99, including shipping & handling. That works out to just under 25 cents per dong.

Then I went to Target, where I bought two packs of stickers. I chose the circular color stickers—pink, green, and yellow. They were on sale. I spent less than five bucks and got 600 stickers. Another win for frugality.

Then I started working on an outline for a new novel. At the end of every writing day, I add a sticker to the dong calendar. The stickers look like I’m color-coding my writing sessions, but I’m not. The colors don’t mean anything, and neither do the dongs.

Actually, that’s not true.

The dongs make me smile, and the colors remind me to look for the bright spots.

The first finish line: a completed outline

By previous metrics the journey to the completed outline might’ve been measured as follows:

28,164 words

89 pages

14 writing days

But I prefer a different measuring stick, one with a flaccid dong-shaped cactus and lots of colorful bright spots:

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

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

Not Safe for Work is an amateur detective novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

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

Stick around and chat!

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

How do you measure progress on a long-term project?

Whenever I hear the word dong, I giggle. How about you?

I hate Courier font, and I’m not a big fan of Times New Roman either. What’s your preferred font? Let the trash-talking begin!

Who would you rather have dinner with: Friedrich Nietzsche, Rust Cohle, or Admiral Ackbar? Choose one! Then tell us what you’d eat and what you’d talk about.

Why hasn’t Sisyphus appealed his case to the Supreme Court? Also, what do you make of his chances?

Leave a comment

I write best when my back is against the wall (metaphorically), but Mortimer is at his best when his butt is against the wall (literally)

To live in and leave LA

Hello there, situation normies!

I loved the comments from last week’s story, Ask your doctor if David Lynch is right for you. Many of you leaned into the premise and shared your choices for directors to direct your dreams. I’m pleased to report that the Situation Normal community has excellent taste, but of course, I already knew that. Kudos go to who chose Robert Rodriguez to direct his dreams and who picked Stanley Kubrick. Your subconscious better be fortified as fuck if either one of those auteurs is going to direct your dreams.

I’m also pleased to report that my crime spree continues. I finished Juniper Song series, and now all I want is for Steph Cha to write three more books. I’m also deep into She Rides Shotgun. That book is about as dark as noir gets, but Jordan Harper’s voice is smooth like butter and sweet like syrup. Seriously, he’s one of the best writers working today.

Time for shout outs! As you know, Situation Normal stories are free, but some situation normies pay because they love this newsletter and they get their kicks underwriting joy for strangers. That’s pretty damn cool. A very big thank you to Tom H and Marcia P! You’re both amazing. I’m send you good vibes, Tom and Marcia, so look for them in the mail, then forward the good vibes to someone who needs them.

To support Situation Normal, please consider a subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here. I’ll give you a shout out, send you good vibes, and add you to the list so you receive the annual stakeholder report.

OK, time for the story…

I went to a going away party this week. My friend and his family are heading east. When Alex broke the news, he looked bashful, as if Angelenos weren’t supposed to talk about leaving Los Angeles. Or, maybe Alex felt bashful about breaking sad news. Both can be true, I suppose.

I stopped counting going away parties a decade ago. It’s too depressing. Alex’s going away party was the first going away party of the year, but I have another one coming up in May. We don’t really do seasons in Los Angeles, but if we did, spring would be the going away season. Say Bon Voyage to the short winter days that never quite live up to the sunny Southern California promise, the atmospheric rivers that are the new lingo for rain, and your friends who have children. If they leave in the spring, they can sort out their shit over the summer, and have the kids in a new school for the fall.

Children aren’t the only reason people leave Los Angeles, but if leaving Los Angeles was a category on Family Feud, the survey would say, “the kids” are the number one answer. My sister and I figured that out when we were kids. I was ten and Allison was eight when our parents tried to move us to Indianapolis. That didn’t happen, but I learned later that Mom had tried to convince Dad to move to Chicago before we were born. She may have had dreams of Atlanta and Minneapolis, too. The calculus on leaving LA was simple: Mom and Dad could send us to excellent schools, buy a kickass home, and cut costs.

There are two concerns about raising children in Los Angeles. The first one, as I mentioned, is money. LA parents pay crazy sums to live near a good school, or even crazier sums for private schools. No matter where they live or what school they send their kids to, the jobs they need to afford that situation come with soul-crushing commutes. That’s just the law in Los Angeles. If there’s any money left over, and that’s a very big if, it’s not enough for a night out AND childcare. That’s another Los Angeles law. Between being stuck at home and stuck in their cars, LA parents have a lot of time to think about leaving LA. Eventually, they come to the conclusion my friend Todd came to when he and Andrea took their son, Cannonball, to Colorado. “Los Angeles hates children.” But I love LA. Just like Randy Newman.

The second concern parents have about raising children in Los Angeles is a matter of quality. To paraphrase my friend Stacey, most Americans think raising a child in Los Angeles is a recipe for creating a degenerate freak show star-fucker of a human paraquat, who spends their days hoodwinking tourists on Hollywood Boulevard to fund their cocaine habit, and their cocaine-fueled nights pitching a remake of Casablanca to dive bar denizens pretending to be producers. That person exists, but like I told Stacey, they probably came here from Iowa.

Stacey decided to raise her boys, Tyler and Wesley, in Los Angeles. The fact that Allison and I were basically normal, upstanding citizens who grew up here gave Stacey reason put aside the fears and misconceptions most Americans have about people from LA. Not that Stacey had a choice. Her husband, Adam, works in entertainment. If staying in Los Angeles, despite a myriad of good reasons to leave, was a category on Family Feud, the survey would say, “entertainment industry” is the number one answer. That’s why Adam and Stacey stayed. But then one day they decamped to St. Louis, where the schools are great, Stacey’s family could help with childcare, and they could buy a house that looked like the one from Father of the Bride for the price of Prius. Adam figured he’d have to quit the entertainment business, but Adam is that rare producer who is a genuinely decent person. Maybe his good karma is how Adam found an entertainment job that allows him to live in St. Louis. He comes back to Hollywood a couple time a year to sell television shows to networks and streamers. He is an LA Legend—the man who had his Hollywood cake and ate it on a St. Louis budget.

My sister is another kind of LA Legend. As an LA kid who grew up around the entertainment industry, Allison had an inside track to a Hollywood career. But maybe her formative years taught Allison to see something a lot of people miss. After spinning her wheels in the land of palm trees, where nine out of then projects turn out to be mirages, Allison had the foresight to move to New York. That’s where she broke into the business and eventually became an Emmy-nominated BFD. Allison is smart, although perhaps she only has enough karma to eat her Hollywood cake on a New York budget.

But Allison and Adam are Hollywood outliers, geographically and metaphorically. For most Angelenos I know, the entertainment industry is a cross between the tractor beam that reeled in the Millennium Falcon and the Sirens who drove Odysseus bat-shit crazy. The tractor beam is the Hollywood dream that lured them to Los Angeles. Somehow, they survived the garbage compactor on the Death Star and landed a job with the Empire (a studio or network career), or got a gig with the rebels (cast and crew). Regardless, they stay in Los Angeles, even though the costs only go up, the traffic only gets worse, and the city is always in danger of either falling into the ocean or being swallowed by the desert. It’s the kind of bat-shit crazy only Odysseus, a super-fan of the Sirens, could understand.

Whenever we travel, Christina and I think about leaving Los Angeles. We look at houses and try to imagine ourselves living somewhere else. In recent years, we’ve dreamed up alternate versions of our lives in Colorado, Vancouver, and Washington, D.C. Pilots for shows that will probably never get picked up.

When we visited our friend Bridget, who left LA for Cleveland, we nearly bought a house. The idea of selling our place in LA, paying cash for a better place in Cleveland, and investing the leftover money seemed like a no-brainer. Life without traffic sounded like heaven. Christina even let herself fantasize about a career outside of entertainment. What would that be? Did Cleveland need a funky hair salon / coffee shop that also sold used books and records? You bet it did, and maybe Christina was just the woman to make it happen. As for me, I could write anywhere, couldn’t I? The money I make freelancing would go a lot further in Ohio, which means I’d have more time to focus on Situation Normal and write my next novel. Fleeing to the Cleve wasn’t just a matter of living Liz Lemon’s 30 Rock Dream, it was a win-win.

But we didn’t do it.

Maybe we don’t feel the same pressure to leave Los Angeles because we don’t have children. Maybe Christina can’t imagine a career outside of entertainment. Maybe it’s not a good idea to remove a writer from his natural habitat.

Or maybe we’re nuts, like Odysseus, Randy Newman, and the ten million people who call Los Angeles County home.

When our flight back from Cleveland landed, LAX tried warn us. The Los Angeles International Airport is always a clusterfuck, but on that particular day, the DEA was searching LAX for a dope-smuggler who had given them the slip. In my book, that’s a clusterfuck double-whammy, or what we call Tuesday in Los Angeles.

The LAX baggage carousel, like a lot of things in LA, only offered the illusion of functionality. It creaked and groaned. A swarm of dip-shits, assholes, and clueless motherfuckers compounded the situation by crowding around the baggage carousel. Each one clung to the false belief that they were entitled to the star treatment: a white-gloved porter to bring them their bags and an apology so that they could turn up their noses and leave the riff-raff behind.

Once we got outside the terminal, it took an hour to make our way through the traffic jam inside the airport. It turned out that traffic jam was the prequel for an even bigger traffic jam that stood between us and our house. What I’m saying is, LAX tried to warn us. It really did.

But it’s not like LAX was the only warning. The 405 parking lot tried to warn us too. As we crawled along the freeway, we spotted a plume of black smoke up ahead. At first, it looked like the 405 was on fire—a terrifying thought since, you know, we were on the 405 and inching toward the flames. But it turned out that the fire was a high-rise next to the 405. News helicopters circled overhead. Maybe we’d be on TV that night! We heard sirens in the distance. The drivers in the cars all around us looked indifferent and impatient. Between the dark sky and a fire that looked like it might swallow the building, the freeway, and maybe even the city, the scene felt apocalyptic.

A normal person would’ve run for the hills. Actually, we were heading toward the hills because that’s just how Los Angeles geography works. So maybe it’s more accurate to say that a normal person would’ve run away from the hills, back to the airport, back to somewhere that made sense. Like the Millennium Falcon and Odysseus, we were clearly going the wrong way, but that was sort of the plan, wasn’t it? And that’s when a funny thing happened. At the same time, Christina and I turned to each other and said the exact same thing: “We’re home.”

The people who leave Los Angeles strike me as sane, smart, and fortunate. I envy them. I fantasize about doing what they did. I attend their going away parties and wonder, why not us?

But Christina and I are nuts. Our friends who stay are nuts. The the nuttiest people we know are Todd, Andrea, and Cannonball. They left Los Angeles. We went to their going away party. Then a few years later, they came back. They missed LA, and LA missed them too.

“Why didn’t we have a coming back to LA party?” Todd asked recently.

“I dunno, dude. Everyone we know either leaves LA, or talks about leaving LA. You guys are the only people who came back. What the fuck!?”

Thank you for reading Situation Normal! Please share this post with people who live in LA and people who don’t.

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Stick around and chat!

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

What’s the best movie about Los Angeles? Point Break and LA Story are acceptable answers, but the correct answer is The Big Lebowski.

Hypothetically, if someone were to leave LA, where should they go? Make your pitch!

Hollywood shouldn’t remake Casablanca, but if they did, who should play Rick? No bad ideas in a brainstorm!

Todd and Andrea are nuts, but they actually named their son Rhett. Cannonball is a nickname I gave him. Have you ever given someone a nickname? Spill!

What’s the worst airport in America? Hint: it’s LAX.

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Mortimer says he’s staying in LA.

Ask your doctor if David Lynch is right for you

Hello there, situation normies!

I write Situation Normal on Friday mornings, but I took last week off because Christina and I spent the day at Disneyland with our friends Chelsea and Ryan and their lovely daughters, Eliza and Maren. Despite consuming more sugar than their parents would’ve liked, the girls never lost their shit. So a big Magic Kingdom shout out to Maren, who used a bubble-blowing wand to make everyone’s time waiting in line magical, and Eliza who went hardcore on the teacups.

Shout outs are also in order for Missy F and Peter G, the two newest paid subscribers at Situation Normal. The stories at Situation Normal are free, but I really appreciate the situation normies who underwrite joy for the roughly 5,000 situation normies who receive this newsletter every Sunday. Thank you Missy and Peter for helping make Situation Normal happen!

To support Situation Normal, please consider a subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here. I’ll give you a shout out, send you good vibes, and add you to the list so you receive the annual stakeholder report.

One last item before we get to this week’s story. Two weeks ago, I wrote about my crime spree. As always, the situation normie community made the comments section come alive. Many of you shared recommendations for crime novels, movies, and TV shows. If you’re a fan of mysteries and thrillers, I highly recommend checking out the comments section of that post. You’ll get some great recommendations. I certainly did.

Thank you to C.L. Steiner for turning me on to Elvis Cole. I enjoyed the first two books in the Robert Crais series, and I’m looking forward to more stories about a wise-cracking LA private eye with a Peter Pan complex.

Also, thank you to Elizabeth Marro for suggesting the Juniper Song novels. I love a good amateur sleuth, but what I really love about the first two books in Steph Cha’s series is the opportunity to see my hometown through the eyes of a twenty-something Korean woman who’s obsessed with Philip Marlowe.

Finally, a big thank you to Andrew Smith who recommended season 5 of Fargo. That season has everything I could ever want. Jon Hamm as a bible-quoting corrupt right-wing sheriff with pierced nipples. Jennifer Jason Leigh as a billionaire other billionaires would be wise not to fuck with. A boogey-man bad guy in a kilt who gives me serious Javier Bardem No Country for Old Men vibes. A crooked lawyer with an eye patch! Dumb criminals straight out of an Elmore Leonard novel. A badass Minnesota mom who could take out an entire special forces platoon while making pancakes. And a determined Minnesota cop who is smart enough and decent enough to go up against the aforementioned cast of dangerous oddballs. Needless to say, Chrisinta and I are hooked. 11 out of 10 would recommend!

OK, let’s get to the story…

After a brief trial period, I quit the Lexabro life. Lexapro tamped down my depression, but it also zapped my energy. I felt like a zombie, and my doctor felt like that was a problem. Using a rigorous science-based process I call “pharmaceutical bingo,” my doctor came up with a new plan. The Wellbutrin plan.

One of the things you learn playing pharmaceutical bingo is that it can take weeks to feel the full benefit, but the side effects typically materialize right away. That’s how real bingo works, too. Early in the game, you experience the agony of missed bingo opportunities while the people around you celebrate their wins, but later on, if you’re lucky, you find Wellbutrin on your bingo card.

Two weeks into the Wellbutrin plan, I met my friend Todd for breakfast. When he asked how I was feeling, I yelled “Bingo!” That turned some heads at the coffee shop, and a few people asked why their omelettes didn’t come with a side of bingo cards.

“My depression is down,” I said. “My energy is up.”

“Fantastic,” Todd said. “Any side effects?”

“One.”

Todd looked concerned. Bad side effects can stop good things in their tracks. They can also lead to litigation, which is why every pharmaceutical ad ends with the following message: any drug can cause any side effect, so don’t sue us if your nipples fall off, or you grow an extra butthole, or your liver turns to dust, or some other malady befalls you; we’ll win because we warned you, and even if the warning isn’t sufficient and a court rules against us, we’ll still win because we have enough lawyers and money to drag you through appellate hell and make you miserable until the end of time.

“It’s actually a cool side effect,” I continued. “I’ve been having really strange, vivid dreams. But you know how you usually dream in fragments? These dreams are different. They’re more like narratives. The stories don’t make sense, but the imagery is cinematic. And weird. Really weird.”

Todd wanted an example, so I described a recent dream where I picked up a hitchhiker.

The hitchhiker was a kid. A kid without a name. A kid who wore a Yoda t-shirt, but the image of Yoda was pixelated because, the kid explained, he didn’t have the clearance to use Disney’s IP.

I drove a vintage red Chevy. A car out of the fifties. Real Rebel Without a Cause vibes. The Chevy ran on Coca-Cola, not cans, but bottles. Old-fashioned glass bottles. I kept telling the kid to pour Coca-Cola into the gas tank, which was located in the glovebox.

Somewhere in the desert, as dark clouds enveloped us, I pulled over and told the kid to get out. He looked lost, but a giant tumble weed led the kid to an abandoned water park that looked a lot like the abandoned water park Christina and I always speculate about whenever we drive to Palm Springs.

I drove on down the road, but I kept tabs on the kid by flipping the sun visor down. On the back of the visor, there was a television screen. Basically, I was driving and watching a movie at the same time, but somehow that was perfectly safe.

The movie started out promising for the kid, our protagonist. He got the abandoned water park working, although the slides ran on chocolate syrup, which may have been a harbinger, because as I drove and watched the movie of the kid playing on the water slides, I also listened to a podcast. On the podcast, the host, who sounded a lot like Kurt Russel, talked about how chocolate syrup was used for blood in old black and white movies. Which is true! But that’s when the movie projected on the back of the sun visor turned to black and white.

After switching to black and white, a drug cartel showed up with a soccer ball. The pool at the abandoned water park turned into a soccer field. The kid was good. Like a seven-year-old Pelé. But his talent pissed off the cartel, so they cut off his head. The narcos used the kid’s severed head as a soccer ball. But it wasn’t all fun and games for the narcos because the kid wouldn’t stop screaming, GooooOOOOOOOOOaaaAAAALLLLaSOOO!!!!!!

That really freaked those narcos out. They were so freaked out that they quit the cartel game. Their leader tried to buy his soul back from the devil, but the devil wouldn’t accept narco money, so the reformed narco had to put his soul on a credit card with a very high interest rate that he knew he’d never pay off, not working at Starbucks anyway. And that’s how the movie inside the movie of my dream ended.

But the dream continued. Because suddenly I was recounting the entire story of the hitchhiking kid and the soccer-loving narcos to my dad over pancakes at our favorite pancake joint, Du-Pars. My dad smiled. A smile I really miss. Then my dad said, “that’s life in the big city.” Which is what my dad always said whenever he heard a messed up story.

“Whoa, that’s a disturbing dream,” Todd said.

“It was and it wasn’t. Like, a drug cartel playing soccer with a kid’s head is disturbing, but it didn’t disturb me. It felt like I was watching a fucked-up movie, but the kind of fucked-up movie that’s, you know, enjoyable.”

“Like a David Lynch film?”

“Yes, exactly! The side effects of Wellbutrin are that my dreams are directed by David Lynch.”

“That’s actually kind of cool,” Todd said.

“I know! And the co-pay is less than the price of a movie ticket, so I feel like I’m coming out ahead.”

“And you didn’t feel weird about seeing your dad?”

“No, that was a lovely bonus, like an extra scene after the credits. I miss him everyday. I’d give anything to have pancakes with my dad again at Du-Pars, but I’m not going to get that because he’s been gone for years, and after he died that Du-Pars got turned into a Sephora.”

“That Du-Pars is a Sephora now?”

“Yeah.”

Todd shook his head.

“What a fucking nightmare.”

Make my dreams come true. Share this story with everyone you know. With any luck, it’ll get to David Lynch, and he’ll adapt it for the screen.

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

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

Stick around and chat!

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

Had any weird dreams lately? Dish!

If you could pick a filmmaker to direct your dream who would you pick? Go big!

Even before you get to the boilerplate legal warnings, pharmaceutical ads are absurd. What’s your favorite ad from big pharma?

What’s for breakfast? Say pancakes.

If cars could actually run on Coca-Cola, would Pepsi be considered an alternative fuel? Explain.

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The dreams are getting weird, so Mortimer sleeps with one eye open.

I'm on a crime spree

Hello there, situation normies!

I got so many lovely responses from last week’s story, Getting mental health help can drive you nuts. I appreciate the kind words and good vibes. I also want you to know that a lot of people shared their own mental health struggles. We are not alone! You probably know that, but if you struggle with mental health, you also probably know what it’s like to feel alone with your problems. If last week’s story made you feel seen, I’m glad.

Also, I plan to write more about mental health. In fact, today’s story has a mental health angle. And for those who are wondering, my experiments with antidepressants continue (hello, Wellbutrin!), and my search for a psych is ongoing.

Shout out time!

A big thank you goes out to Jessica S., who bought an annual subscription and sent a note to say she enjoys my writing! Jessica, you made my day. Thank you!

All Situation Normal stories are free, but the upgrade means you’ll get the annual stakeholder report, which is the best way to hold steak, especially if you’re plant-based. To support Situation Normal, please consider a subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here. I’ll give you a shout out, send you good vibes, and add you to the list so you receive the annual stakeholder report.

The other day, I met my friend Todd for our weekly breakfast at Brent’s Deli. As Todd noshed on an everything bagel, I made a confession.

“I’ve been on a crime spree.”

“You? Doing crimes. I don’t see it.”

“It’s big time. The crime spree is going on two months.”

“Let me guess. Securities fraud? Money laundering? White collar stuff? That seems up your alley.”

“Mostly murder. Some burglaries. Oh, and conspiracy. There’s almost always a conspiracy. Criminals are just like regular people, and people need people. Barbra Streisand was right. You can do a crime solo—it’s less risky that way—but it’s harder to get shit done.”

“Sounds like a full-time job.”

“It’s not a job, it’s a lifestyle. That’s why they call it, a life of crime.”

Todd chuckled. Between his family and work, he didn’t have time for crime. Frankly, I didn’t either. But then I made time.

My walks are the perfect time for crime. You can do a lot of crimes on a two-hour walk. Meal prep takes about three hours every Sunday, so that’s good crime time too. Ditto for cleaning the house, which takes about four hours every Friday. Then there are the small gaps in my schedule that are consumed with crimes: running errands, doing the dishes, picking up Mortimer’s poop in the backyard. My favorite time for crime is every night in bed. After Christina and I talk, I settle in to make a little more progress on my crime spree, before drifting off to sleep.

If it isn’t obvious, I’m talking about crime fiction. In the past six weeks, I’ve listened to twelve crime novels. It began with Jordan Harper’s Everybody Knows, a hardboiled story about a Hollywood publicist and her ex-boyfriend, a disgraced cop-turned-enforcer, who try to do the right thing for once, and pay the price. The most recent book in my crime spree was a thriller called The Year of the Locust by Terry Hayes, who knocked my socks off with I Am Pilgrim, but really shit the bed with his follow-up. Between those two novels, I breezed through Going Zero, a techno thriller that could’ve used more character development and, come to think of it, a lot more research on surveillance capitalism. I enjoyed the prose of Jessica Knoll, who wrote The Luckiest Girl Alive, a dark story about bullying and misogyny. And I fell hard for Timothy Hallinan’s Junior Bender mysteries, eight books in total, about an erudite burglar with a side hustle solving crimes for crooks in Los Angeles. My crime spree also extends to film and TV. I loved A Murder at the End of the World, puzzled over the latest season of True Detective, and binged Tokyo Vice. Then I rewatched Devil in a Blue Dress, Jackie Brown, and Heat.

“That’s a crime spree all right,” Todd said. “But what about history? You’re always reading history.”

“Funny thing, I’ve been reading history almost non-stop for the past five or six years. I love history, but I also find it depressing. History usually goes from bad to worse. It’s kind of a shit show.”

When you’re depressed, people share a lot of ideas for mitigating depression. One common piece of advice: examine your media diet. I don’t think the media I consume causes my depression, but it makes an impact at the margins. If depression is like being stuck in the mud, history is a rain storm that makes the mud more, well, muddy.

“What about comedy?” Todd asked.

In theory, comedy should work. Next to antidepressants, laughter is the best medicine. Also, there’s no co-pay for laughter. But comedy is tricky. Actually, here’s the quote I’m looking for: “dying is easy, comedy is hard.” That’s a darkly funny way of saying most jokes bomb. If you’re counting on comedy to cheer you up, you should know there are no guarantees. There’s another problem with comedy that might be specific to me, but then again depression is nothing if not a “me problem.” My problem is this: the main ingredients of comedy are tragedy and time. Even when I’m feeling good, I can’t help but deconstruct the recipe for a funny story.

But crime? Those are reliable feel-good stories for me. A good crime story takes the world as it is, focuses on a specific transgression, then plays the narrative through to resolution. Justice is done, but it doesn’t matter if the arbiter of that justice is a detective, or a criminal, a hero or an anti-hero. Crime stories are satisfying because they give us the thing we rarely find in life: closure. They’re stories about something that goes terribly wrong, something so fucked up that the protagonist has to set it right, no matter what.

My favorite protagonist is Harry Bosch. He’s a sad, lonely dude, with a fucked-up back story. I often joke that if I’m ever murdered, I want Harry Bosch on the case. Bosch is a relentless crime-solving machine. He can’t fix the world, hell, he can’t even form a healthy relationship or take a vacation, but that doesn’t matter. Bosch sets things right, one fucked up thing at a time. His motto is beautiful: everybody counts, or nobody counts. Harry might be anti-social, but he’s pro-people. He speaks for the dead, even if they’re the kind of people nobody bothered to speak up for when they were alive. Maybe I’m nuts, but there’s something comforting about a hero who walks through the fires of hell for someone who can never know the price that hero paid for justice. For my money, Raymond Chandler had the best description of that type of person:

Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.

He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him.

The story is this man’s adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.

“So the crime stories are working for you?” Todd asked.

“No, I think it’s the drugs. But the crime spree helps.”

“Who says, crime doesn’t pay?” Todd joked.

“Actually, I think it’s your turn to pay, dude.”

“Zing.”

Thank you for reading Situation Normal. You can pay it forward by sharing this post with your friends and enemies👇

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

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

Not Safe for Work is an amateur detective novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️‍♂️

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

Stick around and chat!

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

Have you read or seen any good crime stories lately? Asking for me.

What kind of stories comfort you when you’re feeling down? Dish!

If you were murdered, who would you want to solve the case, and why would it be Harry Bosch? Get creative!

Did you understand what the hell happened in the latest season of True Detective? Come to think of it, can you explain any of the True Detective seasons? Be honest.

We usually get everything bagels with cream cheese at Brent’s. What’s your bagel order?

Leave a comment

Mortimer steals hearts. He’s a smooth criminal.Quick programming note!

I’m taking next Sunday off. If you’re looking for a reason to smile, here’s my advice: call a friend and get bagels

Getting mental health help can drive you nuts

Hey there, situation normies!

Many of you had thoughts about My stubborn gardener, who probably isn't an assassin. My friend Ashlie told my sister, Allison, to tell me that the man who assassinated Leon Trotsky posed as a gardener. I suppose that goes to show you that there are no original ideas. As for the decision to mutilate the Mexican sage, or kill the thread grass, Tab had the best advice: “Keep the sage. It’s a plant with a history. Nobody ever cared enough to write a book or produce a movie about Riders of the Thread Grass.”

Shout out time!

Thank you, Amber S. for sending money via PayPal! Amber, I please reply to this email, so I can upgrade your Situation Normal subscription. All Situation Normal stories are free, but the upgrade means you’ll get the annual stakeholder report, which the best way to hold steak.

Thank you ! Sharron also sent money via PayPal, which makes her a paying pal. Get it? Sharron wrote that the money was a thank you for the laughs and the gardening fund, so I cut Raphael in on the deal, for shits & giggles, and because he might kill if I didn’t.

To support Situation Normal, please consider a subscription. Or, if you prefer PayPal, send any amount here. I’ll give you a shout out, send you good vibes, and add you to the list so you receive the annual stakeholder report.

I don’t mean to bum you out, but I’m depressed. The thing to do when you’re depressed is get help. But the thing about depression is that it smothers that fire inside you that makes it possible to get out of bed, face the world, and do stuff like get help for your depression. This is a Catch-22, which is a great novel, but a lousy situation.

The good news is, I’ve been in this situation before. Of course, that’s also the bad news. I’ve tried eating carbs, which don’t really help, but are nevertheless enjoyable. I’ve tried therapy, with mixed results. I’ve tried exercise, with somewhat better results. About two months ago, when it felt like the doom would swallow me whole, I wanted to try all three of those things at once, but I couldn’t find a therapist who offered walking sessions on the way to a donut shop.

Actually, that’s not true. I couldn’t get out of bed.

“I think you should try antidepressants,” Christina said.

I’m not anti-antidepressants, but I am wary of them. I’ve heard a lot of writers complain that antidepressants mess with their creativity. When I was feeling fine, I Googled this topic. I didn’t find any concrete answers, but I did find ample evidence to confirm whatever bias I wished to embrace. Also, since I was feeling relatively fine during those Googling sessions, I concluded that I didn’t need antidepressants.

“You have all these other levers you used to pull, but they’re not working,” Christina said. “Time to try a new lever, honey.”

I made an appointment with my doctor.

My doctor gave me a quiz called Twenty Questions to See if You’re Depressed, Dude. I passed. I mean, I failed! She wrote me a prescription for Lexapro. I told a friend who also takes Lexapro. He said, “Now, we’re Lexabros.”

There are pros and cons to life as a Lexabro. The upside is I feel better. The down side is I feel tired. Basically, I’m ready to face the world… after a nap.

Between naps, I went looking for a therapist. That took some doing because there’s a mental health crisis in this country. Also, the woman at the Kaiser Permanente call center told me, “there’s a shortage of therapists.” That seemed like another Catch-22, but for some reason, maybe the Lexapro, it didn’t feel totally hopeless.

“I can offer you an appointment that starts in thirty minutes, or one three weeks from now,” she said.

I felt a nap coming on, so I took the appointment that was three weeks away. That was probably a mistake. My therapist was lovely, but after our second session, she told me that she was leaving Kaiser.

“Mental health services will call to set you up with a new therapist,” she said. “Or, you can call them. It’s probably better to call them.”

“Got it. Be proactive.”

“Also, you should talk to a psychiatrist about changing your meds,” she said. “If you’re still feeling fatigue at this point, that side effect isn’t going away.”

“Can’t my doctor change my meds?”

“Yes, but primary care physicians are generalists. A psychiatrist has more tools, more training. I’d rather not put you through all the trial and error.”

The trial part sounded fine, but the error part sounded awful. So when I got home, I checked with my doctor. She agreed that a psychiatrist would be better suited to “dial in” my meds. I took a nap, then I phoned the Kaiser call center for a new therapist and an appointment with a psychiatrist.

Once again, the lady at the call center said there was a mental health crisis in America and a shortage of mental health professionals.

“It’ll be faster to set you up with a third-party provider,” she said. “Is that OK?”

Faster sounded good. Plus, there was that old adage to consider—the more the merrier.

“A third-party sounds great,” I said.

The first third-party to call me was a therapist. We set an appointment for the following week, then she sent me some consent forms to sign. There were eight consent forms in total. Six were PDFs, the other two were Word documents. It was a major pain in the ass, but I got it done.

The night before my appointment, my new therapist called.

“You didn’t sign your consent forms. You sent me blanks.”

I double-checked my email. I had sent her signed forms, but I didn’t want to be a dick about it, or get off on the wrong foot with my new therapist, so I emailed her the signed forms again.

“See you tomorrow,” I said.

“See you tomorrow.”

As I was getting ready to leave the house to see my first third-party therapist, my phone rang. It was the second third-party.

“You won’t be seeing a psychiatrist,” she said. “We only have nurse practitioners. Is that OK?”

Nurse practitioners? I didn’t want to be a dick, but that sounded like a step down.

“My primary care doctor said I should see a psychiatrist,” I said.

“Sorry, we can’t do that.”

Since I was now running late to see the first third-party, I took my conversation with the second third-party on the road. After talking about how there’s a mental health crisis in America and a shortage of mental health professionals, we got down to brass tacks.

“Our nurse practitioners work under a psychiatrist’s license,” she said.

“But can’t see that psychiatrist?”

“No. Sorry.”

“So it’s like a game of telephone where I tell the nurse practitioner what’s going on, and they tell the psych. Wouldn’t it be better to cut out the middle-human?”

She didn’t answer that question, but she did lean into the telephone theme.

“You need to call Kaiser and ask them to set you up with a psychiatrist.”

“That’s what I did. That’s how you got my number.”

“I’m sorry.”

As I pulled into the parking lot, I got a text message from the first third-party. My therapist had just sent me a link for a tele-health appointment. That wasn’t right. I had specifically asked Kaiser for in-person therapy. I called the first third-party.

“You signed a consent form for tele-health. Didn’t you read it?”

“No. Nobody reads those forms. And you sent me eight documents that were kinda of a pain in the butt. I had to insert text bubbles all over the place. Like a hundred times. Also, you asked for my pet’s name. What was that all about?”

“You should read the consent forms,” she said.

“OK, good tip. But wouldn’t it be better to talk to patients about this, rather than falling back on legalese that nobody reads? Honestly, I didn’t even think this was an issue since I specifically requested in-person.”

“Don’t feel bad. You’re not the first person to make this mistake.”

“I don’t feel bad because I don’t think the mistake was on my end. If this has happened with other patients, you might want to check with Kaiser because they have you listed for in-person.”

“I don’t do in-person.”

“If you had said that when you scheduled the appointment, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Here? Where are you?”

“You’re parking lot.”

“How did you get my address? I didn’t give it to you.”

“Kaiser. I got it from Kaiser. They gave me your address because I asked for in-person.”

“Well, I think you need to call Kaiser and get a new therapist,” she said.

“Agreed. But you should call them too, tell them you don’t do in-person.”

I drove home. I thought about stopping for donuts, but I didn’t think they would help. When I got home, I took Mortimer for a walk. The sunshine felt good on my face. My four-legged friend made me smile.

After our walk, I took a nap. And after my nap, I phoned Kaiser. The woman I spoke with told me there’s a mental health crisis in America and that there’s a shortage of mental health professionals. Then I told her the story I just told you. She apologized. Then she set me up with my second round of third-parties.

When Christina got home, I told her about my odyssey through a broken mental healthcare system.

“This is a fucking shit-show,” she said.

No argument there.

“But there’s a bright spot.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The Lexapro. Sure, it makes me tired, but I wouldn’t be able to navigate the shit show without it.”

I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a mental health crisis in America and a shortage of mental health professionals. Please share this to spread the word, because maybe it’ll help someone.

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Stick around and chat!

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

Have you heard about the mental health crisis in America and the shortage of mental health professionals? Wrong answers only!

Have you ever actually read a consent form? Be honest!

Why would a therapist need to know the name of your pet? Please explain!

People love to shit on Kaiser, but has anyone ever told you that their health insurance is awesome? Asking for my friends who shit on Kaiser, then complain about how their PPO won’t cover the care their doctor ordered.

Catch-22 isn’t a perfect novel, but it’s the best novel there is, right?

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Mortimer asked me to put his dog bed on the bed in my office. I told him that’s like a “hat on a hat,” but told me to mind my own business.Thanks for reading! If you’re new here, be sure to…

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