Conspiracy theory

It happens every anniversary of 9/11, and this one is no exception.

Every year, these idiots in their tin foil hats take a break from their vaccine conspiracies - microchips tracking you, vaccines don't work, they make you magnetic (they might be confusing that with my magnetic personality), they cause autism, they alter your DNA - to resurface and decide to scream the same ludicrous 9/11 conspiracy questions that have been answered and proven false for the last twenty-two years.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m all in favor of questioning authority and government watchdogs. But conspiracy theorists, like their Republican and MAGA soulmates, all work under the same motto: don’t confuse me with the facts.

There’s a video online, sadly one of many, of a woman who has a conspiracy theory page on Instagram. I’m not going to name her, and I’m certainly not going to give out the name of her site. The reason I know about it at all is because a friend, who until now I considered fairly intelligent, reasonable and whatever the opposite of paranoid is, posted it today on their IG.

It is totally ridiculous, not to mention disrespectful and hurtful to the many who lost loved ones that day. But again, conspiracy theorists, like their Republican and the MAGA brethren, don’t really give a shit who they hurt.

I’m not going to answer all the questions this moron asks in her video, but I’ll tackle a few.

How does jet fuel burn steel beams?
The answer is it doesn't burn them, it compromises their integrity, something you'd think these asshats would be familiar with. From an article in the October 2001 Scientific American written by structural engineers from M.I.T. - not the YouTube University this conspiracy theorist went to::

” The main culprits in bringing the famously lofty buildings down, they concluded, were the two intensely hot infernos that erupted when tens of thousands of gallons of aviation fuel spilled from the doomed airliners. Once high temperatures weakened the towers' supporting steel structures, it was only a matter of time until the mass of the stories above initiated a rapid-sequence "pancaking" phenomena in which floor after floor was instantly crushed and then sent into near free fall to the ground below. Significantly, the panel stated that any mitigating reinforcements and redundancies added to these buildings could have only delayed the inevitable failure, though they would have bought more time for the evacuation of the occupants. “

How did two planes make three buildings fall?
Actually, two planes made two buildings fall. The fire from the falling debri set fire to the third building and brought it down by compromising the steel beams (see above answer). From the September 23, 2022 issue of USA Today: Official investigations show there is no truth to the claim the Building 7 collapse was pre-planned. World Trade Center Building 7 collapsed at 5:20 p.m. on Sept. 11, 2001, after burning for seven hours, according to a Federal Emergency Management Agency report. It said the collapse of the building was a direct result of fires stimulated by debris from the collapse of World Trade Center Tower 1. The National Institute of Standards and Technology also says on its website that “heat from the uncontrolled fires caused steel floor beams and girders to thermally expand," causing a key structural column to fail and initiating the collapse of the entire building. The site also says investigators "found no evidence supporting the existence of a blast event."

How many people actually saw the airplanes hit the buildings?
In a litany of monumentally stupid questions, this may be the winner. No one has an exact head count, but literally thousands of people in Manhattan and millions watching around the world saw the planes hit. There are eyewitness videos of it all over the internet.

There are also a plethora ($5 word - thanks Rich Siegel) of false claims regarding United 93 that crashed in Pennsylvania. Most all of those are debunked here. And the perennial claim that no airplane debri was found at the Pentagon is answered here.

The truth is the facts that prove the reality are all readily available and easily accessible. Of course, none of this will matter to the tin foil hat crowd. They will take refuge, as they always do, in lame defenses like "that's what they want you to think." or "They made it look that way." or "Follow the money." even if there's no actual money to follow.

Do I think that evidence-based events require further investigation? Of course. JFK's assassination and Jeffrey Epstein's "suicide" have a set of factual circumstances surrounding them that go beyond coincidence and need further examination. But really, let's stop the insane conspiracies - JFK Jr. is alive, the election was rigged, the moon landing, Paul McCartney's death - and put our energies on solving our real problems.

Want to hear my theory? All these conspiracy theorists want to sound smart, like they've uncovered some big secret the rest of us don't know about and are too ignorant to see. And if they haven't, which they haven't, they just make it up. And then they sound like sad, babbling idiots without an ounce of ability for reason or critical thinking.

Oh wait, that's not a theory. Turns out that's a fact.

Yes chef

I haven’t jumped on The Bear bandwagon. Truth is I’m driving it. And the reason is simple: this isn’t bragging, but merely a statement of fact: I saw it first.

I’d read about it in one of my many showbiz magazines (yes I still get magazines-they make excellent reading in the “library”), and thought it looked interesting. Another plus was it also looked like a fine opportunity to bank some marriage points what with it being a show about a restaurant and cooking. I figured the wife would enjoy it, since she's a trained chef herself and has had the rare honor of cooking at the James Beard House.

Yeah, we eat well around here. Have you seen my 32-inch waist? It was here just a minute ago.

Anyway, The Bear - streaming on Hulu - is the story of a world-class chef, Carmen, Carmy for short, played by Jeremy Allen White. He inherits a Chicago sandwich shop after his brother Michael commits suicide, and comes back to run it, eventually turning it into a fine dining restaurant.

The place is filled with brilliant actors each playing a character that is compelling, flawed, funny, heartbreaking, joyous and relatable as it gets.

His “cousin” Ritchie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach). His partner Sydney (Ayo Edebiri). Pastry chef Marcus (Lionel Boyce). Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas), who’s been working there forever. Fak (Matty Matheson, actually a chef in real life), who plays the handyman/fixit guy. Gary (Corey Hendrix) and Ebraheim (Edwin Lee Gibson). There’s also Carmy’s sister Natalie (nicknamed Sugar) played by Abby Elliott, Chris Elliott’s daughter and Bob Elliott’s granddaughter. Comedy pedigree much?

And last but most definitely not least, Uncle Jimmy, played by one of my all time favorites Oliver Platt, who as I’m certain you recall, I wrote about here eight years ago.

From the first frame of the first episode of the first season, The Bear was magnificent. It immediately catapults you right into the insanity of a restaurant kitchen. But for as great as the first season was, the current second season is even better. In it we get the backstories to all the characters, taking them out of the kitchen and bringing us into their real lives. The more we learn, the more we come to love them.

Not going to give anything away, but I challenge you to find better written, acted, directed and moving television anywhere than guest star-packed episodes six (as intense as it gets) and seven (absolutely heartbreaking, ultimately joyous) of season two.

The show and cast are deservedly nominated for a slew of Emmy’s. I hope they take them all.

Enjoy it over and over-surprise!- like I do.

And make sure you’re not interrupted when you’re watching. After all, every second counts.

Encore post: Not a keeper

I swear to God I'm like a broken record. It's been almost a month since I clicked and clacked (that was for you Rich Siegel) my last post, so I decided it was probably time to get going on a new one.

The title of it was going to be Promises Made, Promises Broken. It was going to have a funny intro about how with that title it could be mistaken for an essay about the Republican party - but then of course, there's nothing funny about them.

I got about halfway done with it, when I realize I'd already written this post five years ago about exactly the same subject. Lucky for me, amIrite?

So in a way, I'm keeping one of my promises about posting more often and not keeping my promise at the same time.

Or what I like to call a win-win.

Anyway, not that I've given you any reason to believe me, but I promise more original posts are on the way. Sure my fingers are crossed, but you can just ignore that.

Okay, it's time to read. Please to enjoy.

The first post is about the last year. Ironic ain't it?

So here's the thing. When it comes to the promises I made on our last trip around the sun, I'm a lot like the road to hell—I'm paved with good intentions. Alright, so maybe analogies aren't my metier (look it up), but you see where I'm going.

I made a lot of promises in 2017, some spur of the moment without much thought—you know, the same way I approach my career path (rolling eyes at the word "career")—some to you and even more to myself that despite the best intentions, well, we've already covered that.

For example, this one that would've made your Christmas shopping infinitely easier when it came to stocking stuffers. Or this one, where I vowed to be more disciplined and prolific with my blog postings (stops to laugh hysterically at the thought of being disciplined). But not as prolific as Round Seventeen because, frankly, my Crank-O-Meter doesn't go to eleven. And I'd rather read his posts than write my own.

Besides making gift buying easier and giving you more posts to avoid reading, I also made several promises to myself which I've broken like a fine china vase on a sitcom.

"Whatever you do Joey, don't touch the vase!"

"What, do you think I'm stupid? Of course I'm not gonna touch the vase."

SFX: Vase crashing to pieces on the floor.

Laughter and applause. Freeze frame. Roll credits.

Some are the same promises I've made before like losing weight, changing my style (which would involve actually having one), opening the folder marked Jeff's ideas and following through on some of them, any of them, one of them (yes Cameron Y., that includes the one marked "Screenplay ideas").

Those are the actionable, external promises. There are also the internal efforts that met with mixed success.

Cutting people some slack and realizing everyone's not going to do it my way or on my timetable, although for the love of God I still have no idea why not (only child, does it show?).

Following Elvis Costello's advice about trying to be more amused than disgusted at what's going on around me.

Sticking to the golden rule, no matter how hard someone is making it to do.

Not taking any of it personally, although I have to say I'm actually pretty good at that one.

Got a little heavy on you there didn't I? (Insert diet joke here). Yeah I know, I didn't see it coming either.

Anyway, all of this to say my promise to me and you for 2018 is to do better at keeping promises I make, and not make ones I can't keep.

This year, it's like Jules said in Pulp Fiction: "I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard..."

Toast

Some of my regular readers (pauses to laugh at the idea I have "regular readers") may know my beautiful daughter got married to her longtime boyfriend this past weekend. Needless to say, I got unexpectedly choked up. It was a complete waterworks show—a tear-filled event.

And that was just writing the check for the venue.

Ponying up for the day is just one of the traditions the Father of the Bride is required to abide by before and during the big day. The wedding toast is another one.

There are basically five steps to every FOB toast.

The welcome. Thank everyone for taking the time and making the effort to come. You know how you feel about traveling to a wedding on a perfectly good Saturday. They feel the same way and they still made the trip. Thank them all. Even the ones you wish hadn’t.

A story about the bride. Here the FOB has to tread lightly. There are a lifetime of stories to choose from, and while you may find the truly memorable ones amusing there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll find them embarrassing. Memory is funny that way. Choose accordingly.

A story about the groom. You know when he entered the picture, how he treats your daughter and what he’s like. My now son-in-law is an awesome person and I couldn’t be happier my daughter chose him. You may not be as lucky. But, and being a husband you already know this, what you think doesn’t matter. It’s her day, and he’s the one she’s riding off into the sunset with. Toughen up cupcake. Make sure you have nothing but good things to say, even if you don’t.

Welcome the groom and his family to your family. Do I think even though birthdays, Christmas and Thanksgiving will get a lot more crowded you should be excited about your new extended family, and go in expecting nothing but the best? I do.

Words of wisdom. Your daughter and her betrothed are entering into an arrangement you’ve been in for years. Have you learned nothing in all that time? Unlikely. Find some words of wisdom to pass on to the happy couple. The good news is they don’t even have to be your words. Movie quotes are a good way to go. I'd stay away from "You're gonna need a bigger boat" and "Make him an offer he can't refuse." I went with one from Good Will Hunting. Not the one about apples, the one that says "The guy doesn't have to be perfect, and the girl doesn't have to be perfect. As long as they're perfect for each other." Sweet, amIrite?

If you’re looking for a little inspiration, and trust me, I’m the last person you should ever be looking to for that, but if you are then maybe this will help.

Here’s how I started my FOB toast.

”Thank you all for coming. You know, when I started thinking about this toast, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, several words came to me right away. Beautiful. Strong. Independent. Funny. Talented. Courageous. But then I thought, this shouldn’t be about me, this is her day."

You’re welcome.

Song and dance

There's a joke I like to use whenever someone mentions they've injured their ankle, knee, foot or that they've had a hip replacement. My usual reply is, "So I guess the Riverdance audition is off." In case you're not familiar with Riverdance, here's why it's funny:

In reality—a place I rarely visit—these dancers are highly skilled, precision artists and athletes who have devoted the necessary time and practice into perfecting their joyous art.

This is not something we have in common.

I bring this up because my beautiful daughter is getting married in exactly a month. And while that means a festive celebration, a new family, a great son-in-law, a lifetime of happiness for my baby girl, and a canyon-like dip in my retirement savings, it also means something a bit more frightening to me: the father-daughter dance.

If you've ever been to a wedding, you're famiiar with the tradition. Either after the newlywed couple's first dance, or when I'm done delivering my brilliant, quotable, side-splittingly hilarious yet tearfully poignant toast (post to follow), there will be the father-daughter dance.

The first step (see what I did there?) was to choose the song. This is one of the few choices I actually get to make. I spent several nights watching and listening to father-daughter wedding dance songs on YouTube, crying my eyes out. Seriously, I was a mess. I know what you're thinking, but let's see you listen to this, or this, or this and this and see how you do tough guy.

After being overruled on Highway To Hell (you know the joke: The fact there’s a Stairway To Heaven and a Highway To Hell should tell you who’s expecting more traffic), I finally landed on a song with some history and meaning to me and my girly. I know you want to know what it is, but I'm not going to reveal it here. Like my hilarious toast to the couple—have I mentioned that before?—some things need to remain a surprise.

The actual dance is the really scary part. To make sure we're properly prepared, my daughter and I have decided to take some dance lessons at Arthur Murray Dance Studios. Ironically, there's one within walking distance from the house.

Walking I know how to do.

We had our first lesson yesterday, and it went quite well. Back step, side step, rock back, spin - yeah, I know the lingo. The instructors and personnel are lovely, supportive and encouraging. Obviously they're well aware of how nervous their students are. Especially the first time ones.

What I found to be the worst part of the experience was being surrounded by mirrors. Not the small, narrow full-length dressing mirrors you'd have in the corner of your bedroom.

Or the funhouse kind I like that make me look tall, thin and lanky (which coincidentally are the ones I have in my bedroom).

No, these dance studio mirrors were other ones. The ones that make me feel like reference material for Brendan Fraser.

I suppose the right way to think of the mirrors is as additional inspiration to get closer to dancing shape as the date sneaks up on me.

And although we've already got the song and the basic steps to the dance we're going to do, there are always additional little flairs and moves I'm thinking about adding at the last minute to spice it up a bit. You know, make it more memorable.

Not to tip my hand, or tap my toe, too much, but I'm thinking a little something like this:

Prep school

I’m not going to lie. I had a fun time coming up with different choices for the title of this post:

My Least Favorite Oscopy

Where The Sun Don’t Shine

Up The Down Staircase

The Long And Winding Road

Landing On Uranus

Aw Chute

Bottoms Up

I chose Prep school because it focuses on what, contrary to what you may think, is absolutely the worst part of the colonoscopy “journey.”

At the urging of my doctor, last week I treated myself to this diagnostic procedure. For you lucky bastards unfamiliar with it, a colonoscopy is a medical procedure where a doctor, usually a gastroenterologist (PRO TIP: never a guy in a van), inserts a long, flexible tube called a colonoscope into the rectum.

Which reminds me of a joke.

The elementary school teacher was taking roll call. “Johnny?” “Here.” “Steven?” “Here.” “Billy?” Nothing. “Billy?” Still nothing. The teacher says, “Does anyone know where Billy is?” Mikey raises his hand and says, “Billy had an accident. He was climbing one of those iron fences with the pointy tops, and he slipped. One of the pointy things went right up his asshole. The teacher said, “Michael, we don’t say asshole, we say rectum.” And Mikey says, “Rectum?! Damn near killed ‘em!”

Never gets old.

Where was I? Oh, right. So anyway, a tiny video camera at the tip of the colonoscope lets the doctor see the inside of the entire colon. And according to the twice-impeached, currently indicted, stable genius orange mango, when applied this way the camera light also cures covid.

So, win-win.

The reason the procedure is done is to check for things—none of which I had—like polyps, abnormal tissue, blockages and causes of rectal bleeding, chronic diarrhea and other intestinal problems.

In specialized GOP colonoscopies they also look for brains, hidden documents and Lindsey Graham.

Now for the prep part of our show. Two days before the procedure, I had to go on a soft diet. Then the day before, I was on a liquid diet. On Colonoscopy Eve, I celebrated in the traditional way by drinking eight ounces of a powerful laxative mixed with Gatorade every fifteen minutes until I'd had a total of forty-eight ounces.

Then, there was nothing to do but have a seat in the library and wait for the show to start.

The next morning the wife drove me to the surgical center to check in at 8:30 for a 9:15 reservation. I was done and on my way home by 10:45, still in my propofol haze and craving In-N-Out.

While it's not the most pleasant way to spend a morning, I file it under things could've been a lot worse. So now you know more about me than you probably wanted to, but at least you'll know what to expect should you ever have to roll on your left side and count backwards from a hundred. I mean for medical reasons.

That's it. And of course, there's only one way to wrap up this post.

The end.

On my watch

A long time ago, on wrists far, far away, people wore watches that weren’t smart. Rather they were functional. Fun. Stylish. Elegant.

Instead of the black, battery-charged squares you see on so many wrists, that do everything from answer phone calls to measure your heart rate to tell you how many steps you take in a day, they made up for their lack of Swiss Army utility by doing one thing well: telling time.

They were, and still are, um, timeless.

I was rummaging through my drawers over the weekend— the ones in my dresser, get your mind out of the gutter—and hidden away in there were a few timepieces I’d completely forgotten about.

Like this beauty pictured above. This ACME watch was given to me by the wife when we were in New York back in the day. We were enjoying a fine afternoon of shopping at the now late, great Warner Bros. flagship store on the corner of 5th and 57th, fraternizing with characters like Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Superman, Wile E. Coyote, the Tasmanian Devil, Tweety Bird and Sylvester.

The only silhouette missing on the face of it is the falling anvil.

Another gem, and also a gift from the wife who may have been trying to tell me something by giving me so many watches, was this retro-chic Hamilton Electric timepiece. I can’t remember if it’s from the late 50’s or early 60’s, but it doesn’t really matter.

Bitchin’ then, bitchin’ now.

Then there’s the Xemex—see if you can guess who gave it to me. It belonged to our friend Francois, and I had admired it so much that the wife (dammit, now you know) made a secret deal to buy it from him for me. The watch weighs just under seventy-five pounds. Alright, maybe not. But it feels like it. It’s a huge, heavy, shiny object.

I’ve had apartments smaller than that watch.

Years ago, an art director I worked with named Neil Muller wore this Seiko Chronograph. At the time I didn’t wear a watch (does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?), but I couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful it was. So I ran out and bought the exact same watch for myself.

I still don’t know what most of the dials do, but they look impressive, yes?

Finally, have to go with a classic. This Mickey Mouse watch was purchased on one of my many trips to the happiest place on earth. My Apple Watch lets me have a digital Mickey face on it, but it ain’t the same.

I was going to tie this up with a line about being out of time, coming back for seconds or even tick-tock Clarisse.

But it’s been a rough day. I think I’ll just kick back and unwind.