Why would you do it?

It’s a warm spring day and I’m sitting here doing something strange. It’s a situation you’ve likely faced once or twice in your life as well, and — if you’re anything like me — you felt equally weirded out by it. Against my better judgment, I’m drinking cool tap water out of a thick ceramic mug. And it’s just flat-out wrong.

I don’t think there’s a single sane person out there that will disagree with me on this point. Drinking water out of a mug feels kind of like trying to eat soup off a plate or cutting steak with a spoon; it just doesn’t make sense. But of course it’s not like these things. When you really think about it, drinking water from a mug is perfectly logical. Just like a glass, a mug is a receptacle meant to hold liquid, and it gets the job done. So why am I so averse to this relatively harmless action?

Several forums across the web attempt to answer this riveting question, including a subreddit titled “Drinking water from a coffee mug is incredibly dissatisfying.” A few commenters focus on the obvious — mugs are meant for hot beverages. While that explains why a hot drink can’t be in a glass, it doesn’t really explain why a cold drink can’t be in a mug. Some dive into the idea of “adulting,” as if the act of drinking water from a glass is a sign that you’ve finally grown up. Indeed, water in a mug does bring up memories of dirty dorm rooms, but I don’t think that’s the real issue. Others touched on the idea that mugs have trace flavors of the coffee and tea that came before, an argument that has its merits. But again, not the whole story. The majority of commenters just hold strong to the orthodoxy: Nope, no, uh-uh — cold water does not belong in a mug, period.

If you think about it, humans in general are pretty finicky about what drinks go in which vessels. Wine in a stemmed glass, whiskey in a tumbler, champagne in a flute. Espresso must have a saucer, a gibraltar must be in a gibraltar, etc. The difference here, though, is that coffee and alcohol are hobby beverages. We have enthusiasts for these things, and with enthusiasm comes refinement, and with refinement comes protocol. Water has not quite reached this cult status. But as it turns out, our need for water in a glass may have something to do with the refinement of these hobbyist drinks.

Glass was not always as we know it now. At the time of its inception about 5,000 years ago, glass was opaque and uncommon. It was used primarily to make ornaments for royalty before being used to create drinking vessels some thousand years later. Some thousand years after that, transparent glass came along and knocked people on their ancient butts with a newfound pleasure: seeing the contents of cup through the cup while drinking it! This became especially popular for wine, and likely contributed to the refinement of vino — you could now easily see the color, the legs, etc, and judge the wine accordingly. Transparent glass replaced opaque materials as the substance of choice for drinking vessels, and as glassblowing became widespread, glasses were brought down from the exclusive domain of the powerful to the lives of ordinary people like you and me. From there, they just became the norm, evolving into our draconian present where glasses rule.

In the meantime, new shapes emerged for specific drinks. The stem was created so our body heat wouldn’t warm the wine, the flute was designed to retain the carbonation of champagne and the snifter was designed to enhance the aroma of brown spirits. Setting aside those raised pinkies, there were legit reasons for these glass assignments. But water in a glass? Not so much. And yet we are often more willing to break those rules than the water-in-a-glass rule. Why?

Here’s a theory: It was all about the transparency. Imagine a time when clean, clear drinking water was scarce. Wouldn’t you want to see what was — or prove what wasn’t — floating in your water? Even now, I think this holds true. Our idea of water is one of a pure, translucent, pristine thing. Drinking it out of a glistening clear glass reassures us that the water we consume is uncontaminated, and even enhances the illusion of crystal clarity. But, OK. If you’re reading this, you most likely live in a time and place where clean drinking water is kind of a given. With some exceptions, it just flows from a faucet on demand like magic. No matter the vessel, you can assume it’s safe to drink. But this assumption doesn’t do away with thousands of years of history that led us to this point. Every currently living person of this culture was born into it surrounded by glasses. We’ve never known anything else, so we’ve evolved with this habit.

That means it’s possible that it’s purely Pavlovian. We see wine, we think wine glass; we see coffee, we think mug; we see water, we think glass. It’s society’s bell ringing in our heads to remind us of the social order. Like most of the rules imposed upon us, it’s a learned behavior, taught to us by our respective cultures for better or worse. And like most of these learned behaviors, we’ve accepted it as truth. Houses must have lawns, lawns must be mowed, jobs are essential, skirts are for girls, water can’t be in a mug and that’s that, right? Them’s the rules.

With this in mind, it’s possible that the basis of our entire modern reality hinges upon maintaining the separation of cold water and mugs, just like someone else’s reality may hinge upon the separation of boys and skirts. We are our social constructs. It’s not logical; it’s emotional. But here’s the thing: We are in the age of dissent. We’re breaking nonsensical rules and restructuring the social anatomy so boys can wear skirts and lawns get the middle finger. Is it time to do away with our hard-and-fast no-water-in-mugs rule?

I’m going to argue no. I’m all for breaking societal norms in the name of social progress, to improve the lives of the marginalized and unshackle us from restrictive conventions. Water in a mug just might not rise to that level of import. We’re not going to break down society’s barriers by doing it; we’re just going to weird ourselves out. So, logical or not, pour me a glass of water and let’s talk dissent.

And other answers to unsolicited questions.

“Why are men awful?” — Daisy Dismayed

Yes, that’s right. Men are terrible. I’d write that it wasn’t really their fault. But it is. They’ve created a system in which they will be forgiven for most offenses. Given a million chance to succeed or fail. The world is their smelly oyster. Some men individually are nice. But men in groups, be they the U.S. Senate or the Detroit Red Wings, are awful. Just awful. Let me apologize on behalf of us all. We’re sorry. Or at least we should be.

I’ve been a man for 44 years. And many of my friends are men. And let me tell you what happens whenever women are not around. It becomes like a Mamet/Tarantino/Labute homage. Men think dirty things. About practically everyone and everything. And we are constantly thinking dirty things even when we’re not speaking about doing dirty things. When a man checks you out on the street he will then turn to the nearest other man on the street and give him a look like “Did you see that?” And you’ll shrug or smile sheepishly to him. Or possibly you’re too busy checking that same person out to even see that guy. Or checking out that guy. We’re always checking you out. When we’re not manspreading or mansplaining. Which is the other two main things we’re doing with our time. We used to start a lot more wars. But now everyone just hacks each other.

Men have started and fought in all the wars in human history. They blamed that one war on Helen being so beautiful. That’s typical guy stuff. “This is all your fault for being so hot. Now we have to go kill all the Greeks.” Men have been unduly responsible for all the damage that we’ve done to this planet. Pollution, overpopulation, greed, episodes of “Star Trek: Voyager.” Those are mostly the fault of men.

@imbeccable when a man does something and you don’t get it, imagine the dumbest reason, that’s the reason

 — @caseyjohnston

Adam even blamed Eve for the whole Snake and Apple Thing. When we all know that had to go down some other way. Sure, women like bad boys. But who is the weakest link in that relationship? Adam. He already gave away one of his ribs. He’s easily talked into crazy things. Would you give a rib so that your wife would be born? Sure, I’m a lonely, horny 44-year-old. I would do that. But would you? So Adam throws Eve under the bus in front of God. When he dove right into that apple like it was nobody’s business. Men are also terrible because they’re always like “Who? Me?” when they do shady shit. Watch Draymond Green of the Golden State Warriors play basketball. He will continually hit people in the arms and kick them in the nuts. And then act like he never did this to the referees. Who do not buy his shit. Because he is a known crazy kick-you-in-the-nuts kind of guy. Just admit it, Draymond! Why can’t you just admit it?

Men supposedly have more upper-body strength than women. But I think the entire basis of men’s insecurity stems from the fact that women can have children come out of their bodies and men can’t. They stand around like morons while women are having babies, sometimes remembering to help with ice chips and back rubs. But mostly not, mostly just being entirely useless to this endeavor. And I think this uselessness affects men. It makes them do dumb things. Climb Mt. Everest. Play golf every weekend. Have affairs. Whatever. Women can do this amazing thing, men never can. So they want to control even that. Make you feel shame and fear and take your birth control pills away. Just because they feel inadequate.

Men also behave badly because their genitals are on the outside and can be easily kicked or punched by just about anyone. I’m a little surprised that men don’t wear protective cups all the time in public. Because just about anyone at any time can just come along and punch or kick you right in the junk. Which hurts worse than anything ever, although is quite amusing for others to watch. It hurts and you see stars and sometimes even throw up. It’s quite an emotional and physical roller coaster, getting hit in the junk. Which is what makes me so mad about Draymond Green. He must be doing that on purpose! Which makes me upset, because that really hurts.

What can you do about the men in your life that are jerks? You have to demand what you want plainly, and sometimes in writing. If they will read that. Men are less likely to read for pleasure than women. Women, in general, should basically be ruling everything. Men should be like worker bees. Would men act better if they were not expected to lead? Probably not. They would probably just be jerks about something else.

I don’t know what your particular gripe about men is. But whatever it is, men are probably at fault and you are right to think they’re terrible.

Jim Behrle lives in Jersey City, NJ and works in a bookstore.

Notes on life

Liana Finck is full of them.

Over and over forever

Weren’t we just here? Wasn’t it moments ago that we were waking up to a new week, full of dread and barely able to drag ourselves to the starting line? Didn’t we just complain about how exhausted we were and wonder how much more we could take? I guess the good news is I can copy and paste this exact block of text over and over again until it finally all comes down, because we live in a world where it’s always like this now. Here’s some music. Enjoy.

★★★ The socks that came to hand were either thick winter ones or low-cut summer ones, nothing right for the day that was coming. The make-do solution of bringing the kindergartener to school in an insulated jacket, with a hoodie in his backpack for later, had now become the routine. The light was scattered and there was a winter-in-the-subtropics humidity on the cool morning. By afternoon the sky was white, and the passage of clouds below the clouds made the wan shadows of things fade out entirely and then return. Full sun arrived to flood the apartment from wall to wall, and the clouds were lace layered in purple and silver.

Miley Cyrus’s “Malibu” versus Hole’s “Malibu”

I woke up this morning and saw that Miley Cyrus had just issued a new song called “Malibu.” I was a little taken aback. Hole, the ’90s/2000 band fronted by Courtney Love, already has a song called “Malibu,” from the 1998 album Celebrity Skin.

I wasn’t exactly mad — like “I won’t have some whippersnapper writing songs with the same title as a song written by an icon of my generation, widow of The Icon of my generation.” I mean, no one owns Malibu. Plus, I like Miley Cyrus. I like Wrecking Ball. I enjoy sobbing to “The Climb” in the car. I interviewed Miley Cyrus in 2011 and she told me she liked my necklace and we had an interesting conversation about candles. Miley Cyrus is a good listener. I was skeptical of her writing a song called Malibu, but I wanted to give it a chance.

Cyrus’s Malibu has a sort of Laurel Canyon-y sound, but not ’70s music Laurel Canyon so much as Lisa Cholodenko’s 2002 movie, Laurel Canyon. It has the same dreamy, blooming openness as the Mercury Rev song that plays over Laurel Canyon’s opening credits, and there’s a similar aesthetic feel too, of pretty colors behind haze. This is really what LA feels like, so, I mean, it’s not like anyone is copying anyone. They’re just reacting to the feeling of living in LA, which is the feeling that makes you want to stare at bougainvillea all day until someone miraculously appears with a large check and a drink and fucks you by a pool.

Cyrus’s video opens with a shot of balloons, then quickly takes a turn, a left turn, up the 101 towards Malibu Country Mart. Malibu Country Mart is a luxury mall “nestled against the majestic mountains and just a stone’s throw from the beach,” at which Cyrus seemed to have purchased her wardrobe for this video. There are white gauze pants gathered at the ankle and a white bikini top, there’s a whole bikini, by itself, there’s an unstructured midriff-baring turtleneck, some gypsy-influenced white dresses. The turtleneck at one point gets playfully/cozily pulled down over her knees, a sort of whole-body version of that thing women do when they snuggle into their sweater cuffs to indicate vulnerability/low body weight/happiness.

I think all the clothes come from one store called Calypso St. Barth, but I am not sure.

You are supposed to walk away from the experience of this song and video saying to yourself “This is what it would feel like to be young and beautiful and fully outfitted by Calypso St. Barth at the Malibu Country Mart and in love.” The lyrics are said to be about Cyrus’s fiancé, one of the Hemsworths. (I know the Hemsworths each have their own identities and I respect that that means something to some people, but it doesn’t mean anything to me, so please respect that.) Cyrus flashes an engagement ring several times. She thanks her fiancé for convincing her to go in the ocean, because she used to be afraid. (Adorable as this is, I don’t buy it.) There’s lots of pirouetting and self-amazed widening of eyes. She lolls around sexily in fields of lupin and makes that face where you can tell she’s thinking about someone else thinking about how pretty she is.

Cyrus repeats the line “Next to you, in Malibu,” maybe 30 times. Cyrus said that she wrote this song in an Uber and that would be easy enough to make fun of except there’s nothing about writing a song quickly that means it’s bad — “Yesterday” was written in less than 30 minutes. So was “Seven Nation Army.” So was “Rocky Top.” There’s also nothing about writing a song fast that means it’s good. Cyrus’s “Malibu” is a steadily whatever song. It is a song that keeps at it. Steady indie pop/indie folk, west coast, post-Coachella vibes coming at you with the exact same amount of twang that remains in Cyrus’s Tennessee voice after many years of life in Los Angeles, for a little over three minutes. A job not necessarily well done, but done nonetheless.

Sometimes, in the video, Miley exchanges the white unstructured midriff-baring turtleneck for a white sweater that’s not a turtleneck. She is equally interested in tugging suggestively at both garments.

“Ahhhhhhhaaaaa” she sings, just like they sing in the Mercury Rev song, in thrall to the flowers and the ocean and the grass. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhaaa” she sings again, still in thrall, still sunlit, still wildflowered. There’s a dog in the video which makes it through the video without chewing on anything. I only mention this because the same can not be said about Cyrus — in one of the last shots she sexily gnaws away at one of her tops — forgive me for not knowing which one.

There are many things about being 23 I don’t remember but I must tell you I would be quite astonished to discover I ever chewed on my sweater hem.

Courtney Love may have, but only if she was coming down from something.

Hole’s “Malibu” is both dark and easy and open and a little sad. It sounds a little like the 1984 Smiths song “The Queen is Dead” played three-quarters as fast. It also sounds a lot like R.E.M.’s 1991 song “Losing My Religion” — Michael Stipe was a friend of Love’s, so, this isn’t surprising — in a different key. Cyrus’s Malibu is a place where you ooh and ah and coo at A Hemsworth, with whom you once sadly broke up and with whom you’re now blissfully reunited. Hole’s Malibu is a place surrounded by burning palm trees that is unwilling to forget it’s at least half parking lot. The lyrics seems to be about remembering a dead person. You can’t get back together with a dead person. You can’t have snuggly makeup sex in a field of lavender with a dead person. This is sad Malibu. The sun’s out, but it’s still sad.

Hole’s guitarist, Eric Erlandson (who used to date Drew Barrymore, a founder of Millennial Femininity, though not herself a millennial) wears dark eye makeup and carries a surfboard. The makeup is no doubt a signifier of heavier drugs, the surfboard suggests mere marijuana use, each, one imagines, is there to throw us off the scent of the other. There are no literal drugs in Hole’s “Malibu” but there are vintage trailers and a weight bench. I don’t know why you’d have a weight bench outside a vintage trailer unless you were planning on getting so amped up (or at least stoned) in the trailer you’d want a weight bench close by (a stone’s throw!) for blowing off all that druggie steam once you ventured out.

Love does cast a lot of come hithery glances at the camera, but it is further away than it is for Cyrus and this makes them more tolerable and less Disney coy. She wears a see-through slip and she has a fantastic body. Hole’s “Malibu” is not necessarily less about Love’s body than Cyrus’s “Malibu” is about hers. Both videos would be nothing without the female flesh of its artist. Cyrus, however, doesn’t do anything with her body that’s not cute. Love doesn’t do anything with her body that is cute, unless you call sitting on the steps of a trailer holding a Coke bottle between your spread legs cute.

Cyrus’ voice can get throaty, but it’s still pretty. I’m not going to say Courtney Love isn’t a particularly good singer, because it doesn’t matter. Also, there’s something about her drifting atonality that is evocative of — drifting atonality? Still, just because Miley Cyrus chews on her sweater and just because Courtney Love can’t really carry a tone doesn’t make Love some kind of a genius. She wrote her “Malibu” with Erlander and the Smashing Pumpkin’s Billy Corgan, whom Love dated. No Uber back then, but they still might have written the song “über”-fast — like, say, over two drinks (each!) and one (shared) pack of cigarettes and whatever else. “Cry to the angels,” Love sings in the song’s chorus, one of the song’s vaguely edgy but not deeply considered lyrics. She continues: “Help me please/burn the sorrow from your eyes/Oh come on be alive again/don’t lay down and die again/hey hey/ you know what to do/baby drive away/ to Malibu.” Later: “We’re all watching you/Oh, baby, fly away to Malibu.”

Cyrus rhymes YOU with Malibu; Hole rhymes do and you with Malibu. There’s no saint in pop. The difference is in the sounds, neither of which are terribly inventive. So we move to context: Courtney Love did drugs when she was pregnant. Cyrus is child star hoping that some PG-13 nudity and a pot habit will make us forget that she’s a child star. No one will ever forget. If you google famous quotes from Cyrus you get, “If you believe in yourself anything is possible.” Google famous quotes from Love and you get, “There are a million things to eat that are not cheese.” The videos are direct reflections of these sentiments.

In a 1998 New Yorker article about Love, Daphne Merkin said, more or less, that Love was an example of a new kind of a “less exalted and more sullied” female icon. (She went on to say that this Love, Celebrity Skin–love, had cleaned herself up — I would argue that she had done nothing of the sort, but that’s another conversation.) It’s really hard to say what’s great about or important about Love, but Merkin does get at something. Most people have to resort to things other than complete goodness to survive. This includes women. Love seemed to remind us of this, and she also just had that great fucking body, which looked even better playing guitar. It was a powerful combination.

Love’s not around much herself these days, but I see her everywhere in our culture. Hillary Clinton owes her sunglasses and Blackberry comeback to Love — even if it ultimately didn’t work. This week, Jill Soloway, unrepentant patriarchy-basher and creator of “Transparent” and “I Love Dick,” said of Donald Trump, “I want all the little girls of the world to dream of one day growing up and being an awful president. We shouldn’t just have to want to be president. We should want to be a disgusting president.” That’s Love’s legacy, 100 percent.

God, the last part of the bridge in Hole’s “Malibu” is graceless and hacky: “And I knew/love would tear you apart/Oh and I knew/The darkest secret of your heart.” But sung in Love’s not-so-good voice, while she was dressed in essentially expensive rags, surrounded by burning palm trees, it sounds so good.

Hole’s “Malibu” sounds like a song from 1998. It sounds like it came out the year that Matthew Shepard was murdered, the year Bill Clinton got in trouble with Monica Lewinsky, the year Animal Kingdom opened at Disney World. 1998 felt like all those things, and it also felt a lot like this video, and like Courtney Love. 2017 doesn’t feel like Cyrus’s video at all or like flowers or white bikinis or like her. It feels like dread and nervous laughter and Mark Zuckerberg’s grey T-shirt sweat smell after he bros down with Donald Trump — where is the pop song about that? Hole’s “Malibu” isn’t the best song ever but it has something essential that Cyrus’s “Malibu” doesn’t have. It has terroir.

IVANKA is signing her book at a Bucks County Panera Bread. Even though she is alone, IVANKA deliberately steps inside a family bathroom, giving the suburban white women in the restaurant yet another opportunity to associate the word ‘family’ with her. She turns on the faucet and phones her husband. JARED is at home, seated on IVANKA’s fainting couch and leveraging his government connections to enrich himself.

IVANKA [managerially]: Fly to Mar-a-Lago immediately for a staff meeting.

JARED [exhaustedly]: About Comey?

IVANKA [powerfully]: Don’t be a Democrat. [IVANKA fake smiles at herself in the mirror.] Your jet is unavailable. Chinese businessmen are using it to pick up their new visas.

JARED [reasonably]: Why couldn’t they just use theirs?

IVANKA [decisively]: We bundled the jet with the visas. [IVANKA examines the laminated document on the door listing the time the bathroom has last been cleaned and rolls her eyes.] The Wharton School has an executive MBA program which I will sign you up for if you ask me another question relating to product bundling. I’m emailing you your flight information.

IVANKA hangs up without clarifying. She finishes autographing her books, and then tells the manager that because no one ever swooped in to buy her lunch, she will likewise not be buying lunch for the staff today.

Meanwhile JARED gets driven to the airport, where he fumbles his way through check-in and security. He sits quietly at his gate until his zone is called for boarding. He realizes that he always thought a gate surrounds property and a zone is where there is war, and this makes him wonder what else he doesn’t know. He feels lighter, as a result, and hardly notices that a PASSENGER behind him is calling him a micro-aggression. The FLIGHT ATTENDANT is singing “All You Need Is Love” as the other passengers take their seats and infants cry. JARED has no idea how to read his ticket but because he is used to the world rising to meet him, he sits in the first available seat. The PASSENGER looks down at his own boarding pass, sighs deeply and then sits down next to JARED.

PASSENGER: Thanks to your family, the only place I feel truly, genuinely safe is my yoga mat. [The PASSENGER begins reading his Maxim magazine.]

JARED [lifting the shade, politely]: I’m sorry. Do you need light?

PASSENGER [looking at Selena Gomez photos]: No. I need you to get the fuck out of my face.

JARED [adjusting the shade back to where it was]: I’m sorry?

PASSENGER [to the WOMAN across the aisle]: Remember that Nike ad from the one Michael Phelps Olympics? It was a whole bunch of flashing images and that one Killers’ song. I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier. That one. [The WOMAN doesn’t look up from her reading, a Bible, which she is also highlighting.] And the tagline at the end of the ad was, like, everything you need is already inside.

JARED [lifting the shade, again]: I think I remember that one.

PASSENGER [turning to JARED aggressively]: Am I talking to you?

JARED [blankly]: Michael Phelps was something, wasn’t he?

PASSENGER [again to the WOMAN across the aisle]: I used to believe that. Everything I needed was already inside. [The WOMAN clears her throat and continues highlighting her Bible.] But if there’s a silver lining to this dumbass’s father-in-law being President, it’s that we’ve learned that, like, no. We need each other. Some of what I need is inside and some of what I need is outside of me. Other people.

The FLIGHT ATTENDANT ask-sings that all passengers ensure they are seated in their assigned seat.

PASSENGER [to JARED, kind of]: How good is Nike at making ads?

JARED [remembering his own favorite Nike ad, the Tiger Woods’ Father’s Day ad, where Earl is showing Tiger how to golf]: The best.

PASSENGER: I’m literally not talking to you.

The PASSENGER gets up from his seat and tells the FLIGHT ATTENDANT that JARED must be removed from the flight, using force, if necessary. He returns to his seat, opens YouTube and without headphones plays Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.”

JARED [adjusting the shade back to where it was, again]: He’s the king.

The FLIGHT ATTENDANT shimmies over to JARED and PASSENGER, and then dances along to a few beats, conveying that she is with it and values customer service above all.

PASSENGER [to the FLIGHT ATTENDANT]: He’s the king

FLIGHT ATTENDANT: The pilot says he will bring the plane back to gate and you can get off.

PASSENGER [pointing to JARED with his thumb]: Him?

FLIGHT ATTENDANT: No, you. But the airline wants you to understand that if you do that, you will make us late and many of your fellow passengers will miss connections.

PASSENGER [wondering why no one has begun recording yet]: That’s fine. I don’t feel safe flying with this asshole.

FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Sir, he’s harmless.

WOMAN [highlighting her Bible]: She’s right. He’s a beta male. He didn’t even flinch when you were blasting your music a second ago.

PASSENGER [recording himself]: Let’s do this.

The WOMAN who was highlighting her Bible also takes out her phone and begins recording. The FLIGHT ATTENDANT announces to the cabin that they’re returning to the gate so that a guest can deplane. The PASSENGER shouts that JARED is a fucking coward, and JARED shrugs in a way that makes it appear he agrees.

JARED [truthfully]: It’s not like this has been necessarily easy for me. I mean, I’m flying economy.

Because a seat frees up, the airline is able to seat their first standby guest. It’s STEVE BANNON. He stumbles down the aisle, hitting passengers, both accidentally and on purpose, with his carry-on duffel bag. He is wearing a t-shirt that reads “Shh. This is my hangover shirt” and tattered cargo pants.

STEVE BANNON [drunkenly]: Soon, folks, soon. Soon we will dismantle the FAA and be able to smoke on board once again.

The Bible-highlighting WOMAN trips him and STEVE BANNON loses his balance, three Viagra single packs falling onto the floor from his cargo pocket. Everyone in the plane able to see the pharmaceuticals throws up in their mouths. Some even throw up into their lap. The FLIGHT ATTENDANT announces that the entire cabin will likely have to deplane and everyone will miss their connections.

JARED [deleting a Nancy Pelosi campaign email before STEVE BANNON notices]: Hello.

STEVE BANNON [placing his cigarettes on his tray table, thinking that he is forcing the FLIGHT ATTENDANT into asking him to put them away]: Jeffrey.

JARED [without making eye contact]: Do you know what this meeting is about?

STEVE BANNON: It’s about suspending the 2020 Census as a dry run for suspending the writ of habeas corpus. Do I know what this meeting is about? This is my meeting.

JARED stares into his tray table until it is his turn to deplane, as the FLIGHT ATTENDANT asks STEVE BANNON for one of his cigarettes.

STEVE BANNON [putting on a pair of aviators]: Actually, Jeff. Stay here, I’ll drive this fucker myself.

He who speaks the loudest wears the crown.

I was eight years old when I learned my mom was the type of woman that can’t just chill. She walked into my room on some “Who’s The Boss” shit with an “I got you a job at the barbershop” declaration like some sort of tyrant. At the time, I was absolutely disgusted at the thought of spending my summer days sweeping hair for nickels instead of playing hours of Crash Bandicoot on PS1, but little did I know, it would be one of the most influential experiences of my adolescent life.

I learned how to play chess at my barbershop; I learned how to reach into a vending machine from the bottom and grab a pack of bag of Gardetto’s at my barbershop; I learned to always get your money up front, otherwise Anthony might not pay you for a week because he thinks shit is sweet (a.k.a. The Freelancer’s Struggle) at my barbershop; but most importantly: I learned how to win any sports debate ever formed against me in my barbershop.

Ya see, for Black men, the shop isn’t just a place to get your hairline tightened; it’s a cultural safe space for all hot takes and illogical opinions. It’s the only place in the world where you can walk in empty handed and leave with a Boosie fade; Guardians of the Galaxy 2 on DVD 2 days after its release; and an intense hate for your fellow man because you can’t understand how he can say Shaq wasn’t a great basketball player, he was just bigger than everyone. Basically, it’s Twitter in its most physical form, minus the egg avatars that wake up everyday ready to turn your mentions into Fenway Park.

I’ve been going to the same barbershop for nineteen years and to this day I’ve never heard anyone make a good point. Not my barber Will, not the other barbers (Dexter, Anthony, Damon, Stan), not the regulars, not even Charles, the dude who NEVER gets a haircut, but still spends hours upon hours of his Saturday at the shop because he hates his family; nobody. They just ramble and ramble and ramble until it’s finally time to go home, never reaching an actual point of understanding on ANYTHING. It’s incredible.

The principles of the barbershop sports debate are simple: being right is not the goal, getting under people’s skin is. Because if the goal was to be right, you wouldn’t hear 87% of the things you hear people say. Knowing that, you have to know how to navigate through the debates without getting too emotionally invested, else your entire day, week, maybe even month will be ruined. Here are a few things to keep in mind:

Rule #1: *Desus & Mero Voice* Facts Don’t Matter

If you’re an ol’ Bookworm Jim-face ass then don’t even step into the dojo because you aren’t fit for combat. Most people*should* base their opinions on provable happenings, statistics, and general knowledge, but at the barbershop, all you need is determination and delivery. If you say what you have to say in a Yo-I-Really-Believe-This-Tho tone of voice then for some reason, people will let you get a stupid point off. And in the event that you actually are wrong, don’t even acknowledge it. I once saw a drifter, in an Emmitt Smith jersey, argue for 37 straight minutes (I know because I kept looking at my watch as Will continued to interject while cutting my hair) that Romo was Aikman’s back up, look at a Google search of the years they played, and respond “Oh well, fuck that shit anyway.” Not “Damn, I was wrong.” “Oh well, fuck that shit anyway.”

Rule #2: Volume Prospers

You know how they say “The loudest man in the room is the weakest man in the room”? At the barbershop, it’s the complete opposite. He who speaks the loudest wears the crown. You don’t even need to be stating a point; as long as you’re yelling at the top of your lungs, whatever you’re saying is correct. Don’t believe me? Watch that Joe Budden-Lil Yachty episode of Everyday Struggle. Joe Budden has been barbershop-arguing for so long that he literally cannot grow hair anymore. You know why LaVar Ball doesn’t bother me? Because I’ve seen hundreds of LaVar Balls in my lifetime. I’ll probably see 6 more this Saturday. Just mix minimum rationale with maximum volume and you’re good to go.

Rule #3: Your High School JV Career Qualifies as Professional Experience

If you dropped 27 on Western Heights JV in 9th grade then you’re DEFINITELY qualified to speak on everything Russell Westbrook does wrong. It is perfectly okay for you to sit in the empty chair, even though the flyer on the mirror clearly reads Chairs For Customers Only, and spit out lies about how you were supposed to go D1, but coach didn’t like you. Because same. “Politics,” right? And then, to further prove your credibility, you have to double down by saying if you had Kevin Durant’s height, with your Iverson-like skillset, you would’ve been better than Jordan. That way, when people ask who you are to say Paul George is trash, you can securely respond “A legend. Ask about me.”

Rule #4: If All Else Fails, Get Physical

If you’ve never seen a man get punched out over a Cowboys-Eagles argument then don’t tell me you’ve been in the trenches. Don’t. Do not. Because you haven’t. But I have, and physical altercation is something you need to be prepared for in the event that keeping it real goes wrong. Not only have I seen it, but I’ve been in it. This one time I got into a Kobe-McGrady argument that resulted in a one-on-one situation for the ages. Dexter, the dumbest of people I’ve ever met and the most underworked barber in the shop, once told me that McGrady was better than Kobe because he doesn’t have to waste effort on playing defense. His argument was that Player A was better than Player ‘Be (see what I did there) because he only participates in 50% of the game. I couldn’t believe it. Not only are you not about to tell me that Tracy Never-Won-A-Damn-Thing McGrady is better than Kobe, but you’re not about to justify it with some shit like that. Nah. Not while I sit here in a pair of Adidas Kobe II Moon Boots, you won’t.

I was always the kid that kept a Harry Potter book in hand, but I also kept a basketball on deck at all times like a young Arthur Agee. So I replied “If defense isn’t important, then guard me and see what happens.” Dex replied “Shit, where ya lil ball at?” In hindsight, this exchange had absolutely nothing to do with the issue at hand, but I was twelve years old, you can’t expect me to have the social skills to solve my problems verbally instead of physically. Maybe the 36-year-old adult should have objected, but that’s simply not how things work around these parts.

We step outside, I check the ball to Dex, he checks it back to me. Keep in mind, this was at the height of the And-1 era so OF COURSE I immediately bounced the ball off of his face to let him know that I wasn’t just happy to be here. He gets up on me, then I hit him with the crossover-nutmeg-bring back like a young Hot Sauce and THAT BOY’S ANKLES BUCKLE.

You ever seen a 36-year-old man in a pair of FUBU Force 1s fall to the pavement in slow motion? I have. You ever seen a 36-year-old man retaliate by pushing a not-even-teenage kid that yanked his soul to the ground because he got embarrassed in front of a shop full of professional roasters? I have. My shop has. That He Got Game scene? That kid was acting; I was living. If you aren’t ready to fight a child over a senseless argument, then don’t tell me you love sports. We don’t believe you, you need more people.

UGH, IT’S A METAPHOR. (Deutschland über us.)

Mark-Eduard Orth is a German business school professor and he has, as I do, some strong opinions about ice cream. According to his latest op-ed in Die Zeit, there is something fishy going on at the Eiscafés in the criminally idyllic college town of Tübingen — and not just that the German word for ice cream is the same as the German word for ice, which causes all manner of confusion vis-à-vis coffee drinks and alcohol drinks: Eiskaffee is coffee with ice cream in it, and not iced coffee, but Sekt auf Eis is champagne with an ice cube in it, and not, unfortunately, a champagne float.

No, what plagues Tübingen’s ice cream consumers — a.k.a. everyone, as I believe there is a federal law that stipulates all Germans eat at least one ice-cream cone per day during the summer — is far more sinister than linguistic ambiguity. IT’S PRICE-FIXING. Did you ever notice, wonders Orth, that at every Eis shop in town, the delicious wares go for between 1,20 and 1,50 EUR per scoop????

It’s because of SHENANIGANS, Freunde, thanks to the, and I quote, “powerful Tübingen ice-cream cartel,” a.k.a. the unspoken (or spoken but impossible to prove) agreement between them all not to raise prices higher than 1,50 EUR or lower them lower than 1,20 EUR per scoop. Apparently, these waffle-cone Tony Sopranos are simply joining their equally corrupt brethren in the Bavarian Christmas market racket, where unsuspecting outdoor-winter drunkards can also find suspiciously consistent prices across stall purveyors of Glühwein (GLUE-vine, or hot alcoholic punch in a ridiculous souvenir mug that results in an even worse hangover than I imagine a champagne float would).

This might seem convenient — Hey, I just scrounged together all of my small change and I 100 percent know I can now purchase a double scoop anywhere in this fine city, since Germans love paying for shit with coins! But it’s actually bad, because don’t you remember Ryan Phillippe in Antitrust?

Fine, fine; as Orth describes it, the Tübingen ice-cream cartel is detrimental to competition, the German word for which is Wettbewerb (VET-buh-VAIRB), which comes from the verbs wetten, or to gamble, and bewerben, to apply (for something). So when German businesses engage in the VERY IMPORTANT act of the free market which shall rule and save us all, they are essentially applying for the privilege of uncertainty. And who’d want to do that, if you could be the Kaiser of Ice-Cream instead?

Especially if, as Orth reveals, nobody could really stop you.

For, despite Germany being a geographical Montana and a populatory two Californias, there is both a federal government, the Bundesregierung (BOOND-us-reh-GEAR-ung) and multiple states, or Länder (LEND-ur), each of which has their own government. Orth’s beef — indeed, the entire purpose of this particular magnum opus of journalistic Geschäftsdeutsch (guh-SHEFTS-doytsh, or Business German) — is that many of the states’ Kartellbehörden (car-TELL-be-HEEEEEEER-dun), or antitrust offices, are poorly staffed and inconsistent in their regulatory priorities. This is especially the case in Baden-Württemberg, which is currently buckling under the scoop-shaped fist of the Tübingen Ice Cream Cartel.

If this still doesn’t seem too bad, that’s because YOU HAVEN’T FIGURED OUT THAT HE IS SPEAKING IN METAPHOR. “Antitrust law ensures more competition, and competition ensures lower prices and larger scoops, better ice cream or more varieties,” he explains.

God dammit. This isn’t really about ice cream, is it?

Now, Orth’s call for more government regulation of capitalistic competition (something definitely not a concern over here in the motherland of capitalistic competition; I’m not freaking out, YOU’RE freaking out) should appear eminently reasonable even to the Atlas Shrugged set. But it’s also indicative of one of the largest cultural differences between the leaders of the free world and us.

What I mean is: Because Germans are in love with rules and want to marry them, their baseline feeling about the role of government regulation is that it’s a default force for good that should be used in moderation, which is the only way that Germans know how to use anything.

I, on the other hand, just ate an entire sleeve of these evil IKEA cookies while researching the next part of this post, because I am an American, and I have no self-control, and (unrelatedly) my culture tends to view government regulation of everyday life from a baseline level of OH HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT’S TYRANNY WHERE ARE MY BOTTOMLESS BEVERAGE AND GUN. That is why my fellow beverage/firearm enthusiasts and I find it absolutely shocking that, for example, Germans regulate the hell out of what they name their kids.

There is, first of all, a literal actual list of allowed German first names (or Vornamen, FOR-nom-un), maintained by every locality’s Standesamt (SHTON-dus-omt), or civil registry office, which they consult when you submit, for official permission, the name you’d like to give your child. Granted, the current selection of allowables is far more extensive and permissive than, say, its 1938 version, which had a short list for Aryans and another for Jews — but still, pretty much every fellow parent I know would currently be a lawbreaker in Germany.

Among the multitudinous rules that would obliterate basically the entirety of my kid’s storytime crowd? All German first names must be “recognizable as a first name” (ya burnt, Braxleigh); they can’t be anything too easily mocked or associated with “evil,” such as Judas or Cain — curiously, Adolf is still allowed (though for some reason, its use became statistically insignificant around 1951). German first names can’t offend the religious sensibilities of others — so, no “Christus,” though in some situations “Jesus” is now allowed, so long as it’s the Spanish pronunciation. And, until 2008, all names had to be gendered: A girl had to get a weiblich (VIBE-lick), or “feminine” name; a boy’s had to be männlich, or “masculine.” Nowadays, thanks to the brave parents of a child named “Kiran,” German names may also be gender neutral. However, if you want to name a boy Helga (a “girl’s name”) or a girl Helge (a “boy’s name,” pronounced almost identically), you’ve still got to appeal.

There’s more: No brand names (I feel like this is a direct commentary about America, do you?); no last names as first names (okay, it DEFINITELY is); no titles (like Lord or Darth); a first name can’t be copyrighted. If the name you submit is rejected by the registrar’s office, you can submit the aforementioned appeal. Some win (Emily-Extra, Galaxina and Jazz are now all students in some fortunate Kindergarten somewhere); others lose (sorry Hemingway, Tom Tom and Woodstock). All of the regulations, however, are in place for the same reason, a very practical one you’d expect Germans to have: to protect people from mockery as kids, and adverse professional treatment as adults.

Well, this is pretty bad news for me. I imagine my daughter, Archduke Madison H. Christ for New Balance™, is going to be really ostracized in her new German Kindergarten that she’ll be starting in the fall, given that I should probably get the holy fuck out of this country immediately, and move to a place whose relentless ginormous government has no active immediate plans to totalitarianize itself.

Until then, like the rest of us, I’ll be dining on a steady diet of my feelings, in the form of ice cream — if the free market will allow it.

Of sorts.

by Liana Finck