Trader Joe’s “Fearless Flyer,” June 2017

June’s edition of “Fearless Flyer” (further confusing the issue of this newsletter’s publishing schedule, but WHATEVER) came last week and I forgot to write about it on Friday because summer. What does summer mean in Trader Joe’s land? Mangoes, obviously. Which frankly, I don’t even really believe has traditionally always been summer since they seem to sort of just roll with ingredients thematically whenever they want. I suppose it’s theoretically (the end of?) mango season somewhere right now, but then again I don’t know where TJ’s sources its mangoes, so that’s vaguely moot. But the mango theme is implicit, not explicit. Nowhere is there an overarching thing that’s like “Ahh, mangoes,” and neither is there a single “drupe” joke. Tsk tsk.

Anyway this FF is a large-format 4-page pamphlet that folds in half once kind of like a newspaper. I couldn’t possibly tell you whether it’s CMYK or RGB but I can tell you that it has a watercolor wash and is one of the most colorful/lively looking issues I’ve seen yet. The folios leave something to be desired:

My questions for this month’s edition fall into five broad categories:

• What’s going on with this section header?
• What’s going on with this sentence?
• What’s going on with this illustration.
• What’s going on with this typesetting?
• Generally, what the hell?

Let’s start with the headers.

Here are some, but not all of them:

THE TASTE OF REFRESHMENT (watermelon and lemonade)
BARE THE SUMMER WISELY (shaving cream and sunscreen)
NOW MATCHA (matcha items)
GRILL ED. (“Whether ’tis nobler in the heat to cook the burgers and dogs”)
CONDIMENTALLY (guess)
THE SALADDISH DAYS (???)
DESSERT ED. ISLAND (mango ice cream, etc.)

Is there a theme? No. Do they sometimes make sense? Sure. But what is the saladdish days? Is that a reference I’m supposed to know? Or does it just mean like, “items that could go in around or near salads, like greens, ravioli, cauliflower pizza crust, and quinoa cowboy burgers? I don’t know. But in this section I cam—OH HANG ON I JUST GOT THE DESERT ISLAND “JOKE”—sorry, I came across what I thought was going to be the shortest most efficient listing of all time. It was only six lines long and mainly a list of vegetables. Was it possible to write a Fearless Flyer blurb without making an extremely cheesy (like FONTINA cheesy) joke? Nope. Let’s take a closer look on a sentence level.

This sentence—why?

Super greens! Vegetable, nut, legume, cheese, more leafy vegetables. Everything seems fine here! Oh wait no the avocado dressing complements the salad, just like the price complements you!!

How about this one, on Unsweetened Matcha Green Tea: “It’s best served chilled, but it’s your can to do with what you please.” What? It never even CROSSED MY MIND to shove the can under my armpit to cool down but now I’m totally going to do that!

TJ claims its Organic Cole Slaw can be combined with Sweet & Spicy (you guessed it) Mango Vinaigrette… “or with any other dressing that suits your mood. The price is a mood lifter, $1.99 for a nine ounce package.” I can’t even talk about the lack of hyphens or the inconsistency for numerals anymore, but can someone clarify for me what the dressing is for a low mood that needs to be lifted by thrift? Like maybe some really dark squid ink Caesar dressing?

OK last one before we move on to illustrations: Apparently this is a physics joke, and something something Isaac Newton:

Would a seventeenth-century Englishman not be appalled by that price? He would be like, “What the bloody hell is a dollar and please stop eating my apple.”

Some illustrations to think about:

What happened type-wise?

I’m not going to point them all out to you but there are a lot of errant spaces as well as missing spaces. Please just trust me on this one and DM me if you need proof.

Generally speaking, what??????????

And now the piece de resistance, this edition of Fearless Flyer’s motto is…

we dive in deep and keep it light

I will have to get back to you on what Volume 6.5 could possibly mean. In the meantime, have a great summer and sorry for those of you with mango allergies!!!

Guatemala Diaries, Part II

The airport in Guatemala City has very low ceilings and a lot of non-structurally relevant metal tubing. It does not have a bank machine, at least not one that we could see. I said I could exchange some dollars, but M. was worried about the rate. M. really likes to save money, whereas I prefer to throw money in a blender and watch it spin around. M.’s sister, Alexis, was waiting for us when we cleared immigration.

“I thought you were already in Flores,” M. said, and she explained that she and her boyfriend had flown all the way there and all the way back because it was too stormy to land.

“I didn’t even know you could fly there,” I said, giving M. a dark look. Our plan was to take a bus there the next day.

M. had forgotten to tell Alexis I was coming, and even though I know she likes me, she greeted me with an amount of enthusiasm and surprise more appropriate to running into someone at the Grass Valley Safeway. M. and his family members seem to have collectively skipped the briefing on Effusiveness Appropriate to Greetings and Farewells. I have been good friends with M. for four years now and he has never said anything to me like, “I’m so glad you came” or even “Hey, how are you?” I find this refreshing at times. Other times, like when I ask him a question and he simply doesn’t answer (His unofficial motto: “Just because BULLSHIT SOCIETY tells you you’re supposed to act a certain way doesn’t mean you have to!”) it can be frustrating.

Avianca Airlines was putting Alexis and her boyfriend up in a hotel nearby called El Conquistador.

“Maybe we can just sneak in with your group,” M. said, his eyes positively glittering with the thought of two employed adults saving $100 by way of a really stressful lie. Alexis groaned and looked at me imploringly.

“Oh my God, that is going to make me so uncomfortable,” she said.

“Ok,” M. said, bargaining. “Maybe we’ll just hitch a ride on the van to the hotel.” Alexis was still looking at me.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If we decide to go there, we’ll just take our own taxi.” At this moment, right behind us, another Avianca passenger asked an Avianca employee about the hotel.

“The hotel is cuatro estrellas,” the Avianca lady said. M.’s eyes flew open.

“Cuatro estrellas!” he exclaimed. He doesn’t speak Spanish very well but over the course of our trip I was to discover that he caught on very quickly to expressions concerning non-thrift.

“I bet it’s like, 75 bucks,” I said. I might as well have said it was $75,000. We found a taxi. “Let’s just make sure we take the good bus to Flores tomorrow,” I said. “You’re lucky I’m not making you fly.”

“Come on, you don’t want to take a real authentic Guatemalan bus?”

“I crossed ‘Take shitty bus in Latin America’ off my bucket list many years ago,” I said, and turned my attention to the window. After eight hours of travel it was heaven to be in a taxi speeding down an empty rain-soaked Guatemala City boulevard. We passed a hulking windowless university, a statue of a general, obscure to history but undisputed top dog of his traffic circle, and blocks and blocks of two-story cement block stores. The occasional colonial-style building gussied up a corner as it also faded and died before our eyes. A few motorcycles passed us, and then a few more, and then we were alone.

I told M. I didn’t mind that we were about to stay in a hotel that wasn’t that nice as long as it wasn’t dirty and didn’t feel dangerous. “I am aware that some things that feel dangerous aren’t actually dangerous but in addition to things not being dangerous I also don’t want things to feel dangerous,” I said.

As we got closer to the city center we explained to the driver that we we were going to Flores on a bus in the morning and wanted a hotel in Zona 17, near the bus station. He explained to us that there were no hotels in Zona 17 and we said, “Fine, near-ish” and he said there were no hotels nearish either and we said “Ok just sort of close to there then,” but apparently that wasn’t a thing either. But there were lots of hotels in Zona 1. “If you’re going to Flores,” he said, “There’s a bus station in Zona 1 that also has buses to Flores.”

“Oh, great,” M. said. But I said, “Doesn’t the fancy bus leave from the Zona 17 bus station?”

“That’s what the guidebook said, but the guidebook is wrong a lot,” M. said. “And it would be cool if we just stayed in Zone 1 and the bus was right there.”

“But it’s not,” I said. “I don’t think they would get something like that wrong.”

“The guidebook is really wrong all the time,” M. said.

I agreed to stay in Zona 1 — because it seemed like we had to — but we had to go to get the bus in Zona 17 in the morning. “I will not be tricked into the bad bus,” I said.

“I’m not trying to trick you into anything,” M. said.

The taxi driver stopped in the middle of a dark, quiet block. “This is where the bus for Flores leaves from,” he said. “And there’s a hotel right across the street.” To our right was an empty walled-in parking lot. To our left was a building with a lot of bars on it and a neon sign that said “Hotel.” I also think I thought I saw hookers but my brain might have inserted them into the space. “Un poco mejor,” I said. “Just a little bit un poco mejor.”

We ended up in a depressing but totally acceptable cave of a room with pea-green dishtowely things for curtains in the tiny windows that looked out on walls and a showerhead sprouting weird white cords that I hoped were not electrical although are there even other kinds of cords. It was probably $20 less than the Conquistador where, in an alternate universe, I was already chugging a beer in the shower. But it was clean and the door locked. I bought a beer. The lady overcharged me. I didn’t care at all but M. talked about it for days. I took a shower. It was cold. I didn’t care. We slept.

In the morning, we found a bank machine and ate a meal of chicken thighs and tortillas that we would eat again for dinner. People were selling sunglasses and batteries and clothing and it seemed like it was a business district but just people business, not finance business.

“I’m so happy to be out of Nevada City right now that the streets could be lined with heads mounted on stakes and I’d be happy,” M. said. “Maybe we should just walk by that bus station and see what the deal is.”

I have spent many months of my life in Latin America and felt both weary and smug. It was very annoying to me that M. was not trusting me as an expert when I am practically from here. “Trust me,” I said. “There’s no way the nice bus leaves from that station.”

“Maybe we should just ask,” he repeated when we passed it.

The “station” was still empty. Two men, both workers in green shirts and baseball hats, swept dirt. I imagined grilling them like a dipshit, “Dónde está el FANCY BUS???”

“Look,” I said, “I think if the book says we should go to Zona 17, we should go to Zona 17. Also, I know you’re just hoping those guys will be like “Oh, yes, the bus leaves from Zona 1” and then you’ll try to convince me we should just take that bus because it’s right here and why should we take this long taxi ride from Zona 1 to Zona 17 when there’s just a bus right here. It says in the guide book that the good bus leaves from Zona 17 so, I mean, I am pretty sure the bus leaves from Zona 17.”

M. just nodded. “Dear Diary,” he said. “Today I learned a new Spanish word. Zona.”

In the end, we packed up and took a taxi to Zona 17, about forty minutes away down a long boulevard just like the one we were on the night before. In the distance were a few big houses, their roofs glinting through the foliage. I was encouraged by the relative proximity of wealth, because it meant we were getting closer to My Fancy Bus.

We pulled up in front of a building with a lot of buses out front — very encouraging. Some of them were the kind of bus I had in mind, gleaming things with primary color logos, rounded edges, thrillingly pod-like. Others were just normal, shoeboxy buses. We walked through a mall selling sandals, Hello Kitty wallets and Pikachu backpacks. We came to an information booth. I asked the woman where we would find the Linea Dorada bus company. She shook her head. “Linea Dorada doesn’t leave from here,” she said.

“We are going to Flores,” I said, thinking she had just misunderstood me.

She pointed at a dingy storefront. “That is the company goes to Flores.”

“El único?” I said with telenovelic horror.

She nodded. “El único. Linea Dorada salen de la Zona 1.”

Fourteen million people live in Guatemala, and between Guatemala City and Flores, our driver stopped to chat with most of them. We also stopped for the peanut guy, the water guy, the fruit guy, the gum and candy lady, and the empanada lady, a lady — the less said about this the better — who really knows how to insert herself into your day. The bus ride was supposed to be eight hours, but it was twelve.

Somewhere around hour seven I was digging in my previously nice leather tote for my phone and discovered that the bottom of my bag was wet. I thought it was water but in fact, it was urine. And no — I did not pee on my own bag. “Oh, well,” an optimist might say here. “At least you got to see Guatemala!” But that optimist would be wrong, because the windows of this bus — all of them — had been covered over — on purpose — with a sort of white film. I don’t know if that white film was for privacy, or to keep out the sun, but, as white films tend to be, it was not transparent. So I traversed the entire, picturesque country of Guatemala, for the first and last time, without seeing any of it.

For M., misery and authenticity are, in the context of travel, indistinguishable. He sat next to me reading “Ten Greek Plays,” smiling the Buddhist half-smile of a man who has gotten exactly what what he wants without even trying.

Part One:

Just Get On A Plane And Go

From Lemony Snicket to Agatha Christie

“It is very useful, when one is young, to learn the difference between ‘literally’ and figuratively.’ If something happens literally, it actually happens; if something happens figuratively, it feels like it’s happening. If you are literally jumping for joy, for instance, it means you are leaping in the air because you are very happy. If you are figuratively jumping for joy, it means you are so happy that you could jump for joy, but you are saving your energy for other matters.”

This passage comes from Lemony Snicket’s The Bad Beginning, the first book of A Series of Unfortunate Events, a series that had a major influence on my life, partly because of the dark sense of humor and partly because of all the words these books taught me, especially “literally.”

I became a huge fan of Snicket’s voice, and I started narrating my life in my head in a similar fashion. “She scrunched her nose after drinking a can of pop that was especially effervescent, a word here means giving off bubbles, or fizzy,” I thought when I was drinking a can of Sprite shortly after learning the word “effervescent,” a pretentious-sounding word that I almost never use. Or, “After running a mile in P.E. class, she felt like she was dying. She was only figuratively dying, as she was only exhausted from running and struggling to catch her breath, but after some rest, she will be fine. But she is also literally dying, as we are all moving closer to our deaths every moment.” You get the point.

An omniscient narrator can be just as important as the characters in a book, movie or TV series. In A Series of Unfortunate Events, Snicket is indirectly involved in the lives of the main characters, the Baudelaire orphans, constantly reminding us that it’s his “solemn duty” to record the events of their lives. He frequently explains words, phrases and literary devices and often foreshadows future events. For example, when he introduces the oldest girl, Violet, in The Bad Beginning, he frequently references the fact that he is right-handed. Take note, because that is important later in the book. He even talks about his personal life, such as his love for Beatrice, the mother of the Baudelaires. His cynical and satirical voice makes A Series of Unfortunate Events impossible to slam shut, even though he constantly tells you to put the book down now.

I picture Snicket’s voice in my head when I have to deal with mildly unfortunate situations. I over-explain the situation to myself in my head, mentally defining words and describing any person I run into. This voice adds humor, and even when bad things happen, I can find the irony and silver lining of the situation. I hope my life is never as unfortunate as the Baudelaire orphans, but the omniscient narrator with a wicked dark sense of humor helps me deal with the absurd events in my life.

The Latin Lover narrator in “Jane the Virgin” is another narrator who I’ve wished could narrate my life. He adds commentary that makes the series almost impossible not to binge-watch. My life is nowhere near as dramatic as Jane’s. My love life is either pretty stable or nonexistent, and as far as I know, I’m not connected to any murders or drug lords in any way.

Based on a telenovela, “Jane the Virgin” imitates the soap opera of the drama that comes with love, murder and passion, but the narrator brings a lot of humor to the show. Even though we never actually see him, he is likely the sexiest person in the series. Keeping track of who’s dating who, who broke up with who, who murdered who can be pretty complicated, but fortunately, the narrator helps us catch up in the recap. He explains each character and what connection he has to others on the show. He’s like the friend who knows all the secrets, like Gretchen Weiner who has secrets up her hair.

This type of voice is best when there’s tons of drama and lots of characters involved. It’s like listening to the wild dating lives of people around you and trying to keep track of them, pretending to sympathize with your friends when they breakup with their partners but secretly relishing in listening to all the gossip and venting. This narrator knows exactly where the connections are and which thread goes to which pin on the map. What’s more, this narrator can read minds, a telepathic gift that I could only have in my wildest dreams.

There’s a third type of narrator, the one I hope to never have. It’s the unreliable narrator, one whose credibility has been seriously compromised. The narrator may be lying to you, may be delusional, or completely twist the ending. When that twist happens, it’s like having a carpet pulled under you. You fall to the ground and see the room from a new perspective, and as you look up to the ceiling, you wonder, What just happened? You have to rethink about your point of view and look for clues in the story about what really happened.

Agatha Christie uses the unreliable narrator in some of her novels, although for the sake of not spoiling her mysteries, I’m not going to name which ones. Gone Girl is another recent example, where the actions of Amy, the supposedly dead wife, has spawned think pieces about whether Gone Girl is a feminist or misogynist statement.

According to author William Riggan, there are five types of unreliable narrators. There’s the pícaros, who are unreliable because of how they exaggerate facts and brag about the events of their lives. There’s the madman, who may suffer from severe mental illness or suffer from the effects of trauma. Then there’s the clown, who you can’t take seriously, and the naïf, who is immature and naive and doesn’t fully understand the ways of the world. Finally, there’s the liar, who purposely misleads you and distorts information.

I hope to never be an unreliable narrator. But even I fall short of being a reliable narrator for my own life. I make up scenarios in my head for what could have happened instead of that awkward interaction I had with an acquaintance today. I giggle at the most mundane sentences. And I lie to myself, telling myself that I’ll be OK, that I made the right choice — or that I didn’t.

Our memories are shaped by how we frame them. We remember certain images, and forget others. We agonize over the most embarrassing situations, rewinding them in our heads over and over again. When we laugh with friends or fall in love, these memories glow in our minds. We narrate and frame our own stories in our head. Sometimes we’re cynical, sometimes we’re dramatic, and sometimes we’re unreliable. For different moments in my life, I will play a different narrator’s voice in my head. Perhaps I’ll be entangled in a telenovela-like romantic knot this year and play up the dramatic narration, but for now, I’m going to save my energy for other matters.

Rosalie Chan is a writer and software engineer. Her work has appeared in TIME, Inverse, Racked, Narratively and more.

And other answers to questions you didn’t ask.

“I’m going through Writers’ Block. I think it’s because of current affairs. What can I do?” — Wordless Woody

I once owed 3 minimum-length-3-page papers for 6 years. Back in the early ’90s, our worst political problem was not getting Hillarycare passed. They seriously used to call it that, you can look it up. It wasn’t like I was crushed by the stifling pressure of an oppressive regime. It was more that I was lazy and depressed, listening to the grunge music we kids liked back then and unmotivated to write about Piers Plowman. I had only taken a course on that Medieval Dream Vision because I thought a cute woman was taking it, too. When it turned out she wasn’t, I sulked. I drifted in and out of love with Piers Plowman and got an incomplete for not handing in the papers. I forgot about that class until it was offered again 4 years later. I still didn’t do any of the papers; my incompletes would have continued on into eternity. Except I had an epiphany: I could have used a lot more of those.

It didn’t occur to me, in all the time I spent avoiding doing 3 papers on Piers Plowman, that the papers didn’t have to be any good. It suddenly struck me, when my little brother alerted me that he was going to graduate from college before me and that I’d had a 4-year head start on him, that I could write crappy papers. That I should go all 5th Act Hamlet. Not in the murder way, just the motivated action stuff. I did a bunch of French labs that I’d put off for 4 years. I wrote three crappy papers that got C’s. And I graduated from college.

You might rather not write than write poorly. That is certainly your right. I’m more offended by the opposite, when people crank out crap constantly and easily. Writing isn’t fun. Not-writing-when-you’re-supposed-to-be-writing is fun. If you write for a living and can’t write, quit your job and get a team of sled dogs. Or get a job on a boat. That stuff worked for Jack London, and he was really good about making dogs’ lives seem interesting. Or take benzedrine. That worked pretty well for lots of writers for a while.

I’m having problems writing poems right now, probably because I don’t want to write haikus about covfefe. There was always sinister background noise in my poems. A dread that something bad was about to happen. Now we all experience that feeling every morning, just reading Twitter. If I skip my “Bad Trump Poem” phase, will I be ready for my “Bad President Bernie Poem” phase? Walt Whitman wrote tons of his most famous poems when Andrew Johnson was President. And that guy used to be the worst President ever. And you don’t see Uncle Walt yawping into his beard. His molecules were still everyone’s molecules.

Writers, in general, are lazy and whiny. Anyone who writes for a living and complains about it should have to work at a grocery store for the rest of their life. Trying to remember the code for lemons. Is it 4911? Or is that limes? Working at a grocery store is a real job. Writing is a pretend job people somehow get paid for. Write badly! Some editor will probably fix it! Now that’s a real job, dealing with whiny writers! What a thankless drunk kitten rodeo that is!

So just write badly. The only one who can probably tell the difference is you, and you’re gonna drink about it anyway. Writer’s block may keep you from making hot takes on “Orange is the New Black” but there will always be some other, hotter take down the road. Killing Piper off would be the best thing to ever happen to that show. And making Taystee the main character.

If The Trump Administration is freaking you out, you will not be prepared for the Pence Administration whatsoever. You’ll have to start calling your wife “Mother.” It will be the law. Also vaginas will be abolished, somehow. So that will be seriously weird. You have my permission, writers! Write badly! Until people stop reading completely. And enjoy the not-writing while it lasts. You watch the empty page openly mock you with its emptiness. It’s like watching the new “Twin Peaks!”

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

A cartoon

by Liana Finck

Once more unto, over and over.

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. [Via]

★★★ The driveway was filled with sun through the suddenly bare bones of the scaffolding there. Gradually the quality of the light got worse. The air was damp and oceany, with a breeze from the east. Screeches rose from the birds in their street-corner peaceable-kingdom tableau, crowded in with the cat and the small mammals. Bright ripples like woodgrain spread across the clouds in the west, where they were beginning to pull apart. The timing was exactly right for the sunset, one color after another spilling up to soak into the clouds. The sequence went on and on, so extended that even as the main sky darkened, the last of the reds—a deep brick one—found an angle on a tower to the north that allowed it to reach down over the top of the apartment slab in its way.

JARED is dreaming he is competing in a qualifying round of “American Ninja Warrior.” Even though he is horrible at the obstacle course, and the slowest entry in his bracket, by far, the CROWD is cheering. They’re seated on metal bleachers and stomping their feet. JARED has never attended a high school football game, or a track meet, but his subconscious recreates the energy fairly accurately. He is about to begin the event where the ninjas use their entire core to traverse a fake moat via one movable monkey bar. JARED falls into the fake moat the second he begins. Instead of water, the fake moat is full of Happy Meal toys from his childhood.

JARED [screaming while chucking a plastic Chicken McNugget wearing a marching band costume]: Can someone please help me?

PRESIDENT OBAMA [appearing suddenly, and pointing at individual members of the CROWD]: It’s in my rider. It was Bono’s idea to have a rider in place everywhere I go.

JARED [chucking a plastic French fries Transformer at the audience]: To fill the moat with Happy Meal toys? These fucking hurt to land on.

PRESIDENT OBAMA [leading from behind]: No, to fill the bleachers with enough fans that I could pretend I was one of the Friday Night Lights football players. [PRESIDENT OBAMA stretches out his hand to rescue JARED.] I’m only here because I wanted to finally meet someone who voted for me twice and then Trump.

JARED looks down, sheepishly, at the toys.

PRESIDENT OBAMA [community organizing]: What? You don’t vote?

JARED [petting a rooster Beanie Baby]: I voted for Mitt Romney and then Hillary. I voted for you the first time though.

PRESIDENT OBAMA [shaking his head wistfully]: Mitt Romney. Life was so simple four years ago.

THE CROWD [adoringly]: President Obama, say something to us!

PRESIDENT OBAMA [shrugging to JARED]: Bridesmaids was the best comedy of my Presidency and it’s not even close!

The CROWD boos because they are misogynists.

PRESIDENT OBAMA [channeling his second term and especially his final two years as President]: Please at me about this statement. Please. I would love if you all atted me.

JARED [petting a raccoon Beanie Baby]: Why are you here?

PRESIDENT OBAMA: To tell you that if you want to save your father-in-law’s presidency, you must stop Jim Comey from testifying.

JARED stares at the CROWD but he is looking through them and thinking about how before his father-in-law, large groups of goyim terrified him.

PRESIDENT OBAMA [in retirement mode]: I’m also training for a triathlon and I want to win my age bracket. [PRESIDENT OBAMA flexes and the CROWD cheers wildly.] Your brother is doing it with me. We’re doing one in New Mexico later this summer. [PRESIDENT OBAMA explains to someone in the CROWD, who’s broken past security for an autograph, that it’s hot there, but it’s a dry heat.]

JARED [defeatedly]: My brother, Josh?

PRESIDENT OBAMA [smiling proudly]: Yes, we are blood brothers now. [PRESIDENT OBAMA shows his pinky finger, bandaged where CHARLIE KUSHNER wears a ring, to JARED. The ball pit of Happy Meal toys transforms into water. JARED wakes up to STEVE BANNON putting his hand in a bowl of lukewarm water. JARED has also wet himself.]

STEVE BANNON [spitballing with a straw wrapper, but JARED doesn’t see a Happy Meal anywhere]: You were dreaming, dolt.

JARED [stretching and then pulling on his cool windbreaker]: I have to go do something.

IVANKA [reclining on her fainting couch, which is floating because JARED is still dreaming]: Jared, change your underpants before you go outside. [IVANKA scrolls through her phone.] In fact, change them even if you don’t go outside.

JARED exits and walks aimlessly to a Patagonia store where JAMES COMEY is talking calmly into his phone.

JAMES COMEY [plain-spokenly]: James. Comey.

JARED pushes JAMES COMEY. It’s not aggressive whatsoever, even though that’s what JARED intends.

JAMES COMEY [patiently to his customer service representative]: No.

JARED pushes JAMES COMEY again. This time, even less aggressively. He barely touches the former FBI Director.

JAMES COMEY [calmly to JARED]: No.

JARED complies and leans on a pile of fleece jackets.

JAMES COMEY [into his phone]: Yes. 1960.

JARED tries on a fleece jacket and poses in front of the mirror. He mimes to a SALES CLERK that he needs help.

JAMES COMEY [raising his voice ever so slightly]: Six. Zero. [JAMES COMEY cups his phone and addresses JARED and the SALES CLERK.] I’m paying a bill. I’ve had such a busy — you know. [JAMES COMEY returns to his call.] Thank you, sir. I will print that for my records as soon as I find a Kinko’s.

SALES CLERK [referring to JARED]: He wants to know if you’re done.

JAMES COMEY [competently]: Yes, yes. How can I help you? [JAMES COMEY begins dialing.] Before you answer that, I need to call my friend who is a law professor at Columbia and ask him to record this conversation.

JARED knocks the phone from JAMES COMEY’s hand.

JAMES COMEY [making eye contact with the SALES CLERK]: He can’t fight me. I’m somehow 6’8”.

JARED [lying]: I’m 6’4”.

JAMES COMEY [patriotically]: That was Abraham Lincoln’s height. You’re not the height of the greatest American.

JARED [course correcting]: Six feet.

JAMES COMEY [sassily]: Warren G. Harding’s height. Yes, that is more likely.

JARED [desperately]: Why did you send out the letter a week before the election?

JAMES COMEY [nudgingly]: Is that really what you want to know? My best friend Robert Mueller is investigating you and your father-in-law for many crimes.

JARED [correctly]: I mean, I know why you’re doing that. But the letter. Why?

JAMES COMEY [sighing]: Honestly, I don’t know.

JARED [cleverly, for JARED]: You promised my father-in-law honest loyalty.

JAMES COMEY [sensibly]: I don’t know how to make an adverb out of that.

JARED [panicking]: So what then?

JAMES COMEY [stooping down so that he can make direct eye contact with JARED]: There is no movie. There’s no Mekhi Phifer.

JARED [resignedly]: This is my life now.

JARED wakes up, for real this time, to STEVE BANNON blasting his running mix. It’s Eminem’s Lose Yourself twenty times in a row, and then some power pop ballads. IVANKA is thanking STEVE BANNON for helping her with JARED, again, and then handing him an envelope, stamped with the State Department’s insignia, full of cash that he will launder via REBEKAH MERCER back channels.

IVANKA [nastily]: Sweet Prince, you had a dream within a dream again.

JARED turns on three of his flat screen televisions. It’s wall-to-wall COMEY coverage. IVANKA dumps a box of Happy Meal toys onto JARED.

JARED [pointing to the screens]: This already happened?

IVANKA [powerfully]: Your mother sent us this box of toys. Please return to sender. We aren’t the Goodwill.

A married couple has an argument by proxy

Husband: OK Google, what time does the Knicks game start tonight?

Google: The New York Knicks will be playing the Charlotte Hornets tonight at 7:00 p.m.

Wife: OK Google, play Regina Spektor.

Google: Sure, here’s Regina Spektor on Spotify.

Husband: OK Google, stop!

Husband: OK Google, play Mumford and Sons.

Google: All right, playing Mumford and Sons on Spotify.

Wife: OK Google, play age-appropriate music for a middle-aged man.

Google: I am sorry, I don’t know how to play that.

Husband: OK Google, play music that isn’t also playing at a Starbucks right now.

Google: I am sorry, I don’t know how to play that.

Wife: OK Google, what are the typical terms of the, “I cook, YOU clean” rule?

Google: I’m not sure how to help with that.

Husband: OK Google, why would someone buy several large kitchen appliances and never use them?

Google: Sorry, I’m not sure how to help with that yet.

Wife: OK Google, how many days can dishes sit in the sink before they mold?

Google: I’m not sure how to help with that yet, but my team is helping me learn.

Husband: OK Google, what is the line between clutter and hoarding?

Google: Sorry, I’m not sure how to help with that, but I’m learning more everyday.

Wife: OK Google, set alarm for 7:43 a.m.

Google: All right, your alarm is set for tomorrow at 7:43 a.m.

Husband: OK Google, what is OCD?

Google: According to Mayo Clinic: excessive thoughts, obsessions that lead to repetitive behaviors. Compulsions.

Wife: OK Google, set a second alarm for 8:03 a.m. and then another 13 minutes after that.

Google: All right, your alarm is set for tomorrow at 8:03 am.

Husband: OK Google, what are the negative effects of staring at a computer screen right before bed?

Google: Sorry, I don’t know how to help with that yet.

Wife: OK Google, shut off the TV as soon as the Knicks game ends!

Google: Sorry. Power Control is not yet supported.

Husband: OK Google, was Facebook made to make people sad and angry?

Google: Sorry, I don’t know how to help with that yet.

Wife: OK Google, what is Sleep deprivation?

Google: Sleep deprivation: the situation or condition of suffering from a lack of sleep.

Husband: OK Google, where can one typically find the toothpaste?

Google: Sorry, I can’t help with that yet.

Wife: OK Google, what is the best way to remove beard hair shavings and “ball drying” powder embedded into the toilet seat?

Google: It’s hard to say.

Husband: OK Google, sorry, WHERE is the toothpaste?

Google: Sorry, I don’t know how to help with that.

Wife: OK Google, are you kidding me, right where you f-ing left it!!!!

Google: My apologies, I don’t understand.

Husband: OK Google, what is the most effective mood stabilizer according to current research?

Google: Sorry, I don’t understand.

Wife: OK Google, what are ATTRACTIVE solutions for snorers or sufferers of sleep apnea?

Google: Sorry, I don’t know how to help with that yet.

Husband: OK Google, how often do average couples have sex?

Google: According to Everyday Family and David Schnarch, Ph.D., through a study conducted with more than 20,000 couples, he found that only 26% of couples are hitting the once-a-week mark, with the majority of the respondents reporting sex only once or twice a month, or less.

Husband: OK Google, shut up!

Google: Not talking. Starting Now.

Wife: OK Google, what kind of a man tells his partner he will make time to babysit so she can pursue her dreams and then just totally fucking doesn’t?

Google: Sorry I don’t understand.

Husband: OK Google, is there a term to describe a woman who gives the impression that she is passionate and sexual when the future of the relationship is uncertain and then dries up like brittle aged balsa wood when obstacles to lasting intimacy are removed?

Google: Sorry, I don’t know how to help with that yet.

Wife: OK Google, when are you going to get your driver’s license! You’re a 45 year old man-child!

Google: I don’t understand!

Husband: OK Google, what was Aunt Bernice’s advice to us on our wedding day about going to bed angry?

Google: My apologies, I don’t understand.

Wife: OK Google, PLEASE! What is a cliché?

Google: Cliché: a phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.

Husband: OK Google, what’s the sound of a man’s soul slowly dying?

Google: Sorry I’m not sure how to help with that, but I’m learning more everyday.

Wife: OK Google, play “How To Disappear Completely” by Radiohead.

Google: All right, playing “How To Disappear Completely” on Spotify.

Husband: OK Google, play…

Wife: No, stop.

Husband: OK Google…

Wife: NO, I’m serious, stop. OK Google, STOP! STOP! STOOOOOPPP!

Joanne Solomon is a writer/performer living in New York. She performs with the Moth and 5th Wall Studio. She is currently writing a memoir about her years as an aerialist in De La Guarda, the off-Broadway, immersive theatrical experience from Argentina.

★★★★ The clouds kept the sunlight mild and patchy, like the dappled shade of the trees on a larger scale. In one of the brighter, more inviting moments, it was possible to forget a jacket before going outside, only to end up with goosebumps. Just past five o’clock, the sky was split confoundingly between darkening piles of clouds in the west and innocuous blue in the east. Those thick mounds of clouds were what gave way, sending light rushing up the avenue. In the newly clear evening, the people on the deck across the way were moved to rhythmic clapping and hollering.