While it all falls apart

YENICE, Turkey (The New York Times) – A woman in white took to the floor and began to spin. [It] was the start of a recent gathering in southwestern Turkey focused on the ancient tradition of sema, the spinning form of prayer made famous by the so-called whirling dervishes. This event, however, was open to everyone. Instead of the classic white outfits … they spun in embroidered shirts, baggy dresses, jeans, T-shirts and polka-dot socks. The whirling would continue nonstop for seven days and nights.

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All right, people. Listen up. My name is Stan Continople, your Sufi guide, and yes, in the next few hours we fully expect to be generating that gigantic vortex of spiritual energy we talked about last night. You’ll know it when you feel it – that is, unless one of those miscreants from the local boys’ school manages to sneak past security and slip unnoticed into the crowd. They sometimes like to take advantage of the trance many of you are sure to fall into and pinball around in the rotating swarm for kicks. It could be them.

And a reminder: Besides all that free-flowing prana, we’re bound to be stirring up a good deal of dust, too. Hey. It’s rural Turkey. Not a lot of hardwood floor discounters out here, you know? If you have allergies, please try not to sneeze in the face of spinning passers-by. Bring your meds to the front desk and we’ll do our best to dig up some water to help wash them down. Unfortunately, that may actually involve a shovel.

By now it should be plain that free-thinking is an absolute necessity at a transcendental event such as ours, though we’re sure you’ll agree that, in the interest of decorum, even the most open of minds needs to be gently constrained by a few simple protocols. Spinning is fine, but spinning out of control isn’t.

Which is why we ask you to adhere to a few rules and regulations, the first of which is: No tear-away suits allowed. We’re going to be generating some serious RPMs here, and the last thing we need is unsecured shirts, blouses and thread-bare underwear succumbing to powerful centrifugal forces and flying across the room. If nothing else, it amounts to a tripping hazard.

In a similar vein, no exposed chests, backs or bellies are permitted in public spinning areas. Take my word for it: It’s going to be crowded in there, and getting slapped with fleshy protuberances traveling at high speed can leave a welt.

Additionally, it should be remembered that achieving a successful, protracted whirl requires a delicate and symmetrical degree of balance, which is why ladies should never attempt to spin with a purse draped over their shoulders. The same admonition applies to men, of course. A wallet bulging asymmetrically from either cheek will ultimately generate unstable axial vectors and leave you spiraling wildly onto the floor. It is highly recommended that handbags and billfolds be checked at the door with event personnel, who will leave them in a large woven basket in the middle of the street.

Finally, in the wake of disturbing news stories related to last year’s event that, unfortunately, were picked up and distributed globally by the Dissociated Press, the production company has decided to ban multicolored socks. As you may recall, after accelerating into hyper-drive, several participants in the class of 2025 experienced seizures while focusing on fellow whirlers dressed in hose bearing outrageously bright pigments and patterns. A cataclysmic collapse of dancers resulted in multiple injuries and pregnancies.

So … with those few helpful admonishments, we offer you a warm and wonderful welcome to the world of whirling!

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. No fist-bumping allowed.

ARDAHAN, Turkey (The New York Times) – The governor of Ardahan, a province of about 90,000 people in northeast Turkey … was fired last week, and some people quickly started speculating that he had been fired because of his bicycle pants. (As) a bicycle enthusiast … he often posts photos of himself, generally wearing the kind of skin-tight leggings and jerseys commonly worn by serious cyclists. [One political opponent was quoted as saying] “This is not how a governor should act.” Many on social media seized on the athletic wear controversy, citing it as the reason for his ouster.

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Yes. There is, in fact, a substantial risk that I’ll be forever branded as a poor loser, a bad sport, an adult crybaby – lying on his back, kicking and mewling in a hot-tub-size crib with a martini in one hand and a cellphone connected to a white-shoe lawyer in the other.

But dammit, I’m absolutely sure that this is what really happened – as sure as I am that the lawyer will eventually wind up suing me for non-payment. The real reason I wasn’t picked for that recent vacancy on the town zoning board was because I showed up at a meeting wearing capris.

You know, the things we used to call clamdiggers – colorful, tight-fitting pants ending in the middle of your calf and drawing irresistible attention to whatever horrific collection of varicose veins and desiccated epidermis you happened to be advertising that day. And, yes, I realize it was the middle of winter, but I had no choice. They were the only clean trousers available to me while my washing machine endured agonizingly slow repair by one of the only plumbers in the county specializing in the use of all-natural tools. You have no idea how difficult it is to loosen a machine screw with nothing but two sticks.

It was an awkward showing, I admit, but did anyone on the board bother to ask if my regular chinos were OK, and hadn’t been damaged in a biking accident or something? No. Of course not. And was there any suggestion of concern for my personal health, given that I had trekked on foot through sub-freezing temperatures to make an appearance before their zoning eminences? The chairman has a prize-winning case of gout, for crying out loud, so I know he had a heating pad somewhere in his desk. Not even a hint that he’d be willing to lend it to someone with an obvious case of spider veins.

More important, what about the list of exceptionally creative recommendations for improving the curb appeal of the commercial plaza being constructed along Main Street that I managed to extract from the pocket of my frozen clamdiggers? Yes, I copied the photos from a coffee table book of Frank Gehry designs, but, as you can well imagine, the top of my washing machine wasn’t available to allow me to sketch my own architectural masterpieces.

I’m sorry, but all the evidence points to what I maintain is a stunningly flagrant example of discrimination against not only clamdiggers, but anyone daring enough to wear them in January. I and my forward-thinking zoning proposals were summarily and unfairly rejected because my pants failed to reach my feet.

This is not how government in smalltown America is supposed to function, ladies and gentlemen, and I for one will not stand by while our democracy is assaulted.

Well … not in my capris, anyway.

THE NEW YORK TIMES – (An) offbeat market in Minikowo, Poland, attracted Dutch salesmen and more than a dozen Polish agricultural suppliers and farm representatives on a recent sunny afternoon. The prospective buyers eyeballed, sniffed and ran their fingers through the merchandise. The product? Manure from Dutch cows and pigs, muck that farmers in the Netherlands are desperate to sell. There were lectures, a happy hour and a speed-dating session between customers and sellers, complete with demonstrations and take-home samples.

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Speed Dating: This Way

WANDA:   “Hi, there. Have a seat. Been wanting to meet since I saw you at the semi-liquid byproducts booth. I’m an agri-business representative from the Central Lowlands, near Warsaw. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve just been pawing through some of the finest pig droppings I’ve ever had the privilege of lodging under my fingernails.

(holds out a plate of host-provided canapés) Appetizer? Try the puff pastries with the savory spread. They’re yummy!”

FINN:    “Umm … I’ll pass, thanks.”

WANDA:    “Nice threads, by the way. So, where’re you from? An Armani jacket like that doesn’t usually get featured in Farm and Field.” (winks)

FINN:    “Yeah, I guess so. I’m here with the Dutch Dung Council. Flew in from Amsterdam this morning. We’re making a presentation later this afternoon on new developments in the compost sector.”

WANDA:    “Hmm. I don’t see it here in the program.”

FINN:    “I’m not surprised. It’s a late addition. The guys from Syndicated Stool just, um, dropped out, so to speak, and we got called in.”

WANDA:    “What’s the title?”

FINN:    “It’s called Slops and Night Soil: The Great Waste of Our Time. All about natural fertilizer.”

WANDA:    “Sounds like a growth industry.”

FINN:    “Yeah. The big boys are in it up to their necks, hoping to eventually clean up.”

WANDA:    “Sounds interesting. Any sample cups available at the display table?”

FINN:    “Not yet. Sponsors don’t want to take any chances. They’re waiting until after lunch, so they don’t get things mixed up with the Wacky Cake dessert.”

WANDA:    “Gówno …”

FINN:    “Exactly.”

WANDA:    “You know … (lowering her voice), we probably wouldn’t be here in the first place if it weren’t for that Strait of Hormuz thing. Pretty simple, right? No oil … no chemical fertilizer. What the hell did they think they were doing, anyway?”

FINN:    “Same thing as us, I guess: Mucking things up and selling people a load.

WANDA:    “I have to say, though, it’s been an interesting few days. My colleagues and I have been picking up some interesting concepts …”

FINN:    “Wearing gloves, I hope…”

WANDA:    “… but realistically, we’re not sure the market is ready for wide-spread dealing in this stuff. It’s pretty wet and heavy, you know, and that’s going to have an effect on transportation costs.

FINN:   “Yeah, we get it. You guys don’t take a lot of crap. We think we’ve done a good job anticipating that, though, with the development of something new called Manure Lite. Very little alcohol and only 60 calories.

WANDA:    “Interesting …”

FINN:    Have you met our manure ambassador yet?”   

WANDA:   (surprised) “No. I haven’t. Didn’t realize you had one. Would I recognize him?”

FINN:   Reddish beard. Good looking guy. Doesn’t really stand out that much. Well … except for the cologne. For some reason he wears a ton of it.”

WANDA: (coquettishly) “Well … he couldn’t possibly be as good-looking as you.”

FINN:   “Oh. (following an awkward pause) Say, are you doing anything after the lecture? Would you like to have dinner?”

WANDA:    (smiling) “I thought you’d never ask.”

FINN:   “Great. I’ll pick you up at 7. Would that be all right?”

WANDA:    “Sure.”

FINN:    “Just one thing …”

WANDA:    “What’s that?”

FINN:    “You’ll be showering, right?”

PHILADELPHIA (AP) – Bryce Harper shared his morning (wakeup) routine with more than 600,000 followers on TikTok, and one part stopped even his most diehard fans. The Philadelphia Phillies slugger squeezed toothpaste straight from the tube into his mouth, rather than applying it to his toothbrush.

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Whoo, boy. Apparently, things really ARE falling apart. That particularly squishy segment of Harper’s morning ablutions was defined as nothing less than “diabolical” by one of his online social media followers, and troubled readers of London’s The Daily Mail supposedly found the practice horrifying.

Just imagine the chaos that might have erupted if it had been revealed that the baseball hero wore his Jockey™ shorts over his pants instead of under them. I’m not suggesting that’s actually the case, mind you, but examine the odds. Surely, I’m not the only one.

The truth is, in this age of unending political grift and ceaseless mendacity, I’m kind of thankful for the occasional report of innocent quirkiness – innocuous and welcome departures from what’s become the everyday standard of lying, chealing and steating. And no, those aren’t typos. They’re quotes. I have a friend who stumbled into that malaprop 50 years ago when he tried to explain his strategy for winning at Monopoly.™

The way I look at it, you probably can’t be genuinely quirky and at the same time be guilty of doing anything seriously wrong. Most likely, it’s the other way around. I think it might even revitalize my faith in the underlying moral innocence of the human species if I learned that Harper had somehow adapted his toothpaste technique to his batting mechanics and, instead of swinging his Louisville Slugger™ at an incoming four-seamer, was throwing it at the ball while it was still in the pitcher’s mitt.

In fact, I’m beginning to think the world in general would be a much nicer place if we all were just a bit more, shall we say … unconventional.

And in that vein, I have some good news. Luckily, I’m one of the few people on the planet familiar with a little-known reference work titled “Miller’s Encyclopedic Compendium of Quirks and Barely Legal Activities.” I could claim there’s no relation, but you probably wouldn’t believe it. Wait. You say you would  believe it? Well … OK, then. No relation.

Unbelievably (again), the collection is broken down into various sections, one of which addresses sports in particular, and baseball in even more particular – a bit of serendipity that I’m certain will have special appeal to our hero, Mr. Harper. Here then, for his edification and yours, are some suggestions guaranteed to further enrich his reputation for delightful quirkiness … and in doing so, make the world a better place.

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1. Develop a habit of eating soup while wearing an outfielder’s glove on your spoon hand.

2. Steal third BEFORE you steal second.

3. Relatedly, try to actually steal second base by concealing it under your Phillies jersey.

4. Ask a teammate to store your chewing tobacco in his shoe. If that doesn’t keep you from putting it in your mouth, I don’t know what will.

5. And finally, in concert with your current morning wakeup ritual, try brushing your teeth with a baseball bat. Pay special attention to those molars!

POPULAR MECHANICS – For years, the strange phenomenon of precognition – an unwavering ‘gut feeling’ that something will happen in the future – has puzzled scientists. The concept may sound far-fetched, but many studies suggest there’s statistical evidence to back up [its] existence.

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I’ve got a hunch this is going to be a fruitful topic.

To start with, we’ve all got guts, and I’m told that, based solely on the size of mine, I should be fairly adept at predicting the future. But in all fairness, there are literally a ton of people out there who are way more clairvoyant than I am. I ran into a woman at the Stop & Shop,™ for instance, whose precognitive talent was obviously off the chart. As she passed me, I was overwhelmed by an alarming premonition: namely, that the box of donuts in her cart wasn’t going to last very long.

While it’s obvious that the National Weather Service has an employment policy that precludes the hiring of anyone with the capacity to accurately predict anything at all, the CIA has been in the market for prognosticators since forever, urged on by the research of a University of Nevada parapsychologist who postulated that consciousness might not operate according to the clock. If that were so, then maybe a reaction to a stimulus really could be sensed before the stimulus occurred. Kind of like a reverse cause and effect.

My powers of parapsychological intuition tell me you’re having some trouble swallowing that, but it’s true, and I’m including a link to grease your esophagus. I used the theory just recently, in fact, when I explained to a shopkeeper that the shattered ceramic bluebirds lying on her floor were just part of a premonition she was experiencing and, in order to determine if the accident really happened, she’d have to wait a few minutes. Needless to say, I took advantage of the time to make my escape.

The university professor tested his hypothesis by sticking a handful of EEG electrodes onto an assemblage of volunteer noggins and then showing the humans who owned them a few pictures – some nice and some nasty. The pictures. Not the noggins.

But before the images actually showed up, each of the test subjects received a little ‘prompt’ to let them know something was on the way. They had no idea what it would be. Guess what? When the subjects were shown a positive image, in the five seconds between the prompt and the arrival of the picture, their brain activity essentially registered a big “so what.” But in the five seconds before something nasty appeared, their brain activity spiked – all before they even saw the image. It was like they knew something gross was coming.

OK, so none of that necessarily evokes the soundtrack from “House on Haunted Hill,” but it’s interesting, right? Plus, statisticians got out their pencils and confirmed the effect was statistically reliable. Hey. That’s enough for me.

Which is why I’m using my own precognitive artistry – and my prodigious gut – to predict that my wife is planning to serve egg and tuna casserole for dinner tonight. That … and her recipe book was open to a picture of it as I happened to walk by. It took less than five seconds for me to order a pie from the friendly guy at my local pizzeria.

He said he was expecting my call.

Sure. If there had been a choice, I absolutely would have chosen actual manna from, you know, heaven. Who wouldn’t? But there wasn’t, and instead I got bird shit – on my head, on my hand, and in an especially embarrassing spot near the center of my pants about three inches south of the belt line.

I mean, this only happens in cartoons, right? Or in Mel Brooks movies. Or, if you’re really, really lucky, during a televised press conference in what used to be the White House Rose Garden. Oh, please, please. Let it happen there. But no. It occurs as I’m chaise-lounging by the pool, nursing a gin and tonic. Or maybe it was a Bordeaux blanc. It probably was both.

And as you might expect, it came out of nowhere. I was just sitting around, entertaining the adults – exercising a talent for faux worldliness that pretty much all my friends tolerate in exchange for free wine – when the muscles surrounding a randomly passing cloaca cut loose and exposed me as someone who desperately needed to clean up his act. Just an arbitrary natural occurrence, right? A bona fide crap shoot.

Or was it? I decided a little research was in order to ascertain whether something else might be at play. Something a little more newsworthy.

As part of my online analysis of the subject (Yes, I spent an inordinate amount of time coming up with that exact word), the experts at naturewithbirds.com assured me that, “while it might feel like bad luck when it happens, data and observational studies suggest that certain factors make these incidents more predictable than random.” I knew it, God damn it. I knew it.

With a little further help from that world-famous intellect Alphonso Imbroglioni (AI), I was able to determine that roughly 5% of Earthlings get splattered by bird crap every year. Granted, that sounds a little iffy, but they’ve got a whole page devoted to the topic and it sounds, well, really professional. Sure. I could spend a little more time looking for actual quotes from birdologists and statistical specialists, but I’m going with it. I don’t give a shit.

Punch in the numbers and you’re left with the conclusion that some 17 million Americans get unexpectedly doused with a special blend of concentrated nitrogen compounds and pure avian ejectamenta over your average 12-month period. By the way, you probably won’t be surprised to learn that the look of the stuff depends on what’s been munched for lunch. According again to Nature With Birds, fruit-eaters produce softer, more colorful droppings, while insectivores and seed-eaters tend to manufacture firmer, darker droppings. I’m convinced mine had spent some time at Chipotle.

You have to remember that the exact number of people with targets on their heads is a little hard to pin down because, well … bird poop incidents apparently aren’t important enough to be recorded in official health or environmental databases. As one of 17 million U.S. victims, I think that needs to change.

And it wouldn’t take much, either. Consider this: Now that the current Washington administration has decided clean air and water aren’t THAT important, I imagine there’s probably a lot of vacant office space available where a slew of EPA officials once worked. How hard would it be to fill some of it with a shiny new agency called the Federal Department of Flying Crap?

Hold on. Hold on. We may have to readdress. I think we might already have one of those.

It’s called the White House Office of Communications.