It seems fitting that the most salient thoughts I have regarding this election revolve around my dog taking a shit.

Yesterday morning — the Thursday after the election — I took my sweet boy Truman for his morning walk. I live in a residential area in Burbank, surrounded by tree-lined streets and (mostly) well-kept, single story houses. As you stroll along the sidewalk, you’ve got the main lawns leading up to people’s homes on one side, and on the other side, the narrow strip of grass separating the sidewalk from the curb.

I prefer Truman take his dump on the narrow strip of grass. I know he’s still technically crapping in someone’s lawn, but it feels less egregious somehow. To facilitate this, I try to keep him on that “narrow strip” side of me during the early part of the walk; once he’s done his business, he’s free to explore as far as his leash will allow.

Yesterday I was lost in my thoughts, contemplating the upsetting (though not entirely unexpected) defeat of a highly capable public servant to an incompetent orange blob of rage-filled id; little attention was I paying to Truman. So it was not until too late that I realized the sneaky bugger had trotted into the middle of someone’s lawn and assumed the position.

Every dog owner knows when their furry loved one is about to go number two. There’s a subtle shift in the speed and gait of the dog’s walk, signaling that the train is ready to leave the station. If you realize that release is imminent, you have a short window of time in which to redirect the pooch if you prefer they defecate in a more appropriate spot.

I, alas, missed that window, so there was nothing I could do but hope that the homeowners didn’t happen to be passing by their window at that exact moment and spot my dog using their 1/10th of an acre of Bermuda grass for his morning constitutional. I looked up at the house and, thankfully, saw no one in the window.

What I did see was the big old “Trump/Vance” campaign sign next to the front door.

Well, friends, at that moment I found myself faced with a dilemma. I stood there, bag in hand, thinking, “I should just leave it. I should leave that steaming pile of feces right fucking there. Serves you right, you fascist, misogynist, racist, homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, don’t-give-a-fuck-about-anyone-but-your-goddamned-fucking-selves, authoritarian-welcoming, Trump-supporting, chucklefucking anal warts.”

I stood there for a long time. Truman was confused.

Then I picked up the poop.

Why did I do it? Did I simply wuss out? Maybe. Or is it that I remembered in that moment that I am a mature and rational adult who is above such vulgar displays?

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. I am as petty and vindictive as they come.

What I realized was that the consequence of leaving that heaping mass of waste where it was wouldn’t fall on the assholes who lived there. Because in a neighborhood like this, no one mows their own lawn. No, the people who would be forced to deal with Truman’s excrement would be the trio of undocumented workers — the very people that MAGAts revile so much because reasons — that these homeowners have hired to keep the hedges trimmed and the blades of grass lush. The people who live there wouldn’t even be inconvenienced.

And that was the lesson. Anytime I make a rash, emotionally driven decision, I tend to do more harm to myself and the people I’m trying to protect than to my intended targets. Taking a minute to think things through yields better results. (Okay, it ain’t Aesop’s fables, but I take my life lessons where I can find them.)

I don’t know exactly why so many people support and voted for this fuckin’ guy. Better minds than mine are on that case, trying to make sense of it all. (For an excellent analysis, I recommend this piece by Robert Reich.) I think the loudest Trump supporters, the ones with the oversized Trump flags and the stupid red hats, really are just sad, hate-filled trolls, lacking in empathy and decency. I wouldn’t stoop to defend them. I wouldn’t spit on them if they were on fire.

But that doesn’t encompass everybody who cast a vote for Orange Foolius, nor those who sat this one out because they couldn’t bear to make a choice between what they perceived to be the lesser of two evils. I think there are a lot of people who simply didn’t think through the consequences of once again elevating this smirking idiot to the highest office in the land. They made a rash, emotionally driven decision. “My life is going nowhere, and politicians are to blame. Trump the anti-politician is the answer!“

They left the shit in the middle of the lawn.

They’re wrong, of course. We know they’re wrong, because we’ve already seen this movie. And now we all have to sit through it again, suffering the consequences of rash, emotionally driven decisions that weren’t thought through. Women’s rights will continue to be stripped. Queer and trans people will be at risk. Immigrants, legal or otherwise, will be cast out. The world will be less safe.

I believe many of the people who voted for Trump (or chose not to vote at all) will come to regret it … bigly. Not the diehards, of course. They’re too far gone. But for everyone else, there will be a reckoning.

Unfortunately, by then it may be too late. Democracy was on the ballot this year, and over half the country voted it out. Now we’re all stuck dealing with the steaming pile.

Bad dog, America. Bad dog.

I know. You’ve all been on pins and needles, wondering if I was ever going to get around to that yearly report on how life is going in the great state of California. “Please, Geoff!” you’ve cried. “End this torturous waiting! Your public needs to know!“

Very well, public. I shall give you what you crave, following the same grading scale from last year, just to give it a little consistency.

Overall, I’m going with a solid B, a pretty decent jump from last year’s C+. I’ll kick it off with the areas that saw the most improvement.

Housing: A-

Probably the biggest event of the year was buying the townhouse. We were able to stay in Burbank, and in the same school system, providing some much needed consistency for the poor kid we dragged three time zones across the country. It’s a great place, and we’re slowly making little improvements here and there that make it feel more and more like home. Eventually we’d like to do a big old kitchen remodel, but that’s still a ways off.

Why the minus? ‘Cause it ain’t frickin’ cheap, that’s why. One day, mortgage rates will drop to a level that makes refinancing our current loan a reality, fractionally alleviating some of the financial burden. But that day does not seem to be in any hurry to get here.

Work: C

Another improvement! Though, to be fair, it was a low bar to clear. I’m still at the same job, working for an audio entertainment platform, but I’m no longer saddled with having to write a batshit crazy 6,000 words a day. That’s a good thing, but what is less good is that there are stretches where I’m really not writing at all. I accepted a promotion back in May that gave me a significant pay bump, but it also changed the nature of my job, making it more editorial/managerial. Not exactly what I want to be doing, but kind of de rigueur for most institutions — move up the ladder, do less of what you really love. Also on the negative side, the culture at this place ranges from “meh” to, “Does anyone know the number for a good labor and employment attorney?” Working from home, I don’t have to bump up against it every day. But when I do, whoo-doggy. Do I have some stories.

So, better pay (yay!) and less stress (huzzah!), but tempered with not writing all that often and working for a bunch of panicky, incompetent dickbags.

Maybe a C is generous.

Weather: D

Southern California? I’m gonna need you to get your shit together.

Our first year here, the area experienced one of the wettest winters on record. It was a good thing, putting an end to a historic, multi-year drought. But, you see … I was told there would be sunshine. And there wasn’t. For four straight months. Boo.

It took forever for sunshine and warm weather to return, and when it did, it returned with a vengeance, heaping day after day of triple degree temperatures upon us. Wet and freezing or dry and broiling. Those were our only options. Um, what happened to 72 and sunny? I’m pretty sure I read that in the brochure.

I had hoped that the weather would be more temperate in year two, but noooooooo. A strong el nino ushered in another season of non-stop rain, which dovetailed into another trip to Hell’s front porch. Meteorological fall? Yeah, I’m looking at a high of 106 by mid-week. Take your pumpkin spices and shove them into every sweaty orifice you can find.

Social life: B+

This is the only category that slipped a notch, and it’s entirely on me. I’m terrible at staying in touch with people and would really like to make an effort to do better. But we do have good friends and a good support system out here and I’m thankful for that.

Family: A

This has stayed consistent. I can’t see it changing. They’re wonderful, and I am a very lucky man.

How y’all doin’?

Back in early May, I started working for a company I won’t name due to a clause in my contract that bars me from saying anything critical about them (though if you’re coming to this blog post via any of my social media accounts it’s not too hard to figure out who they are, so, loophole). My official title is In-House Writer, and in this position, I’m happy to say that I’ve been earning a living wage as a writer for six months now, a claim I once feared I’d never get the chance to make.

And how is that job going for me?

Oof. Buckle up, my friends. It’s a ride.

Let’s start with what the position actually entails. The job is to take existing content, typically web novels out of China, and adapt them as audio stories for a Western audience. The format of these audio stories is kind of like a mix between audiobooks and soap operas, where a single voice over artist serves as narrator, but the story doesn’t have a closed ending like a novel. It’s designed to go on and on and on, for as long as there’s an audience for it.

Sound like a good gig so far? It is! In many ways! But there are a couple of … quirks.

Quirk Number One: The Source Material.

These Eastern web novels we’re adapting? They’re bad. I mean, unreadably bad. The characters are one-dimensional, behaving in ways that no actual human would behave; the plot lines are non-sensical; said non-sensical plot lines begin and are dropped without explanation or resolution; a book will literally change genres, going from family drama to martial arts story to supernatural tale without any rhyme or reason. (There’s also a lot of rape, sexual sadism and general debasement of women that I’ve handled by simply not including it in any of my adaptations.) And my job is to take this steaming wet pile of dog droppings and turn it into something digestible.

Okay. Sure. No problem. Except, there kind of is a problem. Which leads me to …

Quirk Number Two: The Daily Word Count.

We In-House Writers are required to hit a daily word count. The number of words we need to write — in a day — is six thousand words.

I’ve tried to express how preposterous this is by pointing out that Stephen King, one of the most prolific writers in the history of words, averages only one-third of that. But I feel this doesn’t fully illustrate the point. So consider instead that six thousand words a day adds up to thirty thousand words a week. Thirty thousand words a week is one hundred twenty thousand words a month. One hundred twenty thousand words is the average length of a standard novel. That means I’m churning out a novel’s worth of content every month.

Which means I’M WRITING TWELVE NOVELS A YEAR!

How can one be expected to turn these noxious, amateur web novels into something good when faced with such a crushing workload?

The short answer is, we’re not. By asking us to write at such a breakneck pace, the company has sent a clear message that they value quantity over quality. So that’s what I give them. I embrace the fact that I don’t have time to turn these fetid word salads into glorious, aromatic prose, and instead just mash keys until I hit my daily quota. Everything that I produce is a very rushed first draft. It’s bad writing, and I’ve been doing it for six months.

It’s exhausting. My mind is jello. I’m starting to get carpal tunnel from all the typing.

And I was just offered another six month contract.

Did I sign it?

You’re goddamn right I did.

For whatever complaining I do, the fact is I get to write for a living. My worst day doing that is still head and shoulders above my best day doing anything else.

And it’s not all bad! I’m given a lot of latitude to adapt my show how I see fit. Much of the time, I’ll take just the bare bones of a story arc and re-write it in a way that makes sense to me. I even have the occasional day where I look back at what I’ve written and say, “Hey! Some of that wasn’t half bad!”

(And in a rare moment of self-congratulation, I’ll share that it turns out the show I write is doing really well. Audience retention is at a rate that is much higher than most shows on the platform, so that’s good. I mean, I wouldn’t listen to it, but, hey. You do you, loyal listeners.)

So here’s to six months of bad writing! And another toast to six months to come! I intend to ride the wave for as long as I can.

Last month marked one year living in Los Angeles, so it seems like a good opportunity to look back and ask, “How’s it all going?”

I’m gonna give it a C+, but it’s trending in a higher direction.

Here, in no particular order and with no particular rhyme or reason, is my grade key for the previous twelve months:

Weather: D –

Los Angeles is, of course, famed for its beautiful, sunny weather. So imagine my surprise when it started raining in December and DIDN’T STOP FOR FOUR FREAKING MONTHS. Don’t get me wrong. The cooler, wetter weather was a nice reprieve from the onslaught of triple digit temperatures that roasted us from July through the end of September. But, my god, man. The seemingly endless barrage of cold, flooding rains was, shall we say, not as advertised. And I — a man who reaches for the thermals when the temperature drops below 72 degrees — was not happy. Never in my life would I have imagined I would move to southern California and then develop Seasonal Affective Disorder. But alas, here we are. I’d say we’ve had two months of nice weather this whole year: October and November. Know where else has nice weather in October and November? EVERY OTHER PLACE IN THE NORTHERN DAMN HEMISPHERE. So, yeah. Not impressed. The only reason I don’t give the weather an F is that the rains did alleviate a historic, multi-year drought, which, fine, okay, I guess that was good and all, but whatever. This is about me and I’m grumpy.

Hey! Speaking of those flooding rains …

Housing: C

Our plan was to rent an apartment our first year and hopefully buy a place when the lease was up. Pickings were slim when looking for that first rental, and we landed in a ground floor apartment that was perfectly serviceable but not exactly posh, if you know what I mean. Nor was it suited to those four months of punishing rain, as our living room flooded not once, not twice, not three times, but, yes, four damn times between December and March. It was also dark in there, which, when combined with the lack of sunshine, gave the whole atmosphere a wee bit of a tomblike quality. And the communal washers and dryers rarely worked. And maintenance was always shutting off the water at random times. And there was constant construction both in our building and the surrounding neighborhood, which was an issue for me as I was recording audiobooks from home, and the sounds of jackhammers in the background rarely fit the narrative.

Look, I’m not trying to complain here. We had a roof over our heads and all the necessities of life. It was fine. We were fine. But it wasn’t great. And again, this would have been graded even lower except that we ultimately did find a place to buy and we’ve been here a month now and we LOVE IT. If I do another report card in a year’s time, I suspect housing will be graded much, much higher.

Work: D –

I had high hopes for the audiobook narrator thing, but it didn’t quite get off to the start I had hoped for. Gigs were spotty at best, and I found myself taking on a lot of projects that didn’t pay a set rate, but rather offered a royalty share of all sales. That would’ve been awesome if I were narrating books by best selling authors with huge followings, but the most copies sold of any book I narrated was 73. I was, shall we say, in no danger of becoming rich. Add to that the challenge of having no more than an hour of uninterrupted quiet at any given time (plus some weird vocal issues that I think may be caused by the drier, more polluted air here in L.A.) and it just wasn’t working.

Also, I didn’t move out here to do voiceovers! I moved out here to write! (Okay, as a family, we didn’t really move out here for me, per se, but this is what I want to focus on while I’m here.) And guess what? I recently landed a full-time, creative writing job!

You did? That’s great, Geoff! So … why are you giving Work a D -?

Glad you asked. There are two reasons. Reason number one is that the company I’m working for has a ridiculous daily word count they want us writers to hit. It’s 6,000 words. For reference, Stephen King doesn’t write 6,000 words a day. He doesn’t even write half that. Stephen King averages about 2,000 words a day, which is in line with most professional authors. So we are being asked to triple the output of one of the most prolific writers in the history of words every damn day. (And as you may have surmised, I ain’t making Stephen King money here.) Not ideal. It’s like a goddamn writing sweatshop.

Reason number two? I’m about to enter my third month of employment and I have yet to be paid. Also not ideal. I’m assured the issue will be worked out by the end of this week, which would be great if I hadn’t been assured that very same thing numerous times over the past month.

Yeah, I’m sticking with D -.

Family: A

Seriously, they’re awesome. I’d give them an A+, but I’m also a part of this family, and as a writer I’m cursed with the whole self-loathing thing which drags down the average. But even with me as albatross, it’s a solid A. California seems to suit both wife and child quite well, and for that I’m hella grateful.

Social Life: A

Outside of career reasons, a major factor in wanting to move out here is that we have so many close friends in the area. And while we could always be better about getting together with folks, I think we’ve done a good job keeping in touch with friends and seeing them whether life is cooperating with us or not. Now we just have to cross our fingers that they don’t all start moving away in droves because that would suuuuuuuck.

So there you have it, folks! Some challenges along the way, but feeling like we’re on the right path. Hope you all are doing well wherever you are in this leg of the great journey!

I was enjoying lunch with friends awhile back when the subject turned, as it often and sadly does, to Donald Trump — specifically the question of what might happen should he ever be arrested in connection with one or more of the various crimes for which he’s currently under investigation. One of these friends was adamant that we would see violence on a level that would make the January 6th attack on the Capitol look like a spitball fight. The phrase Civil War was invoked.

Now, with an indictment looming and Trump calling for people to “PROTEST” and “TAKE OUR NATION BACK,” many are wondering if just such a scenario could play out. Some are asking if it’s even worth it to charge him, given the wrath that could potentially be unleashed.

My feeling is that the fears are overblown, and for several reasons.

First off, Trump’s star power — if that’s what you want to call it — has been diminished the past couple of years. His election loss (debated though it may be among the zealots and the bottom-feeders), the defeats of his chosen candidates in the mid-terms and an overall sense of Trump fatigue have led many of his supporters to start shopping around for a new cult of personality to latch onto. He lost his biggest and best megaphone when Twitter cut him off, and Fox News — facing a lawsuit that might do its bottom-line genuine harm — seems to have decided he’s no longer worth the trouble.

Don’t get me wrong. Donnie boy still has his ride-or-die followers. And there’s no shortage of right wing media outlets that seem happy to shove their noses up the fetid, KFC-stained ass cheeks from which Fox has disengaged. But it feels as if there may no longer be the critical mass of sycophants necessary to inflict genuine harm.

If I’m wrong (and it’s certainly possible that I am), I don’t see these ignorant rednecks putting up much of a fight. The attack on the Capitol was shocking for how quickly it escalated and how near the wannabe insurrectionists seemingly came to thwarting the transfer of power. But it was also a moment when the deck was stacked in their favor in a way I don’t see happening now. The Capitol was woefully unprotected that day, and Trump famously did nothing to reinforce the troops or establish order. Sure, the rioters felt emboldened as hell when it was thousands of them against a couple dozen cops armed with bear spray. Faced with a heavy police presence armed with tactical gear, and some national guard troops to back them up, I suspect it will be a different story. We saw how quickly these people fell to pieces when prison sentences started being handed down (one of them couldn’t even get vegan food in his cell!). So let ’em parade around the Lower Manhattan Courthouse with their Walmart rifles. Once real bullets start flying, those guns are getting dropped faster than third period French.

But, of course, we’ve seen some crazy shit in recent years, so we can’t outright dismiss the possibility that there could be widespread violence. Real damage could be inflicted on our democracy. Should that happen, some will undoubtedly ask the question, “Was it worth it?” And that’s a question that shouldn’t be dismissed quickly either. Trump is out of office. The coming election very well may not play out in his favor. Is it maybe better just to leave well enough alone?

To answer that, I look to the legal maxim fiat justitia, ruat caelum — “Let justice be done, though the heavens fall.”

If we truly are a nation of laws, then the law has to be enforced, regardless of the consequences. I don’t say that lightly. I don’t relish the thought of violence or of seeing our democracy once again pushed to the breaking point. But that’s the chance we have to take if we are to remain a nation of laws.

So while I don’t believe we’re in danger of seeing a well-coordinated and serious effort to overthrow the government, I also don’t think we’d have the luxury of caving to that threat if it were real. Democracy doesn’t work when it’s being held at gunpoint. Sometimes you have to dare the fuckers to pull the trigger.

Trump is probably going to be arrested. He’s going to get cuffed. He’s going to get fingerprinted. His mugshot will be everywhere. And things could get ugly. His cult followers could use his arrest as a rallying cry for violent dissent, even overthrow.

Doesn’t matter. We, as a country, don’t have the luxury of just letting bygones be bygones.

Let justice be done, though the heavens fall.

As I have nothing interesting going on in my life, I thought I’d relive a tale from days of yore …

Once upon a time I was a member of a musical comedy troupe called The Water Coolers (shout out to any Coolers reading this!!!) which specialized in performing for corporate events both big and small. It was a great gig, and the shows routinely killed. I mean killed. They were genuinely funny, performed by insanely talented people and typically done for very friendly audiences. They almost always brought the house down.

But the instances where the show didn’t kill? The times where a number crashed or a performance went belly up? Those shows damn near killed me.

Sam Donaldson nearly killed me.

We were in Las Vegas, doing a gig for the Western Petroleum Marketer’s Association (Big Oil, essentially, which is only slightly less horrible than the time we did a gig for Big Tobacco). Rather than performing one long set, we had little interstitial numbers throughout the evening’s presentation designed to keep the audience engaged and entertained, and also to introduce important people taking the stage — people such as the evening’s keynote speaker, Mr. Sam Donaldson, legendary reporter and anchor for ABC News.

The number went just fine. We sang our little song, Mr. Donaldson came out to great aplomb and then proceeded to speak about I have no godly idea what, because by that point I was already backstage raiding whatever I could find on the refreshments table. All was going swimmingly.

Later in the show, I made my way onstage to perform a solo number called “Hottie,” a song about the trials and tribulations of being the hot guy in the office. To set the number up, there was a little monologue that took on the confessional tone of an AA meeting, where my character would admit to the audience just who and what he was (“Hello. My name is Steve … and I’m a hottie.”). Then I’d look to the audience, point to a dude in the first row and enlist him in my effort to remove the stigma of being labeled the office stud. “You, sir,” I would say, then look left to right in a conspiratorial kind of way. “You’re a hottie, aren’t you?”

Some guys would demure, some guys would laugh nervously, some would puff their chests out to let everyone know that damn right they were a hottie. But they’d always play along and it was always good for a laugh.

This night, I looked out to the front row and who did I see but … Sam Donaldson! He was still there! Sitting in the audience! I was shocked. Events like these, people of his stature usually didn’t stick around. Why would they? They’d done their speech, gotten their check … why not hop on that private jet and zip on back to the homestead?

But, for whatever reason, Sammy boy had decided to stay and watch the show. How could I not use him?

I stepped forward, looked him dead in the eye, pointed at him and said, “You, sir …”

Before I could even finish the line, he leveled me with a stare that communicated a clear message: “I’m not in the mood to play your fucking games, monkey boy. Move along.”

My heart froze in my chest, and my shirt was instantly drenched in sweat. In a microsecond, my mind calculated its options faster than the IBM Watson. Could I play it off like I was talking to someone else? Is there a line I could improvise that would let us both save face? How convincingly could I fake a stroke?

I did my little “look left and right” thing, hoping to buy myself more time to think of some way out of this nightmare. As I did, I caught a glimpse of the jumbotron placed upstage so the folks in the cheap seats could see every rivulet of sweat making it’s way down to my shirt collar. Only it wasn’t my face on the monitor. Some astute cameraman, instantly picking up on what I was doing, had swung the camera directly onto the face of Sam fucking Donaldson, his eyes continuing to shoot their warning at me:

“Don’t fucking do it, you little piss-ant. I am Sam Donaldson. I will crush you.”

Here’s a little thing some of you might not know about me … I’m not an improv guy. People often assume that if you’re an actor you can do all the actor things, but it’s just not true. I’m not quick on my feet. I’m not the guy who comes up with a “zinger” on the spot. I’m the guy who gets his ass kicked in an argument then thinks of a great comeback in the car an hour later.

Bottom line, I was trapped. There was nothing for me to do but play it out.

I looked back into the hard gaze of Mr. Donaldson, those severe eyebrows adding an extra layer of armor to his visage. I steeled myself. Keeping my voice as level as possible, I went on. “You’re a hottie, aren’t you?”

Silence. Dead fucking silence. The man didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give me anything. We were frozen in stalemate.

In reality, the moment lasted no more than a second or two. In my head, I’m still there, covered in flop sweat and wondering if there will ever be a day when I’ll be able to unclench my asshole.

And then … the gaze softened, his body relaxed, and he shrugged as if to say: “Well of course I’m a hottie. I’M SAM FUCKING DONALDSON.”

The audience lost its shit. My heart resumed its beating. Time unfroze and continued its steady march.

The son of a bitch had played it perfectly, and in the process gotten the biggest damn laugh of the show. Sure, he might nearly have given me a heart attack, but hey … that’s show business, kid.

This weekend, I sang at mass for the first time in seven years. It was, in fact, exactly seven years going by the liturgical calendar, as the last mass I did was on Ash Wednesday, and this mass was the first Sunday of Lent.

For those who don’t know, I spent twelve years as the cantor (yes, they’re called cantors in the Catholic Church, get over it) at Saints Peter and Paul RC Church in Hoboken, making it the longest commitment I’ve had to anything other than my marriage (one more year as a dad and it will slip to third place). While I was there, I created a children’s choir and served for a time as its director, and even worked for two years as the office manager at our sister parish in Weehawken after the two parishes were linked. I also had semi-regular church gigs when I was a teenager and have subbed at masses and funerals in many other parishes throughout the years.

Most people who know me know that I have serious issues with religion in general and the Catholic Church in particular. I’ve even written — and not in the most flattering of ways — about some of my experiences working for the church in a series of articles for TheHumanist.com. Hell, I’ve written multiple plays taking the institution to task. So why, some might ask, would I choose to work for the church? And why, after a seven year hiatus, would I want to take yet another church job?

The answer lies in the word “job.” That pretty much it. It’s a job. They pay me. They pay me to sing, no less, which is a wonderful thing. And for me, it’s easy money. I know the liturgy backwards and forwards. I know the hymns. I know the rhythms of the mass. I know how to do the job, not just well, but professionally. I’m an asset to the churches where I work because I’m competent at what I do and I approach my job without ego. I have no hidden agendas. I’m not looking to rise in the organization or use the gig as a springboard to greater things. I sing, they pay me. Simple.

That said, I have to admit … I missed it these past seven years. And not just the getting paid part. I missed the mass. I missed the music. I missed the sense of community. And I specifically missed singing in that setting. Being a cantor at church is unlike any other form of singing I do. When I’m onstage singing in a musical or a revue or a concert or whatever, it’s very much, “Look at me! Look at me! Look at what I’m doing! NOW CHEER FOR MEEEEE!!!!!!” As a cantor, your job is to be of service to the mass. I kind of like that. I like having it not be about me. It helps keep the ego in check. As a former music director of mine once said, if they applaud you at the end, you’re doing it wrong.

(Full disclosure, they actually did applaud me at the end of this mass. But I think that was just the congregation being nice to the new guy.)

So I’m back to singing for the church. And whatever my feelings might be about the institution or the ideology, I’m happy to be back. It feels right. And, I’m pleased to add, all my old suits still fit. Even if they are a couple of years out of style.

I like to keep my eyes open for any writing gigs that might offer a little cash in exchange for my ability to string words together in a semi-coherent fashion. It’s rare that such jobs are advertised, as writing tends to be more of a “hat in hand” sort of venture, but it’s not unheard of.

And, lo and behold, just such a job popped up in my inbox last week by way of a LinkedIn recommendation. And not just any writing gig, but a company looking for a scriptwriter (hey, that’s something I do!) to join their media company. The key responsibilities included writing scripts for a variety of media platforms including YouTube; collaborating with production teams; conducting research on various yadayadayadablahblahblah.

It all sounded perfectly legit and right up my alley, so I fired off a cover letter and sent it along with my resume and links to some writing samples. And, much to my surprise, they wrote back to me!

They wrote back to me within a half an hour.

They wrote back to me within a half an hour saying they wanted me.

Yeah, no. That’s not how legitimate jobs work.

I started digging around to find out more about this company (which, yes, I should have done before I applied for the job, I know, leave me alone) and, sure enough, it was pretty sketchy. It is a company and they do likely employ writers, but … the content they’re putting up on YouTube? Conspiracy theory videos. Yeah.

The smart thing to do at this point would have been to disengage and report them to the fine folks at LinkedIn. But I was in a mood that particular day, so I thought first I’d take a moment to reply to their email and let them know I wouldn’t be pursuing the job any further. The exact email I sent them read:

Ah. So your company’s modus operandi is to post under-sourced conspiracy videos on Youtube. Gotcha. Well, allow me to withdraw my candidacy with a hearty “fuck you.” And may you and those you love contract syphilis and die a prolonged death.

I assumed this would be the end of it, but again I was surprised to receive a timely reply. Oh no! I’d offended them! Surely they were going to be incensed, indignant, OUTRAGED, and demand an apology for besmirching their good name!

Actually, the subject line of their email was: “Geoffrey Scheer we like you.”

At this point it became clear that I was receiving automated emails and no human was reading what I was writing to them. So, again, I should have left it alone. Why waste time screaming into the void?

Thing is, at this point, I was starting to have some fun, so I decided to keep it going. My next email to them read:

Wow. Really? I send you an email telling you to fuck off and die of syphilis and you STIILL want me to work for you? That’s sad. Are you like the girl who insists to her family and friends that the abusive boyfriend “beats me because he CARES?” Girl, get help.

Also, I’ll work for you, but my price is $7 million per article and the blood of your virgin daughters. I would also appreciate it if you would validate parking.

Yours in Christ,

The Guy Telling You (for the second time, mind you) To Go Fuck Your Mother So I Don’t Have To Do It Again

I felt I was getting into a zone here and kept my fingers crossed that yet another follow-up email would come my way. And they didn’t disappoint. This time, the subject line read: “Geoffrey Scheer we count on you.”

I was touched. I responded:

Actually, I count on YOU … to open your mouth wide and relax your throat, so that when I shove my cock in there it will hit tonsils. Still want me to work for you? Because my price is now $10 million per article. And I’ll expect a rimjob from the family member of my choice whenever the mood strikes me.

Yours in the warm embrace of our holy redeemer,

The Guy Who Hopes You Will Gag On My Taint Shavings

I waited with great anticipation for the response email. What would the next subject line read? Maybe, “Geoffrey Scheer we can’t live without you,” or, “We like the cut of your jib, Geoffrey Scheer.” But no. Nothing. I don’t know if someone actually read one of the emails and balked, or if the automated responses just shut off after three attempts. But it’s been a week since I sent my last email and so far … bupkis.

And so, alas, it appears that communication with this company has come to an end (which is a shame, because I’ve got this line about chewing on my long discarded foreskin that I’ve been dying to use). Maybe they’ll reach out again one day, but until that day comes, I’ll have to find some other way to amuse myself.

Ah, well. It was fun while it lasted.

What’s this you say, Geoff? You’re not a football fan? That’s strange. With your burly frame and background in musical theater, I would have pegged you as a natural fan of the sport!

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am a fan. A HUGE fan. Massive. I follow the sport closely all season. I follow the sport closely all off-season. And not just my team, the long-suffering Washington Whatevertheirnamesarethisweek, who break my heart year after year but who I just can’t seem to quit. No, I follow all the teams and all the stories and all the drama. It’s my sport, and in spite of all its shortcomings and controversies, I love it.

And the Super Bowl. Ah, the Super Bowl! The main event! The title bout! The moment when victors are crowned and legends are made! It’s the gridiron fan’s Christmas! The greatest Sunday in the football calendar!

Actually, no. It is not. And here’s why.

For a purist such as myself, the best Sunday of the football season is Championship Sunday, the final round of the playoffs, where it’s decided which teams will go to the Super Bowl. Championship Sunday has all of the drama and all of the stakes of the Super Bowl, and you get two games! You also get none of the Super Bowl horseshit.

That’s right, I said it. Horseshit. Tripe. Drivel. Nonsense.

I can’t stand it. I really can’t. The idiotic commercials. The mangled national anthem. The gaudy half-time show. Half-time show? HALF-TIME SHOW?! We’re really gonna stop the game to put on a fucking concert?! No other sport does this. And you know why? Because it’s fucking insane! Can you imagine Game 7 of the World Series pausing for 45 minutes in the seventh inning stretch so Lil Nas X can come out and do a set? No, you cannot. And you know why? Because it’s stupid, that’s why.

Ummm … Geoff? Yeah. The Super Bowl is, like, the most watched broadcast of the year. Every year. Year after year. People love the half-time show! They love the anthem! They love the COMMERCIALS, for Christ’s sake! You, uh — and I don’t mean to upset you further, but — you just might be in the minority opinion here.

Yes. Clearly I am. And if you love all those things then I’m happy for you and I hope you enjoy tonight’s event. But I love the game. I want to watch the game. I don’t want to go to a Super Bowl party where everyone talks through the game and then quiets down when the ads come on. It’s completely backwards to me.

I know I have a tendency to be a curmudgeon and I usually try to work against those impulses. But tonight I will be indulging my curmudgeonly tendencies without reservation. I will watch the Super Bowl at home with my family. I will eat bad food. I will text with my brother and maybe a couple other football purist friends. I will not be attending or hosting any Super Bowl parties. I will be watching, I will be enjoying, I will be loving the game.

Unless the Eagles win. Then I might be throwing my TV out the damn window.