Heave Away, Haul Away, Blow Boys, Roll

Dear Friends,

In a flooded retrofuturistic world, twelve misfit pilots set out in makeshift biplanes for a legendary island where the tallest buildings still poke through the waterline. After battling air pirates and a deadly ice storm, the lone survivor reaches the supposed location of the island, only to find endless water, a nearly empty fuel tank, and the ghostly voice of his commander still urging him onward.

Intrigued? That woeful tale is the story of this month's Hard Taco song, "The Flight for Old Brunswick." 

Lauren and I have become devotees of the Tree Town Pub Sing, a monthly gathering in the side room of a local Irish pub, where participants take turns leading a cappella singalongs.  I wrote "The Flight for Old Brunswick" so I'd have something new to teach the crowd at the next gathering. First, however, I needed to figure out the differences between three types of songs that I'd previously lumped together: sea shanties, folk ballads, and drinking songs. 

Sea shanties: We're miserable, but we're all in this together! We have to deal with hunger, poverty, exhausting labor, bad omens, and incompetent or cruel leadership. We punctuate the song with vaguely nautical commands such as "Heave away, haul away" or "Blow, boys, roll, boys, roll and blow." No one knows what we are hauling or blowing, but it is backbreaking work.

Folk ballads: Gather around, and in just twenty-five verses, we will recount a terrible event involving one or more of the following: shipwrecks, murders, executions, doomed expeditions, or a tragic malfunction at the local mill. We introduce plenty of named characters, at least one of whom has a military title, and refer to two oddly specific port towns. We bid farewell to our one true love and promise to return. We set out confidently, ignoring repeated warnings of impending doom. Disaster strikes. None survive, including the narrator. 

Drinking songs: Life is terrible. Let's have another round. We spend all our money and wake up somewhere unexpected. We make spectacularly bad decisions and defy authority. Let's have another round. We recount sexual misadventures with bawdy double entendres. We are old and have suffered the consequences of our crimes. We regret everything, so listeners should learn from our mistakes. But also, we regret nothing. Let's have another round. We mourn our dead friend, who turns out to be alive, although none of us is sober enough to notice.  We raise a toast to comrades and lovers and sing "toora loora, derry down fol diddle" until somebody buys another round. 

By the modified Child-Hugill Scale, "The Flight for Old Brunswick" is 70% folk ballad, 20% sea shanty, and 10% drinking song. If you want to be part of its first and only live performance, join us at Conor O'Neil's on November 9 at 7pm.

With warmest regards,

Zach

 

A Peek Under the Curtain and Behind the Sausage of How the Hood Gets Made

Are you exhausted from writing a unique and thought-provoking essay every 28-31 days for over two decades? Same, girl, same. Fortunately, sometime in the early 2000s, I developed a proprietary Mad lib-based algorithm that does almost all the work for me. All I have to do is randomly choose among a few predetermined choices, and the Hard Taco Digest basically writes itself. For the first time, I'm offering a look under the hood.

Dear (Friends / Executive Advisory Committee Members / Mrs. Claus),

The Hard Taco song for (October / the proletariat / six easy installments of $5.99) is called "Jeremiah's Place.” 

You’re going to (love / plagiarize / be traumatized by) this song because it (slaps / begs one to linger / will help you lose that stubborn belly fat). Also, it rhymes (Seattle with Skedaddle / Houston with Produced In / Miami with Salami because it is in Spanish).

(Speaking of which / Welp / You forget yourself, sir), you can’t step outside these days without running into a (clump / rogue’s gallery / specimen cupful) of (memorial benches / Adopt-a-Highway programs / Arctic Islanders). It’s sickening. 

But it's like (my Nonna / the Virgin Mary / the icing on the erotic cake) always said: 

(Pick one)

• An enemy isn't technically a sworn enemy until they get it notarized.
• Single payer healthcare sounds great until it’s your turn to be the payer.
• You’re not stupid, Salman Rushdie. You just need to apply yourself.
• Join me and together we shall at last bring order to the universe. Join me or die!
• Buyer’s remorse is common after breast augmentation surgery, so start with one boob and live with it for a couple of years to make sure you’re committed.
• A great surname for a Romanian superhero is Todorescu (pronounced “To the rescue!”)
• You can’t de-ice a plane without DEI. 
• Never put metal in the microwave, unless it’s the one true Ring of Power, in which case it will allow you to read the glyphs. 

Which, of course, begs the question:

(Pick one)

• Do zombies lactate? 
• So are you going to tell us the name of your supplier or should I keep this anti-serum to myself?
• Can unicorns breathe through their horn like a snorkel?
• If you have a first-class ticket and the bathroom is occupied, can you pee in the cockpit?

(With warmest regards/ Much to consider / Unhand me at once),

Zach

Persons With an Empty Nest

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for September is called “Can’t Relate.”

Speaking of things that are not relatable, our home in Ann Arbor is now child-free. The chicks have flown. The joeys have left the pouch. The baby barnacles have latched on to a new hull.  The tapeworms have moved on to that part of their life cycle that depends on people eating raw meat or feces or both. 

Friends keep asking if we’re ready to be empty nesters.  Frankly, I resent that label. A person with diabetes can be so much more than a diabetic, and a person who languishes in a domestic carapace whose deserted halls echo with the phantom peels of childhood laughter is not merely an empty nester. 

The transition from parent to barren husk is marked with nostalgia, but also opportunity. Lauren and I have been scheming about ways to avail ourselves of our newfound freedoms. First, with no kids around, we can take advantage of wholly new experiences like calling our kids on Sundays! Or showing up at their apartments/dorms unannounced!

But this also gives us a chance to get back to the activities we used to love before life got in the way, like travel. And that means I’ll finally finish my travel guide, “Disappointing American Streets.” Here is all I have written so far. 

Woodward Avenue, Detroit. The so-called Dream Cruise is neither. None of the cars are even close to new and they travel at the speed of a riding lawn mower. Don’t bother. If I wanted to see plodding obsolesce, I’d ask my great-grandfather to pull a string of wooden ducks on wheels when he was a toddler. 2 stars. 

Broadway, New York City. I saw dozens of brochures for “Off-Broadway” productions. The fact that being on any other street in the world is considered advertisement-worthy tells you everything you need to know about this cesspit. 2 stars. Would not recommend.

Bourbon Street, New Orleans. I’m an early riser, so I’m used to some Me Time during my morning stroll. But take a walk on Bourbon Street at 6 am and… Who Dat? Just some municipal sanitation workers opening all the manhole covers so they can hose sidewalk vomit into the sewers. Dat’s who dat is. If that’s your idea of bon temps, count me out.  2 stars. 

Beale Street, MEH-mphis. That’s the only spelling that properly conveys how utterly untroubled by anything interesting this city is. Beale Street is plain rice cakes served in a manilla folder. Even their barbeque sauce has no sauce. It takes commitment to achieve this degree of “nothing to write home about.”  All the postcards in Beale Street souvenir shops are blank on both sides. 2 stars. 

Michigan Avenue, Chicago. Nothing so magnificent about this mile.  There were no pasties. No Petoskey stones. No Superman ice cream. But sure, go ahead and call the street whatever you want. 2 stars. 

Beacon Street, Boston.  Picture the most boring adjective in the world. Now follow it up with the most mundane noun in the universe. With their powers combined, you’re left with… Brownstone. It’s the mineral equivalent of ennui, and it’s the only thing you will see for countless blocks in either direction. Say it with me… 2 stahs. Not wicked at all.

That’s all I’ve got so far, but I have firm plans to be disappointed in Haight Street, Rodeo Drive, Market Street, Madison Avenue, and the Los Vegas Strip in the next four years before the kids move back in!

With warmest regards,
Zach
 

End All Life In Wisconsin: The VIP Package

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for August is called, "Fig Leaves."  This song pairs well with monster truck rallies, military parades, yacht christenings, and pet funerals. I would not recommend it for candlelight vigils, naturalization ceremonies, or as interstitial music between TED Talks. 

This summer, Malcolm achieved licensure/certification to drive a motorboat in Wisconsin, allowing him to serve as waterski instructor at his sleep away camp. The certification does not have reciprocity in other states, so I assume the written test covered Wisconsin-specific safety topics, such as Musky right-of-way etiquette.

The camp administration covered the fees his boat safety course and certificate. This got him thinking — what if he wanted to level up his Wisconsin DNR privileges? How much would it cost to be certified in... everything? For starters, there are sixteen recreational pay-to-kill licenses, including deer, bear, and wolf hunting, fur dresser/dyer, general fishing, and sturgeon-spearing. You can also get inland trout stamps, the pheasant stamp, and goose permits. All told, you can complete the murder-everything grand slam for an annual fee of $547.75.

Bloodsport tourism is only one item on the menu. The DNR stands ready to cater to every conceivable outdoor appetite. Want to harvest wild rice and ginseng? Or maybe you'd like to sample a bit of light deforestation? A prescribed burn permit, a bough permit, a holiday tree permit, and the mysterious "fine woody material permit" would tack on an additional $200.

But perhaps you have outgrown these provincial indulgences? Curious about what it feels like to befoul Wisconsin's lakes and rivers? Valued patrons can purchase every line item on the DNR waterway and wetland fee sheet for $17,128. This includes boathouse certification, five acres of wetland identification, dam and utility permits, and the aquatic plant permit that allows you to pour herbicides and pesticides into the state's lakes.

Finally, for the most discerning connoisseurs of environmental degradation, the real delights await behind the curtain: Wisconsin's air pollution permits. Sure, the $231,500 fee is not cheap, but a true sportsman recognizes a bargain when he sees one. Why settle for anything less than the maximum emission credit permits, every available exemption, and the maximum fixed Title V and non-Title V annual fee categories? And of course, that doesn't include the emissions themselves, which are $35.71 per billable ton of pollutants, capped at 5000 tons per pollutant. To be clear, that cap is the fee cap, not a safety limit. Once you exceed 5000 tons, you are free to keep polluting for no additional fees! Most of our VIP recreational polluters will max out at least three pollutants at that cap.

This brings the grand total to $749,873 for the first year. This all-access fee will give you carte blanche to kill any wild animal in the state, destroy as many trees and plants as you desire, and pump the water and air with an unlimited quantity of deadly pollutants. Now it's quite possible that the air/water quality will kill off the fee collectors at the DNR, in which case, subsequent years will be free!

Sorry, I forgot to mention that it will also be $10 for that ski-boat driving certificate.

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Smoking Age of Empire

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for July is called, "Out of the Woodwork." I would never minimize the importance of this work by describing it as a mere social commentary. Rather, it is the social commentary, supplanting all prior attempts at satire and rendering future efforts largely ceremonial.    

The UK has done it again. 

First, they brought us Parliamentary government and the abolition of the slave trade. Then they introduced us to the gratifying comforts of colonialism and museum acquisition. In the 20th century, they gave the world John Lennon glasses and filthy tabloids. Finally, they peaked (or so we thought) when they validated our suburban inconveniences with "Keep Calm" mugs and tote bags.

But this year, they have truly established themselves as international trailblazers.

In 2026, the UK passed a landmark law to completely phase out a "bloody pernicious habit" over the next two generations. Under the Tobacco and Vapes Act, it is illegal to sell tobacco products to anyone born on or after January 1, 2009. Because the statutory smoking age rises by one year every year, individuals born after that date will never legally be able to purchase tobacco in their lifetime.

The public health enthusiast in me loves this idea. No more lung roulette for the Limeys. Their upper lips will remain stiff and their upper lobes will remain cancer-free. 

But one can't help but detect a whiff of Cromwellian virtue enforcement. I think a lot of Brits are probably asking themselves, "Wot's next, then? They gonna nick me Sex Pistols cassettes?"

I believe there is a famous poem about this: 

First they came for the cigarettes, and I did not speak out, because I was not a smoker. 

Then they came for our offensive football chants, and I did not speak out, because I only shout terrible things at referees when they are walking in and out of their own homes. 

Then, they came for the pub crisps and salad cream, and there was no one left to speak out for me. 

And where do you think this leaves us in the coming years? 

Let me set the scene. It's 2063, the youngest people still allowed to buy tobacco are turning 55. A group of 54-year-old men are loitering outside a Tesco. It's raining, and their umbrellas are all turned inside out. They are pacing impatiently.

"Bleedin' hell," says Mickey, a red-faced man with grey stubble and a West Ham scarf. "Me older sister Tracey is coming. Keep your hair on."

Graham, a thin, beaky man with wispy grey comb-over reminds them that they were already late for Dr. Who 100th Anniversary Watch Party (which everyone agrees has been going downhill since the 40th Doctor.)  

"Sod it, Graham, I know it," says Mickey, "I said Tracey would get us ciggies for the party, and she will. She's just held up at King's Cross, is all. Any you blokes got a fake ID?"

They all shake their heads solemnly. 

"Wait, Mickey," says Martin suddenly, perking up, "I think I've got it."

Next scene. Mickey is sitting on Martin's shoulders. They are wearing a giant overcoat, trying to impersonate a single 10-foot tall man. They awkwardly weave up to the check-out counter. 

"Hello, young miss, " says Mickey to the clerk. "I'll take this prune juice, some denture cream, these hearing aid batteries and, while I'm here... a sleeve of Marlboro Golds and two packets of Bensons."

The clerk starts ringing everything up. She looks up at the towering figure. Then up again. "You got any ID there, Mate? Just need to make sure you ain't under 60." 

"Under 60? Bless you. I haven't been carded since Oasis were still speaking." 

And then suddenly Martin's dodgy knee gives out, and they topple into the counter, prune juice splattering everywhere. A stern, mustachioed bobby bursts in, helmet gleaming. For some reason he is wearing a monocle. He bares his teeth and starts beating the fallen men with his truncheon. 

"Oi! What's all that then?" says everyone in the room at once, and the scene ends.

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Weekly Portion

Dear Friends, 

The Hard Taco song for June is called "Our Time Together." No matter what you think of it, I'll still probably do another one next month. So stop acting like you're the one in control here. 

I attended a couple of bar and bat mitzvahs in the last few weeks. 10/10 would recommend. The less you know about Jewish services ahead of time, the better. Sit through a bar mitzvah and you will feel like a transfer student at a Martian preschool. The room is full of books, but they are backwards and inside-out, and the head Martian is the only one who can read them. He or she keeps motioning for you to stand up, sit down, bend your knees, kiss a book, or get on your tiptoes. Sometimes, the head Martian covers their own eyes for a few seconds, and then shouts "Amen," which I assume is Martian for "peekaboo." 

And then there is the endless chanting; lilting nonsense, often with a call-and-response element.  The words are gibberish, but they are repetitive. Or almost repetitive, like they are saying "One, two, three, eyes on me," and the room responds, "One, two, eyes on you."

Okay, let's leave that analogy behind for a minute. The real reason to attend a bar mitzvah is to hear what the kid has to say in English. There's a section toward the end called the D'var Torah, where the 13-year-old tries to explain how a paragraph in a 2500-year-old text relates to their life as a modern American middle-schooler. They don't get to pick which part of the Torah to deconstruct... the passage is chosen for them based on an ancient algorithm that accounts for their birthday, the lunar calendar, the birthdays of other kids who might host competing parties, and, in Ann Arbor, the college football schedule.

The luckiest bar mitzvah kid is the one assigned to a well-worn bible story, such as the exile of Adam and Eve. That D'var Torah practically writes itself.

"In my Torah portion, Bereishit, Eve and Adam eat the fruit, which was against the rules, and God kicks them out of the garden. This applies to our lives, because growing up means making choices and taking responsibility. For me, the forbidden fruit is not doing homework. Even though I hate homework, doing it keeps me from getting kicked out of school, which is a lot like Eden, except that we wear more clothes. Rabbi Blumenstock showed me that when you really think about it, homework is actually important, even though I would love to never do any of it ever." 

The first third of the Torah is full of parables and familiar names, covering topics like the creation of the world, Noah's ark, Abraham and his family, baby Moses, Egyptian plagues, the Red Sea, and wandering in the desert. These are chock full of modern lessons. 

But after the Golden Calf bit, the Torah kind of loses the plot, and starts to read more like the minutes to a homeowner's association meeting. Highlights include exhaustive instructions about priesthood and tabernacle-building, footnotes about census-taking, and detailed inheritance laws. And this is where the speeches get really interesting.

The bat mitzvah I attended this week had a Torah portion about the appropriate protocol for accusing your wife of adultery. This stuff was unsettling, to say the least. If the husband suspects his wife and has no proof or corroborating witnesses, he brings her to the priest. The priest writes a curse on a scroll, soaks it in some water, adds some dirt from the floor, and makes her drink it. If she is innocent, nothing happens. But if she is guilty? Her thigh will sag and her belly will distend. This is actually what it says... her thigh will sag and her belly will distend. 

So how does the eighth-grade student apply all of this to modern life? It usually comes out sounding something like this: 

"In my Torah portion, there is a husband who becomes suspicious. Even though I have never accused someone of adultery in a formal priestly setting, suspicion still exists in our modern lives. For example, this reminds me of when my younger brother Evan says he didn't destroy my Minecraft house, even though the lava is still there and he is the only other person on the server. Like the priest in Naso, I want proof. But the priest doesn't just say, "She seems guilty." There is a thing to do to figure it out. In modern life, this means you should not necessarily scream, "You stole my diamonds!" until you check if you accidentally used them to make a hoe, which I have done, and which is also a tragedy. 

So I guess the lesson is that when we feel suspicious, we shouldn't jump to conclusions. We should check the server log and maybe build the next base farther away. The Torah reminds us that it's okay to feel upset when Evan gets praised for doing one chore while I have been unloading the dishwasher for years. But becoming a Jewish adult means not letting the jealousy control me and choosing communication over curse water. And Evan, if you did what I think you did, the guilt you feel will be worse than a sagging thigh. 

Shabbat Shalom."

Quality Shtick!

Dear Friends,

This month's Hard Taco song, "Wilt Chamberlain" is fire. It is a certified bop. Behold, this phat track is a crackdown thunderclap bootyknocker hot ass thumper beat-clapping neck-slapper jam. 

The opening salvo of this song, in which we repeatedly sing the titular basketball player's name, has been stuck in my head for over 30 years. The line was originally written for (and performed by) a group of prepubescent boys when I worked as cabin counselor at Camp Interlaken JCC in the mid-90s. 

Being staff at Interlaken was hands-down the best job I ever had. I spent four weeks with friends Adam Bilsky, David Butlein and a gaggle of insane sixth graders in Cabin Naphtali. (Interlaken has a delightfully mysterious tradition of naming cabins after ensemble characters in Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Joseph and Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." Nobody remembers why, but I love it!)

Back row, from left to right: Adam, David, Zach, an insane sixth grader

Every weekday before dinner, the whole camp assembled on a cement rectangle outside the dining hall for a ritual flag-lowering ceremony and the greatest of camp traditions, the evening shticks. One-by-one, each cabin group recited, in unison, an original joke, sketch, song, or poem. Most of these were cobbled together in the minutes preceding their performance, but we in Cabin Naphtali knew the importance of quality shticks. Adam and I dedicated what little downtime we had to crafting shticks that were both whimsical and satirical. Shticks that encouraged growth and self-reflection. As the session went on, we increasingly left our third co-counselor David to handle the less consequential responsibilities, such as supervising and entertaining the campers. 

But it was David who inadvertently inspired the greatest shtick of the summer, when he mentioned that Wilt Chamberlain claimed to have had sex with over 20,000 women. I found this to be noteworthy and compelling. It centered around a topic that I thought about constantly when I was seventeen... math. 

"That comes out to 2.3 each day for 24 years," I told Adam. We sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to wrap our minds around the logistics.  

It must have something to do with that mustache.  

"That's really something," he eventually said, picking up a guitar, "So... should we make a shtick about it?"  I nodded solemnly. Kids love sports, so a crisp anecdote about a distinguished athlete could prove unusually engaging. We would keep the content pithy and informational. We would deliver it with a sticky musical hook to promote knowledge retention. From an educational standpoint, it was the perfect shtick idea, really. 

Except for the part about all the sex. A cluster of 12-year-old boys chanting about Chamberlain's unparalleled lechery to the whole camp would certainly be memorable, but was the camp director ready for that depth of journalistic integrity? Or would he impugn our lesson as mission creep?

So we decided, instead, to fabricate an alternative history for Wilt Chamberlain, in which his notable feat was slightly different. In our song, Chamberlain bragged about having consumed over 20,000 multivitamin tablets during his lifetime. I know what you're thinking... that would have been an equally impressive accomplishment. Furthermore, sharing this knowledge with math-enthusiasts would allow them to experience the same arithmetic that I had so enjoyed. Plus, it shone a spotlight on a topic that Jewish parents cared deeply about - the prevention of nutritional deficiencies.

The Wilt Chamberlain shtick was epic. Or at least I think it was. I don't remember the music or lyrics, just the feeling. The catchy refrain that I borrowed for this month's Hard Taco song ("Wilt Chamberlain" x 8) is the only sliver that has not been lost to time. And while this new recording has almost nothing to do with either promiscuity or nutrition, I take comfort in the knowledge that it is still a pelvis-shattering serotonin canon of a banger earworm. 

With warmest regards,

Zach