Reddpath

Miles Zusman would never get elected to Congress without a campaign war chest. He needed to raise donations. Even more important than that, he needed people to raise money for him. If that was every going to happen he needed the support of the state Republican Party. He drove 100 miles south to Phoenix, the temperature rising with each passing longitude, to introduce himself to the head of the Arizona Republican Party, a pudgy man named Charlie Quakenbush. Dark and romantic notions about life in politics filled his head as he walked in the door. The chest was puffed because Miles Zusman had used self-talk to tell himself an endless stream of nice and impressive things about himself. It was a technique that worked well in the past en route to job interviews, public speaking events, blinds dates and such. Quakenbush projected a cool air of authority. Aspirants came through his door daily, and Miles was just another warm body looking for a higher station in life. They all ar

Ringo was a problem child from the time adoring faces peered into his incubated crib on the day of his birth and prophesized that he would one day become President of the United States. Not only did he lack any interest in the nation’s top job, Ringo didn’t want to be employed at all. He was flat-out allergic to work. When, later in life, he discovered that a disease known as chronic fatigue syndrome existed, he immediately claimed that as his affliction. Subsequent medical tests for auto-immune disease proved that was not the case, leading us to conclude what we had assumed all along — that our brother was simply lazy. Exertions of all kinds were avoided so fervently that he expended more energy evading work assignments than would have been required to actually complete the task. Happiness would have been to spending his life sitting in front of the TV set watching sports programming and sponging off the Marciano family welfare system. Alas, parents and siblings organized sever

Coach Roman Hoyt gathered us at center court to give instructions about our afternoon practice. His mustache was still greasy from lunch and his tear-gas breath was blowing us backward with the smell of grilled onions. Hoyt was flanked by assistant coach Johnnie Eureka, who was dribbling a basketball while Hoyt droned on, and trainer Danny Fazlow, whose sour expression showed he was having yet another bout of acid reflux. Hoyt notified us that it was time for a full-intensity scrimmage game, the starting five versus the “B” squad. Our opening game against Yukon State was just a few weeks away. The scouting report on Yukon State was that the team was short on talent and speed. They compensated for these deficits by being extremely physical, which was an especially gross experience for opposing teams because the boys from the Yukon had excessive body hair and bulbous foreheads. They were men reminiscent of an earlier geologic era. “They’re slow but powerful,” Hoyt said. “Th

One couldn’t help but have concluded that Uncle Nunzio was predestined to play a lifelong role as culinary wizard and restaurateur. From his early teens he was standing next to the stove, at his mother’s elbow, getting splattered with hot grease, asking questions, helping her cook and being called a “femme” by his jeering brothers. Nunzio would not be deterred. He was fascinated by food’s plant, animal and mineral origins, and how they could be paired and fused in ways that electrified the taste buds. The universality of food was remarkable to him. It was the most significant thing all living entities had in common — the need to consume nutrition. The old woman never tired of giving her protégé detailed explanations of food combinations, cooking temperatures, culinary styles and the proper use of kitchen utensils. She taught her son the treasured family recipes hailing from a mountainous Abruzzo Province east of Rome and dating back numerous generations. Nunzio started with si

  Food is an American phenomenon. It has replaced sex as the nation’s chief form of intimacy. We take it in our mouths, masticate it with our teeth, maul it with our tongues and swallow it into our bodies. It’s second only to the weather as a topic of conversation between strangers and casual acquaintances. A fine meal is a mandatory accompaniment to any romantic encounter. An aptitude for cooking and food preparation is the most essential talent a spouse can bring to marriage. It’s often used to spice up our sex lives. Frank Sinatra famously ate a ham- and-egg breakfast off the chest of a Las Vegas call girl. Less famous lovers dip and smear genitalia with flavored oils, lotions and syrups. I once gnawed a pair of edible panties off my wife’s pelvis. Friends wouldn’t think of sharing significant moments without breaking bread. Food is so abundant in post-industrial societies that eating isn’t strictly about subsistence a

 @copyright 2018/Mike Consol Lolita Firestone then invited audience members to step onto the stage, one by one, and participate in satsang . An old woman claiming to be 1,000 years of age came to the mic. “I'm speaking for the first time in three years,” she said. “I just left the monastery.”   Next up was a physics professor from Yavapai Community College who insisted he was putting the finishing touches on the long-sought Unified Theory of the Universe that would prove the existence of God. “Einstein had it wrong,” he said, “or at least incomplete. I’m just a few months away from cracking the code, after which we will have the Theory of Everything, and it will be a coherent framework, all-encompassing and fully interconnected. Sitting at the center of the whole shebang will be the Divine Light of the Creator. Case closed.” @copyright 2018/Mike Consol

 @copyright 2020/Mike Consol Lava flowed from the pulpit of  the Baptist Church of the Holy Apocalypse,  Preacher Elias Gentry presiding. His was the most vocal and condemnatory Christian voice in the community and was on a campaign against the slew of “spiritual” organizations — whose beliefs were deeply embedded in Hinduism, Taoism and other far eastern religions — that had sprouted and gained traction in his community. There was one  in particular that  obsessed Preacher Elias. It was called Divinity’s Rainbow and he was thundering during his Saturday and Sunday services against its wicked appropriation of souls, under the guise of something called  satsang , a Hindi word meaning something approximating “spiritual discourse” or “sacred gathering.” The weekly  satsang  of Divinity’s Rainbow involved its members taking standing one by one at the microphone and expounding about their spiritual beliefs and experiences. Preacher Elias had already been quoted in the local newspaper railin