DEFENDING ED SHEERAN | NAT’S LETTER

I have a bone to pick with the internet on this Ed Sheeran nonsense.

So here’s what happened: Ed Sheeran is a musician-shaped object who occasionally spews pop songs out into the world. Not long ago, this Sheeran went on tour so that he could spew the aforementioned music to groups of people gathered in large rooms across the world and, in so doing, rake in a bunch of sweet, sweet cash - for Ed but also for other people and corporate interests. 

But then, one of his opening acts had the audacity to say a couple of words.

Long story short: the right ears heard the wrong words; a rapper-shaped object named Macklemore was booted from the tour; suddenly everyone wants to fly up Ed Sheeran’s ass and explode.

The whole internet now wants to rally around Macklemore’s flag (purchased from a thrift store, I believe?) to defend him from what they perceive as a gross attack on our cherished collective right to free speech.

But not me! I’m going the other way!

 That’s right - it’s my heel turn, baby! I’m Team Sheeran!

Why would I do such a thing, you ask? Why would I zag when the rest of the entire internet is zigging so very hard? Because: I’m courting controversy. It’s part of a new content strategy I’m trying in the hopes that it will boost clicks.

And so I ask you, faithful readers: who will defend the cowards?

Consider, if you will, one poor, downtrodden Ed Sheeran. As a musician-shaped object, Ed holds no function other than to spew popular music out into the world and so rake in that sweet, sweet cash for the various other business interests that have allowed a Sheeran to Ed. He cares not for ‘humanity’ or of ‘others’ - certainly not those outside of his immediate sight - not through any fault of his own but because he has not been programmed that way.

His programming prioritizes spewing certain effective combinations of words, arranged in a melody and set to “music,” all optimized presumably to facilitate the shaking of rumps and, thereby, the emptying of pockets into coffers. The design specifies that a Sheeran’s combination of words must lack anything resembling controversy or offense or opinion regarding anything other than bodies, etc. in order to maximize the music-type substance’s financial potency.

Is there a tradition of using art as a sword to jab at the powerful? Sure. There’s also a tradition of eating food to feel good and absorb nutrients, but you wouldn’t ask that of a box of Kraft Easy Mac, would you?

So is it with an Ed Sheeran.

All of these calls decrying our favorite music box for not taking a stand on Palestine misunderstands the purpose of an Ed Sheeran. An Ed Sheeran does not make music for youths in Gaza. An Ed Sheeran sells music to, I don’t know, moms in suburban London? I’m sorry - I’m not super familiar with his fanbase or, for that matter, his music - to be perfectly honest with you, I failed to do any actual research about the subject and I’m just sort of shooting from the hip here. I’m engaging in discourse here, okay?! Give me a freaking break!

The point is, an Ed Sheeran has his own beliefs that an Ed Sheeran keeps private (unless it’s related to Ukraine), and that’s good enough. You would not ask a car speaker its opinions on trans women in sports, so why ask an Ed Sheeran about Palestine?

What, Macklemore, it’s so “brave” to point out that there’s an ongoing genocide in Gaza? Guess what? The ocean is wet! The sky is blue! What are some more obvious things we can say?

What, certain countries should stop killing children? I could write a thousand volumes about the things that should and should not happen - do you think anyone would give me money for that? And if so, how much? And how do I get in touch with them?

The fact is, anyone can say “Free Palestine” (except, of course, the people who’ve been fired for it or faced deportation for it or, you know, actually died a literal death for it) but it takes a real visionary to stand up in the face of the internet, as well as their own shame and their disappointed sense of decency, and proudly say “Free Commerce.”

What we fail to understand is that the machinery of our culture - indeed, that of our entire society - runs on the greasy gears of apathy and self-interest. We rely on the pursuit of our own gains, even in instances where we already have millions of dollars, because this is our duty. We must continue this struggle, even when the rest of our tour and even our backing band abandons us. 

And if those gains and that culture requires appeasing Robert Kraft - a wealthy man whose charges of soliciting prostitutes were dropped, by the way, in case you dare cast any aspersions upon this poor saintly man - then what we desperately need in this very moment are cowards.

Cowards like the much maligned musician-shaped object that goes by the brand of Ed Sheeran.

So there.

Uh.

Anyway, Robert Kraft is good - his Patriots Football Team is not evil - and I hope that he finds it in his heart to give me a lot of money by donating at the link.

And with all that said, we transition (through the power of italics) to the rest of our little newsletter….

BIT: IT’S THE ‘GROUNDHOG REPORT’ BIT, BUT FOR THE CANADIAN TRADE WAR

Those of you who read our last monthly newsletter from… uh… two months ago will know that our dear friend and mascot, Hormuz Hank, has gone a bit AWOL.

The rental service claims not to know his whereabouts, and despite following what we thought was a trail of clues in pursuit of the missing mammal our best efforts have come up empty-handed.

But thankfully, nobody cares about the Iran War anymore! Despite skyrocketing gas prices (as well as prices of everything else) with the effective closure of a second strait, we’ve all decided to move on, because thank our lucky stars we have a new self-made crisis:

We speak, of course, of the Canadian Trade War!

What’s that? You thought we were past all that bullshit when the Supreme Court ruled a certain someone couldn’t just slap tariffs on countries for no reason? Ohhhhh silly reader.

Silly, silly, silly.

But if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that economic policy doesn’t last - often longer than a couple of weeks - which leaves us wondering, how long is this bullshit going to go on this time? We’re all out of maple syrup and would prefer not to take out a loan to buy more.

Luckily, no rental required here! For, with the help of Google’s AI assisted search functions, we‘ve located a certain beaver renown for its powers of prognostication, who goes by the name of Tariff Tony.

Unluckily, Tariff Tony resides in a hovel hidden deep within the Boundary Waters on the border between the state of Minnesota and the province of Ottawa.

With nothing better to do over the past two months, your intrepid blogging team packed their gear, rented some sturdy waterborne vessels and paddled deep into the darkness lurking just beneath the forest canopy. 

The journey was long and arduous. In fact, we lost several unpaid interns to a panoply of diseases, the likes of which we’re still learning to pronounce.

After many weeks of feverish canoeing, we came upon a landing on the shores of a lake whose name has long since been forgotten to time. There, we found a veritable forest of skewers, each holding the disembodied head of a squirrel. Our Social Media manager immediately went mad, diving head-first into a shallow pool never to be seen again. 

This is why our site’s social media is so bad, by the way, and for no other reason.

Our guides begged us not to proceed into the hovel - apparently nobody had ever been inside and maintained their sanity - however we had come so far and lost so much and were in such need of new content that we moved aside the fresh deer carcasses covering the hovel’s entrance and crawled inside.

For hours we scooted through the tunnels, uncovering nothing but darkness permeating the burrows, stretching on forever seemingly to the depths of hell. We swear, even to this day and in defiance of all logic, that the temperature grew warmer the deeper we crawled into the abyss.

However, just as we felt our minds teetering on the edge of insanity, the tunnel opened out into a cavern lit by makeshift torches of animal fur and fat.

There, sitting upon a slab of onyx, we found the Beaver - who actually goes by Toni with an ‘i’, believe it or not.

We prostrated ourselves before Toni, laying down in the dirt and the grime, begging the furry oracle for a mere moment of time. 

Toni gave us a small nod. 

We laid out an offering - $70 worth of Grub Hub credits and a warm two-liter of Squirt.

Toni signaled his approval with a soft snort, and so we asked our question: tell us, oh Toni, how long could we expect Trump’s trade war to last with Canada?

Toni was silent for a while, pondering our question. We gazed into his eyes - one black as a starless night and one cloudy - for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, Toni descended his throne of onyx and scratched something in the dirt. When he was satisfied, Toni let out a shrill cry and then leapt straight up through a hole in the ceiling.

Bewildered, we knelt down besides the scratchings and transcribed what he had written.

“HOW THE FARK SHOULD I KNOW YOU’RE THE ASHHOLES THAT STARTED THIS SO ASK YOURSELVES WHYDONTYA. ALSO IT’S PRONOUNCED TONE YA JACKASSES”

Unfortunately, these words meant nothing to us, and try as we might we could not seem to break the code to reveal what we presumed must be some hidden message. Not even ChatGPT could decipher it to our satisfaction (although Chat did say some very nice things about our intelligence).

Saddened by the lack of an answer, but heartened that we at least had enough words to fill about two pages worth of a Google document, we packed up our gear and came directly back to Los Angeles.

…and now, in celebration of the autumnal season, I’d like to reprint my very favorite excerpt from a play that screams “FALL!” to me: The Crucible by Arthur Miller. 

This excerpt is verbatim from the script - don’t look don’t look don’t look to make sure okay pinky promise you won’t look - so I hope you’ll enjoy these eternal words.

FICTION: DOST THOU DENOUNCE THE PIKE?

ACT IV

The jail in Salem.

The Reverend Hale and Elizabeth Proctor stand in what will one day become a very popular tourist destination for history nerds and Halloween nerds alike.

HALE: Goody Proctor, as you have no doubt learned over the past couple of hours, I am a man of conscience and yet I find myself here, come to do the devil’s work and to counsel good Christians to belie themselves. Oh can you not see the blood on my head?!

ELIZABETH: Good Reverend Hale, I am several months pregnant with a family, my crops are rotting in the field for lack of enough hands to work them, and to top it off my husband is in jail for allegedly consorting with witches or some such nonsense.  In short, some of us have work to do. Can we come to the point?

HALE: I beseech you, help me to convince your husband. For life is God’s most precious gift, and it would be a damnable shame for John to give up his. He must lie - lie his ass off - and seek the mercy of the court.

ELIZABETH: I think that be the devil’s argument. But to be honest, our town and our officials haven’t exactly covered themselves in glory, what with the whole witchhunt nonsense and the twelve good people they’ve already executed, so let me speak with him.

HALE: So it shall be and, in fact, I think I hear him coming anon! I’ll retire to the adjoining room so that you can have some privacy. May God lead you now.

Hale exits. Elizabeth sighs, shakes her head, cracks her neck. 

John Proctor, filthy and bearded and yet somehow still incredibly handsome in that gangly, multiple-Academy-Award-winning way, is led out of his cell by Herrick the jailer. 

Herrick scratches his crotch, belches and then goes, leaving just Elizabeth and Proctor.

A charged moment between the two before Proctor opens his mouth:

PROCTOR: Jail is terrible. I do not like this, like, at all.

ELIZABETH: I imagine, it probably sucks pretty bad. Have you been tortured?

PROCTOR: Whipping and beating and reciting Psalms.

ELIZABETH: That sounds pretty bad.

PROCTOR: Makes me think, you know, maybe I’ve made some mistakes. Not the witchcraft stuff, but. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with that, uh, what’s her name…?

ELIZABETH: Abigail Williams, the young woman who served us under our own roof?

PROCTOR: Did I ever apologize to you about that?

ELIZABETH: Funny, I do not believe so.

PROCTOR: Well. I am sorry.

ELIZABETH: And now, because a certain Proctor could not keep his John in his pantaloons, and because of the vindictive streak of that young woman, the council have decided to try you for all sorts of ludicrous charges, making insane accusations the very utterance of which offend the pride of any self-respecting man.

PROCTOR: It’s okay. I’ve decided to lie.

ELIZABETH: Oh. Really?

PROCTOR: Yeah. Have you seen the cockroaches in here? I’m worried they’ll stomp me under foot. No - I’ve had enough of this. I’m lying my way out. Whatever they want me to confess, they’ll get it.

ELIZABETH: You don’t need to have, like, a conversation about this? No grappling with your soul, or gnashing of the teeth? You’re not going to ask ‘what will you have me do?’ Or anything like that?

PROCTOR: Nope! Just straight up going to confess to everything and get it over with. They clearly don’t care if I mean it, so why should I? I want my life and I will have it.

ELIZABETH: Okay. Fine. I cannot judge you. Let me just get the guys…

Suddenly, Hawthorne and Danforth and Cheever and Hale and Parris and a bunch of other old white men in silly Pilgrim outfits spill in through the door.

DANFORTH: Worry not, Goody Proctor, for we are all here - having waited with baited breath for our entrance just offstage in the wings - and are ready to take the confession. Hullo John. Good to see you. I wish it were under less awkward circumstances.

PROCTOR: Likewise, Tommy. Let’s get this over with before the sun rises and you all have to murder me.

DANFORTH:. Quite. Well, Cheever, have you a cellular telephone with which to post the confession?

Cheever brandishes an iPhone.

CHEEVER: At the ready!

Proctor looks aghast.

PROCTOR: I’m sorry - must it be posted?

HAWTHORNE: Why indeed, for the instruction of the villagers. Others must not fall into the same trap as you, John, otherwise what would be the point? Anyone can say anything!

PROCTOR: Very well, then. Proceed.

DANFORTH: And now we get to the juicy bits. Let me just pull out the charges.

He unrolls a very long scroll and begins to recite.

DANFORTH: Mr. Proctor, have you seen the Devil in your life?

PROCTOR: I did.

PARRIS: God be praised, he confesses!

DANFORTH: Did he come before you and bid you do his service?

PROCTOR: He did.

PARRIS: God be praised again!

DANFORTH: And so, did you commune with the devil?

PROCTOR: Sure.

PARRIS: Oh snap!

Elizabeth rolls her eyes at the spectacle.

DANFORTH: And so now, do you renounce the devil?

PROCTOR: Yes.

DANFORTH: And do you denounce his ways?

PROCTOR: I do.

DANFORTH: And do you, John Proctor, now before God and everyone else here, do you denounce Hasan Piker?

PROCTOR: I… don’t… what?

The Old White Pilgrims share a concerned look.

DANFORTH: I say again clearly, do you denounce Hasan Piker?

PROCTOR: No, I heard you the first time. I just don’t know - is that some type of fish?

ELIZABETH: Like, is that the name of a Pike?

PROCTOR: What exactly is a Hasan Piker?

HAWTHORNE: Do not you play coy with us, John Proctor, for if you saw the Devil then you must surely have seen Hasan Piker, who stands always at the Devil’s side!

DANFORTH: Without this confession, John, your testimony is useless to us.

PROCTOR: Guys, look, I want to lie to you about this…

PARRIS: Not a lie!

PROCTOR: Sorry - yes - I would like to confess to you about this. I’m only struggling because I have no idea who or what you’re talking about. This is…

HAWTHORNE: He’s a Twitch streamer.

PROCTOR: Ah. A stream because he’s a fish?

ELIZABETH: Twitch as in twitching? Like a nose?

DANFORTH: Don’t you two know anything? Twitch. It’s called Twitch. 

ELIZABETH: Excuse us, not all of us have time to be terminally online - some of us have a farm to run.

DANFORTH: He’s a socialist twitch streamer. Surely you’ve heard of him. He wants to give people universal health care.

ELIZABETH: …like Jesus?

DANFORTH: Also, he’s said some very nasty things that, when taken out of context, sound even nastier.

PARRIS: And, he hates Israel.

ELIZABETH: …do you mean the part of the Ottoman Empire?

HAWTHORNE: Finally, and most importantly, he’s trying to destroy everything we’ve been building here in our new paradise!

CHEEVER: Also, there’s this picture of him - he’s in his underwear and he’s posing in front of his mirror - one arm stretched overhead to display his washboard abs - a tight blue pair of under-pantaloons so taught that one can see the outlines of his wickedness - wicked, wicked Hasan Piker and his accursed meat pics! On an unrelated note, I don’t think I can make the scripture readings tonight, fellows, I have… urgent matters to attend to at home.

ELIZABETH: I’m sorry, but this is getting out of hand. Not just the Hasan Piker thing, but like what century are we in right now? We’re all wearing Pilgrim outfits and talking about witch burnings, but also there are cellphones and Twitch? This is an anachronistic nightmare! How did this play win the Tony Award for 1953?  I feel like we’ve completely lost our way here, and I’m beginning to wish I never saw that audition post on Actor’s Access.

DANFORTH: Quite right, Goody Proctor, let us get back to the task at hand. John Proctor, if you wish to save your life then we must have your confession, and that confession must denounce Hasan Piker. 

PROCTOR: Fine! Yes! Whatever you need! I denounce Hasan Piker, and I denounce Mehmet Halibut and Omar Red Snapper and whoever and whatever else you need! Only, let this farce end!

DANFORTH: Very well.

PARRIS: God be praised!

DANFORTH: Your confession has satisfied the assembled. Now, you need only post it.

Cheever hands the iPhone to Proctor.

PROCTOR: Wait a minute. This is my phone. And my Twitter account!

CHEEVER: It’s called X now, get with the times.

DANFORTH: As we said, your confession is for the good of the village. Without your post, on your very own account, your words mean nothing.

Proctor is torn. His face contorts. His hands shake. He’s really acting now. Like, really acting. It’s maybe the best, most emotional moment you’ve ever seen in your theater-going life - and you’ve been to a bunch of plays. Not so much lately - I mean who can afford tickets anymore? - but in your 20’s you were all about the theater.

Finally, Proctor shakes his head. He tears the iPhone in half like a piece of paper.

CHEEVER: Oh, what?

DANFORTH: Mr. Proctor…

PROCTOR: I’ve done enough.

CHEEVER: What did you do to that phone?

DANFORTH: You have not conf–

PROCTOR: I’ve confessed myself! I’ve denounced the Devil! I’ve denounced Hasan Piker! You all heard it! What more do you need?

DANFORTH: We need your post!

CHEEVER: That’s an expensive-ass glass iPhone and you ripped it apart like a raccoon with a hunk of cheese!

PROCTOR: I’ll proclaim my guilt to high heaven but I will not post this to my account!

DANFORTH: Explain to me why–

PROCTOR: Shouting, a massive emotional catharsis Because it is my Twitter handle!! Because I cannot have another, at least not John.Proctor69nice!! Because I have followers who will be very confused and upset with me!! How can I live without my handle?!

HALE: Elizabeth, please! Talk to your husband! Make him see the error in his ways!

ELIZABETH: I checked out of this scene, like, a full page ago. Some of us have real problems.

A moment of pause as Danforth and crew, Proctor and Elizabeth all digest the circumstances.

HAWTHORNE: Okay, well, hanging it is!

CURTAINS!!

And so, we reach the conclusion of another silly little newsletter. If you enjoyed any part of this, please feel free to forward it or share it with someone! Don’t be shy!

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Hope you’ve enjoyed!  Love each other! Take care of each other!