This year, I decided to let AI tell me what my New Year’s Goals should be. Not sure my AI program quite understood who it was dealing with (nor what I look like). I think it may have mistaken me for someone who possessed the best attributes of Gandhi, Neil Armstrong, and LeBron James.
I have always struggled to come up with meaningful yet achievable New Year’s resolutions. Mostly because I tend to aim for “dramatic life transformation” and end up achieving “naps with good intentions.”
I usually set the bar way too high and inevitably bail on my resolutions – though, to be fair, I almost always make it through most of January. Not early January. Late January. I’m not a quitter – I’m a lazy quitter. Which, frankly, deserves some sort of commemorative plaque.
As another new year loomed, I found myself staring into the abyss of January 1st with a level of lethargy best described as Olympic-caliber procrastination. The mere thought of commitment sent me curling into the fetal position, contemplating hibernation – ideally under three blankets, clutching a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream (my favorite), while whispering, “I’ll circle back to this next year.”
One night, while deep in existential reflection (and aggressively side-eyeing a box of Krispy Kreme glazed donuts), I had what I believed was a stroke of genius: why not let artificial intelligence set my New Year’s resolutions for me? After all, these self-learning robots spend their days crunching massive amounts of data, the same way I crunch Doritos while binge-watching Ted Lasso. Clearly, we’re both problem solvers.
AI programs like ChatGPT are supposed to be brilliant, right? So, I sat down at my keyboard, watched a couple of hilarious cat videos to “mentally prepare,” and then summoned my digital assistant. I asked it to generate a list of New Year’s resolutions that would catapult me into a year of success and glory – mainly to impress my friends (both of them).
Within seconds, the AI bot spit out a list that, if I’m being honest, felt less like “personal goals” and more like a ransom note.
The first resolution? “Win the Olympic gold medal in Milano in the luge competition.”
Now, setting aside the fact that I’ve always considered myself more of a Giant Slalom guy, the idea of flying down an icy chute at almost 100 mph did sound thrilling. Actually, I’m not entirely certain what a luge is, but I believe it involves ice, speed, and muscles I stopped using during the Clinton administration. I maintain a long-standing policy of avoiding any activity that involves intense exertion – unless it’s cracking crab legs for dinner.
If “sliding gracefully through life on a couch” were an Olympic sport, I’d already be sponsored by Nike.
AI suggested as a goal for the new year that I “win the Nobel Peace Prize.” Okay, so I was able to get Tommy Miller and Hank Scott to stop hitting each other when we were all 8 years old by offering them each a ride on my Schwinn. Not sure that’s enough to net this award.
Next on the list: “Solve the war between Ukraine and Russia.”
Whoa. That feels a little outside my core competencies, which are, ranked in order: sleeping, eating, and patting kitties. International diplomacy did not crack my top 20 list of abilities.
I can barely negotiate who gets the last slice of pizza without someone storming off in anger. Tackling global conflict seems… ambitious.
Then came this gem: “Develop a cure for cancer.”
Fantastic. Here I am, lucky if I can cook a grilled cheese sandwich without setting off the smoke alarm, and the AI bot thinks I’m a candidate to crack one of the greatest medical mysteries of our time. Somewhere, Anthony Fauci just felt a chill.
And just when I thought the list couldn’t get any more detached from reality, the AI added: “Become the first person to set foot on Mars.”
Mars?! I’d settle for becoming the first person in my neighborhood to vacation in the Maldives. Did I miss the announcement where NASA started recruiting seventy-year-olds with bad knees, worse hearing, and a strong aversion to turbulence? I get nauseous on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride. I’m not exactly launch-pad material. Hell, I can barely handle economy seating, let alone zero gravity. And come to think of it, I thought Matt Damon already beat me to it.
After reviewing my AI-generated aspirations – each about as realistic as me being crowned the next King of Norway (though, at age 88, King Harald V could keel over any day now) – I realized some recalibration was needed.
So, I went back to ChatGPT and politely asked it to “dial back the ambitiousness.” Surely the smart robots could meet me halfway. Something manageable. Something attainable. Something like remembering to water my hydrangeas before they unionize.
The second list was… more grounded. And noticeably judgier.
The first resolution: “Try not to gain more than 10 pounds this year.”
Wow. Straight for the jugular. I could hear my bathroom scale silently snicker, “Good luck, buddy.” Ah yes, the classic “set the bar so low you can crawl over it” strategy. No, that wasn’t too humiliating.
Then: “Remember your wife’s birthday for once.”
Okay, I didn’t need the AI’s snarky tone here. But fair point. Honestly, I probably have a better chance of remembering what a luge is.
Next: “Call your mother more often.”
Which might worry my wife a little bit, given that my mom passed away five years ago. Either the AI missed a detail… or it’s suggesting some truly advanced paranormal communication technology.
It also recommended I “shower at least every other day.”
Hmmm. Bold. Aspirational. Possibly unrealistic. But I’m willing to take on a couple stretch goals.
Finally: “Eat more vegetables.”
When I tweaked my AI query to shoot for more realistic goals, it came back with “Mow your lawn at least once a month.” Okay, so that sounds like something I might be able to achieve – but only if my neighbors cheer me on to keep me from giving up.
I agreed – so long as french fries, ketchup, and popcorn continue to be defined as vegetables, as in the food pyramid from my childhood in the early 1960s.
Reviewing my revised AI-generated resolutions, I felt cautiously optimistic… and mildly humiliated. The goals were modest, achievable, and clearly written by an algorithm that thought I was in second grade.
Still, I’m committed to achieving at least 25% of them – through January. February is a whole different animal. I’m not Superman.
So, here’s to the new year! While I may not win Olympic gold, solve world peace, cure cancer, or colonize Mars, I probably can shower occasionally, remember an important birthday, and gain less weight than last year. And who knows? If I nail this admittedly low bar, maybe next year the AI Gods will upgrade the challenge level of my goals from “second grader” to “elementary school graduate.”
Baby steps.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to Google “luge” and reward myself with some Doritos.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I knew it was a matter of time before this “Tim Jones” fellow would crack. As the lead detective on this case, I had to get to the bottom of how it was so many people were subscribing to his weekly humor blog when clearly the chump had no talent at all. It just didn’t add up.
THE SCENE: Pre-dawn on a rainy Sunday in the disheveled office of Detective Drake Marlboro of the Seattle Police Department, 9th Precinct. For the past 3 hours, Marlboro, a chain-smoking, grizzled, no-nonsense gumshoe has been interrogating a middle-aged man with no fashion sense by the name of Tim Jones.
Jones was picked up on suspicion of maliciously harassing innocent civilians by posting offensive commentary on the web about parenting, politics, and how many cats people should adopt, plus a long list of other lame topics. But something just didn’t add up. Detective Marlboro suspected Jones was holding back the truth. And so our story begins…
It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name (sounded fishy to me) – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be hackneyed writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up. I’ve been a detective for 30 years. I knew it was just a matter of time before he would spill the beans. I was going to crack this case before that snake Lieutenant Jaworski in Homicide could spell “collar.” I was sure I was close.
Jones was fidgeting with his plastic Casio watch – the guy had as much class as a cubic zirconium unicorn. He was looking confused and anxious, wanting desperately to flee the confines of the cold, windowless interrogation room so he could return to the cushy comfort of his suburban living room recliner and watch another episode of The Big Bang Theory he’d recorded on his DVR. Not tonight, fella. Not ‘til I get some answers.
I offered him a cup of coffee. “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee. Do you happen to have any Diet Mountain Dew?” he asked a little too eagerly. What law-abiding adult in Seattle doesn’t drink coffee – and asks for a teenager’s soft drink instead? Now I knew he was a two-faced liar. I was done playing “good cop,” waiting for his innocent, deer-in-the-headlights façade to crack. This had gone on long enough. It was time to tighten the screws. I lit another smoke.
“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that thousands of readers from all across the country willingly subscribe to your weekly humor blog? Is that your story? How? I want answers, and I want ‘em NOW,” I barked as I pounded my fist on the one-way mirror, behind which Lt. Jaworski was watching, no doubt taking notes on how he could steal this case from me. What a frickin’ snake, that Jaworski.
“I’m just as confused as you are, Sergeant Marlboro. Have you actually read any of my stuff?
“That’s DETECTIVE Marlboro, fella…”
“Sorry, Detective. I mean, I’m just as mystified as you are as to why anybody would read my weekly rants. Even my wife begged me to stop writing years ago, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a sickness.”
“Sickness, eh? Well, I’m sick of your lying to me, goddammit.” I glared at him, as he awkwardly shifted his legs on the rusty metal fold-out chair. I took another puff on my Camel filter and blew a charcoal wave of smoke in his face. “Sure. Whatever you say, pal. I got all night.”
Jones pleaded, “What are you charging me with, Marlboro? Is it a crime to write lame humor, officer?”
“The way you write, it sure as Hell is,” I growled back. “And for the last time, it’s Detective, you little weasel.”
This Jones fellow was such a loser. After two hours of my dogged interrogation, he refused to answer any more questions until I agreed to give him back his favorite teddy bear Sparkles, to cuddle with. Pathetic. Just pathetic.
By now Jones was nervously twisting his wedding ring, no doubt coming to the realization that his humor writing was nothing short of criminal – or at the very least a misdemeanor. So how was it he got away with writing this crap for the past sixteen years without being shut down by the Feds? I needed to crack this case and fast – Jaworski was ready to pounce.
But what was Jones’ angle? For the money? Hell, no. This dude wasn’t that clever. I could tell from the fact he wore white socks with his Teva sandals. Now, that’s a crime in itself!
Another hour crept by, like a filthy rat creeping around a dank, dark sewer for, well, about an hour. I started in on my second pack of Camels. “Don’t you find it strange that so many people have tried to unsubscribe from your weekly tome only to keep getting your posts week after week?”
“I’m not sure I would call it a ‘tome’, Detective. I’d say it’s more of an ‘essay.’”
“Don’t get smart with me, chum,” I snarled. I wasn’t buying his ‘Mr. Innocent’ routine. So I grabbed a copy of his latest piece and began to read. What I read next confounded me:
“It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be bad writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up.”
I had this sudden eerie sense of déjà vu. Then I looked back up at the top of this page and saw. He was stealing my story for his blog, the little conniving bastard.
Jones continued to fidget with his Batman secret decoder ring – the one he claimed he got at the dentist last week for having no cavities. “Like I’ve told you five times, Detective Marlboro, I have no idea why you’re keeping me here. I just like to write. Is it my fault that I’m not very good at it? Who am I hurting?”
“Me for one, you little putz,” I shouted. “Reading your crap is like being forced to drink my own urine.”
“Really? That bad, eh?”
“Worse. Ain’t you got no compassion for the innocent kids who might stumble upon your blog?”
“Actually, the expression is, “Have you no compassion. ‘Ain’t you got no’ is not a grammatical – “
That chump owes me a frickin ’apology – for wasting the past five goddamn hours of my life. He kept droning on about his favorite articles. “Stop,” I screamed. “Not another word. Just shut your trap!” This guy was really getting on my nerves. He had to be lying. Nobody could possibly write such inane drivel week after week, year after year and not go insane. And who the freak wears shorts on a rainy night in March? What a loser.
I decided to read a couple of his posts just to be sure I wasn’t missing an important clue. I could barely stomach the first piece called Lessons in Bonding. He was killing me with this stream-of-consciousness bull crap. I looked away from his annoyingly chirpy grin. Dawn was slithering in like… like something that slithers… in the dawn.
The drivel pounding on my brain was as unrelenting as the drizzle pounding on the roof. I looked at his Casio. It blinked 6:47am. We’d been at this for over six hours. But instead of cracking, he just kept on reciting an endless list of his favorite posts – from always lying to your kids, to his sports-impaired wife. I was on my 7th cup of lukewarm Joe, and this goober was still rambling mindlessly on. One of his posts even warned me to not to let my dishwasher destroy my marriage. The guy was a numskull, though on that last one, he had a point.
I finally decided that as criminal as his humor writing was, no one was more a victim of his crimes against humanity than himself. I put out my last Camel, blew the smoke in his face and sneered at this turkey. “Get outta here, ya’ punk. I guess I can’t charge you with anything – yet. And maybe I can’t stop you from writing this crap. But for the love of Pete, please do me one favor.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Get yourself a goddamn editor. This week’s piece is way too long!”
I thought that was the end of this story. But the very next week, I got an email inviting me to check out his latest blog piece – called The Interrogation. Sounded fishy. Some twisted fiend must have added me to Jones’ humor blog subscriber list. And I’m pretty sure I know the slime dog who would have signed me up. Goddamn Lieutenant Jaworski. That dirty rotten scoundrel.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
As someone who pretends to be a writer (translation: I have a laptop and opinions), I take the craft seriously. I’ve studied the greats: Hemingway, Twain, and the guy who writes the fortunes inside fortune cookies. I’ve learned that before you write a single word of your Great American Novel (or 600-word scathing Yelp review of your dentist), you must first answer one critical question: What font should I use?
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Who cares? Just use Times New Roman and move on with your life.” Well, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Times New Roman is a fine font if you’re writing a term paper or a ransom note, but it lacks pizzazz. Fonts speak. They have moods. They have vibes. Arial says, “I’m professional but still down to party.” Courier New says, “I miss typewriters and the 1940s.” Wingdings says, “I’m off my meds again.”
But there’s one font – one font – that has been mocked, maligned, and metaphorically tarred and feathered more than any other: Comic Sans.
Ah, Comic Sans. The font equivalent of dad jokes and black knee-high socks with sandals. It has been called childish, chaotic, ugly, unprofessional, and the “Crocs of typography.” People hate Comic Sans with the kind of passion usually reserved for bee stings and people who clap when the plane lands.
It’s been the target of internet rage for decades. Entire websites have been devoted to its humiliation. Twitter (now known as “X” because apparently we’re all in an Elon Musk fever dream) had thousands of tweets from typographic vigilantes who wanted to burn Comic Sans to the ground and salt the earth behind it. There was even a group that created something called the Ban Comic Sans Manifesto, which sounds like a political rebellion but with more kerning (look it up).
The hate runs so deep, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone lost a job because they handed in their resume in Comic Sans. (Though to be fair, if you’re submitting your resume in Comic Sans, maybe unemployment is a growth opportunity.)
Elizabeth in Accounting just got the office memo about the company’s Holiday Office Party. She was going to go, until she noticed the entire memo was written in Comic Sans. Just as well. Elizabeth is no fun at parties.
But here’s the thing…What did Comic Sans ever do to you, buddy? It’s a font. Just a font. It’s not like it kicks puppies or uses speakerphone in public. It doesn’t tailgate you on the freeway or mow its lawn next door at 7 in the morning. It’s just trying to live its best sans-serif life, and the world keeps throwing shade harder than a solar eclipse.
Let’s look at the origin story. Comic Sans was created in 1994 by a Microsoft designer named Vincent Connare. (Yes, someone willingly admitted to creating Comic Sans. And no, he’s not in witness protection.) It was originally designed for use in comic book-style speech bubbles in software designed for children.
So naturally, grown adults took this playful font for kids, used it to make funeral invitations and legal documents, and then blamed the font for looking “immature.” That’s like blaming a teddy bear for not fitting in at a corporate board meeting. Comic Sans wasn’t designed to look like a Wall Street banker. It was meant to look like a cartoon balloon with dreams. A bubbly little font that just wants to make your PowerPoint presentation feel like a 2nd grade birthday party. Is that so wrong?
But no, the world said, “You’re not Helvetica. You’re not Calibri. You’re not even Gill Sans. You’re the Nickelback of fonts.”
Personally, I think we’re being a little harsh. It’s not Comic Sans’ fault that Karen from HR used it on the company-wide sexual harassment policy memo. Or that your kid’s third-grade science fair trifold looked like a ransom note from Elmo. That’s user error.
The truth is, Comic Sans is inclusive. It’s the golden retriever of fonts – friendly, approachable, and maybe a little bit goofy, but it means well. It’s not trying to impress you with its serifs. It’s just trying to make your dentist’s reminder postcard a little less terrifying.
And before you throw stones from your Adobe Creative Suite, let’s remember that design trends are like bell bottoms – they all come back eventually. Today we mock Comic Sans. Tomorrow, you’ll be wearing Crocs with socks while reading a self-help book in Papyrus font.
Fun Fact: Comic Sans was created by Microsoft designer Vincent Connare in 1994 for a program called Microsoft Bob, a user-friendly interface for young children. In focus groups, they later discovered that even DOGS can’t stand the font.
Let’s take a moment to consider how Comic Sans must feel. Other fonts get to be on wedding invitations, luxury hotel signage, and the credits of Netflix documentaries. Comic Sans gets stuck on passive-aggressive PTA flyers and the occasional ironic meme.
It’s the Rodney Dangerfield of typefaces. No respect.
So, I say it’s time to end the font-shaming. Let Comic Sans live! Let it frolic freely across the digital fields of Word docs and email signatures. Let it brighten the spreadsheets of our lives with its curly optimism.
And if that doesn’t convince you, just remember this: somewhere out there, a young graphic designer just got berated by their boss for using Comic Sans on a promotional poster. And they’re weeping into their pumpkin spice latte. Don’t laugh at them, you monster.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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How many cats is the right number for you? Some people have difficulty knowing when to stop. Like this lady. When she got to the point that she couldn’t take 3 steps without tripping over a cat, that should have been a tipoff she had a few too many furry house guests.
As someone who’s lived with cats throughout my entire marriage (my wife required me to insert “and our cats” into my wedding vows), I often have people come up to me asking questions like, “Dude, why are you staring at me?” But sometimes they ask, “Tim, how many cats is the right number to own?” My response: “How many potato chips are you supposed to eat? Just one? Impossible! Same with cats.” [And to my neighbor, Bert, who sometimes takes my words too literally, I did not mean to imply that like potato chips, you should actually eat lots of cats. Just pet them, for God’s sake.]
As a lifelong cat enthusiast and part-time lint roller tester, I consider myself a leading authority on the subject of the ideal cats-to-humans ratios. We’ve been cat owners for four decades. Of course, the matter of who in this partnership are the true owners – us or our cats – is a topic of heated ongoing debate with our feline companions.
All our cats joined our family the same way. My wife would go to the local animal shelter without telling me and come home with three to six orphan kittens – sometimes with their mom cat – and would say, “Look, aren’t they adorable?” That’s where her official fostering responsibilities ended. The job of feeding them, scooping their litter, and cleaning up the mess they always created fell to me. And in the process, I’d inevitably start to become attached.
Then, when it came time to return them to the animal shelter, I would negotiate with my wife in an attempt to keep some of them. My opening bid usually was, “Honey, can we keep all five of them?” To which my wife’s response was something along the lines of, “You’re insane. I’ll agree to keep one kitten.” There’s even a term for when foster families fail to return kittens to the shelter. It’s called a “Foster Fail.” I am a serial foster failer. You may be asking, “So, Tim, how many cats do you currently own?” Um, our current cat count is classified, mostly because the head of our HOA reads my columns.
If you’re thinking about adopting a cat, ask yourself, How Many Cats Should I Have? Here’s a summary explaining the ideal number of cats to invite into your home and subsequently take over your life:
1 Cat: Talk about a lame effort. Why would anyone adopt just one kitty? Tell me, who’s going to keep him company when you’re at work all day? You’ll leave him no choice but to rip up your brand new leather sofa in protest to being sentenced to solitary confinement nine hours a day.
2 Cats: That’s the bare minimum. At least now they each have a playmate, and they can re-direct some of their razor-sharp clawed sneak attacks planned for your bare calf towards their furry housemate instead.
This is a photo of our four cats, Zippy, Buddy, Dust Bunny, and Eddie. Our fifth Cat, Monster, was not available for this photo due to a prior commitment he had with a fascinating twist tie he’d just discovered in the front hall closet.
3 – 4 Cats: You’re in the sweet spot. With this number you can be assured there will always be at least one furry friend curled on your lap, another watching you from the kitchen counter where he is clearly forbidden, and one plotting to knock over your glass of red wine onto your laptop keyboard.
5 – 9 Cats: Yikes. You might want to think about getting off the adoption train at the next stop. At this number, you’ll need at least three scratching posts and you’re probably contemplating the need to cover your leather furniture in plastic wrap or burlap. By now you’ve probably purchased a Roomba which you run daily, in a vain attempt to keep the stray fur at ankle depth. You no longer invite friends over, out of sheer embarrassment.
10 – 19 Cats: Whoa, Nelly. I’m starting to seriously worry about you. At this level, you probably have noticed most of your former friends are now shunning you. Nice job on the wall-mounted cat walkway that completely encircles the entire main floor. You might want to consider joining a support group… or better yet, get a life.
20+ Cats: Okay, now we’re veering into “future Netflix documentary” territory. At this point, the cats have totally taken over just about all the horizontal surfaces of your house, leaving you only the moldy futon in the basement as your new sleeping quarters. When neighbors whisper about “those crazy cat people,” they’re talking about YOU.
So, what’s the ideal number? My professional opinion: somewhere between three and “my neighbor just called Animal Control.” More than 15, and I’d say you’re probably a prime candidate for a future episode of Dr. Phil about cat hoarders. If you’re spending more on cat food and litter than on your mortgage, it may be time to seek financial and psychological counseling.
Studies I just made up show that cat ownership reduces anxiety, increases happiness, and boosts your immunity to loneliness and cat-allergic friends. Owning multiple cats has proven psychological advantages, like instant therapy: Nothing calms the soul like several sets of eyes staring at you ravenously while you eat tuna.
Cats provide consistent companionship. You’ll never be alone again – whether you want to or not. Not even in the bathroom. Definitely not during your Zoom meeting with your boss. And at bedtime, enjoy the pure joy of snuggling with your favorite furry friend, as he peacefully falls asleep on your face just before you wake up in terror and suddenly realize he’s about to suffocate you. So adorable.
Here I am with the two latest additions to our fur family: Eddie and Dust Bunny. Our cats give us 60% of our daily laughs and giggles. The other 40% mostly comes from watching cat videos on YouTube.
Owning multiple cats is not a hobby – it’s a lifestyle. Like knitting, but the yarn fights back. Sure, you’ll spend a good chunk of your disposable income on vet visits, cat food, cat toys, and an entire new living room set to replace the previous one that your cat named Monster destroyed. But in return, you’ll receive unconditional indifference, the occasional head bop, and a house full of fluffy, judgmental roommates who you try to convince yourself actually love you back, but, to be honest, you’ll never know for sure.
So my advice is this: No matter how many cats you currently have, there’s always room for one or two more. Over time, they may even help you totally forget about the fact that your spouse left you because they could not stand living in a cat house and constantly tripping over 15 empty boxes from Amazon (cats’ favorite place to chillax).
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Several years ago, I used this image (well, not this EXACT image, actually) in a VFTB article. Five years later, a German company threatened to sue me for using this image without their permission. That began an annoyingly long back-and-forth email exchange that is continuing to this day.
It all started with this picture (not THIS exact photo, but one very much like it). For my VFTB articles and videos, I grab photos from Google Images. Over the years, between my articles and YouTube video commentaries, I’ve probably used well over 2,000 free images.
I never once had an issue – until an image appeared in one of my articles. Several YEARS after I published that article, I received the following letter:
Authorization Request / Unauthorized Image Use – Case No. 4C172L
Dear View from the Bleachers,
We, Herzig Digitale Lizenzierungs und are writing to you on behalf of our client Schmidt-Bildexperten, who has assigned us the monitoring and protection of their licenses and image rights. On November 22, 2024 we have been informed that View From The Bleachers is likely using an image without permission, and the client has exclusively commissioned us with the clarification, administration of the image rights for the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany and, if necessary, the enforcement of any copyright infringement through our partner lawyers. Images are protected by copyright law [blah, blah, blah…]
… On behalf of our client, we must first determine if you have a valid license to use the images in question in the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany. If you have a valid license or any other legal justification to use these images, please reply to this email no later than 18 December, 2024 and include proof of license purchase and/or any other necessary information to validate the usage so our client can verify the lawfulness of such usage.
The day I received this notification, I wrote back to apologize and inform them I had removed the offending photo. I figured that would be the end of it. I was wrong. A week later, I received a follow-up email:
Dear Sir or Madam,
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, we are not able to close a case without one of the following conditions being fulfilled:
1) A proof of valid license or
2) The compensation to our client is paid.
If you do not have a license, your decision not to settle this matter with appropriate payment will consequently lead to court action.
I reiterated that I had taken down the image immediately and that I did not profit from its use. I added that ironically, I’m actually half-German (on my mother’s side) hoping that might smooth things over. Given my law school training (from 45 years ago), I noted that unless they could show monetary and/or reputational damage from my use, they had no legal claim. I closed by suggesting that perhaps they should focus on bigger fish than a solitary humor writer halfway across the globe who had ZERO subscribers located in Germany.
For the past year, this firm has been a dog on a bone, relentlessly sending me email after email insisting that I either show proof of a valid license or pay them for the licensing rights. A few months ago, I received yet another friendly notification:
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, we are not able to close a case without one of the following conditions being fulfilled:
1. Proof of a valid license.
2. The compensation to our client is paid.
Finally, I decided I’d had enough. So, this was my reply:
I did not realize you needed “proof of a valid license.” Here you go.
Hope that clears everything up. Thanks very much.
Sincerely,
View from the Bleachers
A week later, apparently not amused, they sent me the following update:
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, since we have determined that you have made use of a copyright-protected image, we must ensure that you possess the necessary authorization to make use of the image.
If permission cannot be verified, we must request you settle the matter by paying compensation or obtaining a valid license from the photographer.
So, this was my reply:
I deeply apologize for not understanding that payment was due. My humblest apologies. In order to rectify this egregious oversight on my part, please find enclosed payment in full (see below) in the amount of one million dollars.
I trust you will conclude this is more than adequate compensation for the emotional pain and suffering I have put your client through over the past seven months. I hope this resolves this issue once and for all.
Sincerely, (etc. etc.)
It turns out, and this may surprise you, but my generous financial offer did not put the matter to rest. They sent me yet another terse letter insisting on prompt compensation in order to avoid “costly litigation” (their words).
So, this was my reply:
I’m a little strapped for funds at the moment. Therefore, to resolve this matter amicably, I am offering to ship your client my 10-year-old cat named Zippy (see photo).
Zippy is a very sweet kitty – so long as there are no other pets in the household. He routinely uses the litterbox except when he needs to go pee. He prefers his meat cooked medium rare. I estimate Zippy’s fair market value to be approximately $150,000.
I presume this will bring this matter to a close.
To my dismay, my latest offer did NOT bring this matter to a close. A week later they wrote back again demanding payment in full within 30 days or they would apply a “delinquency penalty.” (Oh, my!)
So, this was my reply:
Like I said in my previous emails, I continue to be a bit pressed for funds at the moment. Humor writing is not exactly the ticket to fame and fortune I was hoping it would be. But I really want to help out your client.
To make things right, I have just updated my will – at no small expense, I might add. I have named your client in my will, stating that when I die, they will inherit my house – unless they had something to do with my demise. Please see enclosed a photo of my house.
It has a lovely waterfront view of the Atlantic Ocean. Ideal for family reunions, corporate retreats, and Tupperware parties. I hope this now officially closes this matter once and for all.
So far, they have yet to accept any of my settlement offers. Frankly, I think I’ve demonstrated a willingness to look for a win-win solution. In one correspondence, I even offered to provide all their client’s employees with lifetime subscriptions to View from the Bleachers. According to my conservative math, a VFTB subscription has a fair market value of $7,500 (€6408.86 Euros). But even that incredible peace offering got crickets for a response.
I have to give them credit. They’ve not given up yet. Every couple of weeks they send me another slightly ominous threat letter. But I’m retired. I have the time. I can keep this up as long as they can.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
