Nancy-Boy Media

I read an article on the Consumerist a few minutes ago that has my blood boiling.

In a recent story, The Washington Post addressed concerns regarding the Direct Marketing Association from an environmental angle. The DMA is responsible for unsolicited advertising such as telemarketing and junk mail. Basically The WP was asking the DMA if the millions of pounds of junk mail that they distribute, almost all of which is immediately discarded by consumers, is harmful to our environment. Forest depletion, landfill usage, etc.

When asked to address the subject, DMA rep Pat Kachura had the following to say:

(regarding paper junk mail)
"The Direct Marketing Association [is] far from harming the environment; catalogues help it, by reducing the number of cars headed to shopping malls....”
(dude, are you fucking serious?)

-and-

(regarding the imposition of possible governmental regulation on junk mail, etc.)
"We certainly wouldn't want to see a drastic and expensive and unnecessary government program created that would probably do more harm than good."
(oh jesus christ, c’mon man)

Now, I don’t really care about the environment, because I have a bizarre inability to consider anything beyond tomorrow, or make plans for the future of any sort. What I’m really pissed off about goes way deeper than the DMA and the environment on this one.

Here’s my point:

(deep breath)

I don’t understand why the media allows companies and officials to serve them a mammoth-ass load of glaring bull shit which they, the media, regularly swallow whole and pass on to us, the consumer. I mean what the hell already? Isn’t it supposedly the news media’s job to find the truth and bring it to the news consuming public?

Listen, I didn’t go to college. That being said, I would assume the reporter from the Washington Post would have a good education, and is reasonably intelligent. Fair? I think so. So if uneducated me clearly sees the transparency in Mr. Kachura’s statements, as should anyone who is not retarded, it would be safe to assume that the Washington Post reporter knows it’s bullshit too.

Why didn’t this reporter say to Ms. Kachura, “That’s bullshit. We both know it and I don’t appreciate you insulting my intelligence. Want to try again, lady?”

I mean, would that be so hard? Isn't that their job? Wouldn’t it make for a better story anyway?!

But that’s not what they do. They stick their heads in the sand and go, “Duuuuh, okay.” And that’s it. Nothing is different, nothing is fixed, nothing is better.

The DMA’s behavior in this matter is mirrored by corporations, governments and other regulatory agencies on a daily basis. I don’t understand why the media doesn’t call “bullshit” when everyone with half a brain knows its bullshit. I know its bullshit, you know its bullshit, everyone knows its bullshit but that doesn’t matter one iota because as individuals we don’t have a loud enough voice. I mean, I could write something on my blog in attempts to expose lies, but what good would it do when I’m only going to reach a hundred or so people? Not much. It’s not that I’m scared or unwilling to do it, it’s just that I know it would be a waste of time.

As the media, they have the power to make change. They choose not to.

I don’t understand it.

Grow a pair you fucking clowns.

UPDATE: Someone from the DMA just ran a google search for Pat Kachura and found this blog. Ten bucks says it's Pat herself. Hi Pat! Jerk.

Click here to read full update.

Parents: Sidewalks Are Not Toilets For Children

I’ve seen something happen twice in the past month that I don’t ever want to see again--

Parents allowing their children to urinate on public sidewalks in broad fucking daylight.



Has this been happening for a long time and I just haven’t noticed?

Last weekend I was on my way to Riverside Skatepark when I very nearly walked right through a stream of urine being expelled from a toddler. I was walking down the sidewalk staring up at the trees when I saw something out of the bottom corner of my eye(toddler). Luckily I looked down just in time to jump out of the way of this pissing little pissant’s piss. The kid was standing in the grass while pissing onto the sidewalk! And his CPS-case-in-the-making of a father was standing right there beside him. I don't mean that I almost stepped in a puddle of pee, I mean that had I not jumped out of the way, this kid would have pissed directly on me.

I mean, what the hell?

Would it really be that hard to take your kid twenty feet off the beaten path and find a tree or something? If that’s too hard, turn around 180 degrees and stand on the sidewalk and piss into the grass. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you?

Then yesterday I leave the office to head home. I’m walking down Third Ave. at 50th St. during rush hour when I see it again. There is a toddler pissing right in the middle of the goddamn sidewalk on Third Ave. At rush hour! His mother was standing right there behind him.

You can’t be fucking serious!

Maybe this kid is a reincarnation of Moses or something because he parted the traffic on a busy Manhattan sidewalk like it was nothing. People were scrambling to not only avoid trampling the kid, but more importantly to not be pissed on.

This shit has to stop, New York.

Let me be very clear--

Study the picture of my face at the top of this blog. If you see me on the street walking in your direction while your kid is pissing on the sidewalk, you’d better fucking run, motherfucker! I will drop kick your kid into the middle of the street and then grind your nose in their mess.

CLEAR?

Another New York Moment

A few friends of mine and I shut down our local bar around 4AM on a Friday night last October. As tradition dictated, we walked a few blocks over to Central Park to find our favorite spot to cause trouble. The rocks by the lake always paid dividends in this respect. It’s somewhere in the area of 72nd St. on the west side of the park.

The path we usually take to get to our spot leads to a rock cliff with about a nine foot drop to a sand bar below. One has the option of jumping down to the level below or walking around and down to get to our little spot. Since I’m a really smart guy, I know that the shortest distance between two places is a straight line. I’m in for the jump. I turn to my friend Sam, who will rarely back down from a challenge, and say,

“Hey, if you do it, I’ll do it,” and I motioned towards the cliff. Sam must have known immediately from the look in my eye what I was going to say because before I could finish an eight word sentence, literally, Sam had hurled himself off the cliff without even looking over the edge first. Wow, balls.

Okay. I had jumped off this particular cliff a few times, and I know it’s something you have to prepare for. It’s dark, it’s a long way down and there is all kinds of nasty debris on the landing.

Sam is a reasonably fit guy, able bodied and strong willed. Even so, I was pretty sure that anyone who did what Sam just did would more than likely not be okay. They would be hurt. My notion was supported by the grunting and moaning coming from the bottom of the cliff.

I crouched on the edge of the cliff, found where I wanted to land and took flight. I landed a few feet away from Sam just as he was getting to his feet. He actually seemed to be okay with only a couple complaints about an aching foot. Good for Sam. Sam is man.

Sam and I got to our spot on the rocks by the lake before the other three guys did. Pat, Warren and Matt showed up a couple minutes later because they took the dress shoe route, around and down.

At our spot we all sat or stood on rocks, talking about whatever, when Warren turns to Mat and says,

“Mat, I’ll pay you $100 to swim across this lake right now. All the way across.”

Mat’s eyes got really big and he immediately starting taking his clothes off and got down to his bikini briefs. This is particularly funny because Mat is a really big tough guy. He’s got be at least 6’4”, 220 pounds, and not fat. Yep, big scary guy standing at the edge of the lake in Central Park at four in the morning wearing bikini briefs. This may not be as uncommon as I thought, as later in life I heard that this is a very popular “cruising spot”. I don’t wanna know.

I’m sure Mat’s enthusiasm in regards to the proposition had a lot to do with the fact that he was newly unemployed. In addition, he had managed to completely botch his state unemployment claim and now receives a total of $38/week income. By comparison, it would be like someone offering me around $3,000 to swim the lake. I don’t blame him for being excited. (See: Einstein's Theory of Relativity)

Remember, this is October in New York City. It was about 43 degrees fahrenheit outside. Warren argued it was in the low-50’s, at least.

Mat took a couple deep breaths. Even though he doesn’t believe in god Matt said a quick prayer where I overheard something about dirty needles in his feet. I don’t know.

Mat literally set one foot in the water, spun right around and said there was no way in hell he was going to do it. It was way too cold. Of course everyone started goading him but he wouldn’t budge. He said it was just too cold.

At that point I immediately offered to take the bet myself. Warren, who had originally offered the bet looked at me and said,

“No. I know you’ll do it. That’s not the point.”

I had a feeling that’s what he would say. But everybody in attendance was already worked up and wanted to see someone swim the lake.

Warren’s a very bright guy and proceeded to make everyone the following offer:

Warren, Pat, Mat & Sam would each pay me $25 to swim the lake. Someone would have to cover Matt’s portion as we already know he’s broke.

Warren has a gift for working a great deal for himself in any situation. He was ready to bet Mat $100 out of his pocket to swim the lake, and all the other guys would have gotten to enjoy the spectacle on Warren’s dime. Now Warren has worked a new deal to make everyone else pay to bet someone whom they already know will swim the lake. Nice work.

Of course, I take the deal. I strip down to my boxers and approach the water. The film on the top of the water containing algae and god know what else made it impossible to see the bottom. Great. I don’t believe in god either but I think I said the same prayer Mat did. I added broken glass to the prayer.

Mat was right. It was really cold, but probably manageable. I mean, we’re not talking about immmediate hypothermia or anything. I waded slowly into the water, being extremely careful with every step. My focus was so intensely concentrated on the nerves in my feet that I think I could have read a newspaper with my toes, no brail. I could have identified Coke over Pepsi with the soles of my goddamn feet right then, I swear.

Once the water got up to mid-thigh or so, I started swimming because I couldn’t fucking wait to get my feet off the bottom of this death trap. The bottom of the lake slowly dropped out from under me and the cold began to set in much faster than I thought it would.

I swam faster.

I got to the middle of the lake and was getting kind of tired. I stopped and treaded water for a few seconds to get my wind back. Apparently it worried my friends when they stopped seeing the splashes because they all starting screaming words of encouragement,

“You’re half way there man!”

“You can do it!”

“Keep going!”

I have pretty smart friends, but to this day I’m surprised at how scripted their encouragements seemed.

“Shut up dicks! I’m just resting!” I yelled back.

They shut up.

I started swimming again.

I was wearing a really old pair of boxer shorts in which the elastic in the waist was completely worn out and stretched. While I was swimming, the drag of the water kept pulling my boxers down. Accordingly, I had to stop swimming to pull up my stupid underwear several times. This began to take up a lot of precious energy and was completely killing my momentum.

I had to let the boxer shorts go.

I hated this idea for several incredibly obvious reasons, but the job had to be done. As hard as this decision was initially, I have to admit that it was a rather liberating experience when I finally roundhouse-kicked the boxer shorts off my left ankle with an aquatic propulsion force matched only by the finest U.S. made nuclear submarine.

I gargled through the last third of my swim across the lake at Central Park completely naked. The other side started getting closer and closer and finally I felt the bottom again. Oh god. Not again. Being the genius that I am, I didn’t think about having to deal with the bottom while getting out of the lake also. To make things worse, I am now naked. (See also: Completely Exhausted)

I stay in the lake, laying motionless in the shallow water with only my head sticking out. I look around for my friends, moving only my eyes.

I feel like a naked Navy Seal.

Fuck its cold.

I started shivering pretty badly and decided I had to get out of the water. I floated up as close as I could to the bank, where the water was only a few inches deep. I stood up and made a hot-coal'esque scramble through the shallow water to the shore where I found a sadly small tree for cover.

There I was standing two feet from the main walking path, shivering violently and completely naked. More than the sole embarrassment of being naked in public, I was really concerned that a gaggle of hot twenty something chicks would walk by and think that my penis was really that small.

“No, no! It’s the cold, I swear!”

It's amazing how priorities change in extreme circumstances.

Thankfully there were no hot girls around as far as I could tell, and I could see my friends coming around the path carrying my clothes. They were still pretty far away.

I screamed at the top of my lungs,

“I WANT MY PANTS WITH MY FUCKING MONEY IN THE POCKET!”

I see my friends chuckle from a distance and continue to take their sweet ass time walking up the path. Sam seems to be limping.

Another sudden priority shift.

Let me try to explain something about being naked, cold, and alone in the middle of the night in a location where record numbers of murders and all kinds of mind-blowing violent crimes occur:

Every second seems like a fucking year. I cannot stress this enough, as the proper words do not exist in the English language.

The guys obviously didn’t understand the urgency of the matter.

“HURRY THE FUCK UP! I’M NAKED AND I AM GOING TO GET KILLED!”

This got their attention.

Speaking of getting attention, I realized that the exact words that I screamed should have been chosen more carefully. I mean, if some sicko really was lurking in the shadows of Central Park waiting for the right victim on which to pull off some crazy sex-murder, which guy would they target? Probably the one standing there screaming about being naked with money in his pants, right?

All my friends started laughing hysterically from a couple hundred feet away. I was not laughing. Warren, great guy that he is, starting jogging up the path with my clothes but he was laughing so hard that I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. It was the first time I'd seen someone almost fall down from running and laughing at the same time.

Finally he arrived to find me, sure enough, shivering and naked. He was laughing so hard he couldn’t even hand me my clothes. I had to snatch them from him and get them on as fast as possible, which isn’t easy when you’re wet.

Pat, Mat and Sam all found us a minute or so later. Sam was definitely limping.

We headed back up the path to leave the park and go home. I used the time to collect my winnings from everyone.

Warren was still laughing.

Sam wouldn't stop bitching about his stupid foot.

Pat complained that the whole thing wasn't worth his $25.
That’s Pat in a nutshell, but you gotta love Pat.

Mat had a silent defeat about him.

The sun was starting to come up.

Alas, the punchline:

We were all walking down Broadway, tired, drunk and just blocks from home. I was also getting a little queasy, and I wasn't sure why. We were passing by a group of tourists who were standing in front of thier hotel waiting for a cab with their luggage. At the exact moment that we walked by the tourists I vomited, while walking, never missing a beat. The tourists all gasped and looked shocked and a little scared.

Immediately, the tourists' shock turned to absolute confusion when I turned to them and quipped ever so matter-of-factly,

“What? It’s just lake water.”


***Later that morning, we all woke up to Sam's voice on the answering machine. He was in the hospital with a broken heel.

Read the original New York Moment.

Inti Tayta -vs.- Airport Security

I was going to write a post about a blood boiling experience I had at the bank last week, but I'm not going to do that anymore... at least not right now.

Instead, I'll point you once again to Inti Tayta: Welcome Home. Read about his most recent trip to the airport. It's way funnier than my stupid bank story I was going to write... which I still might.

Anyway, I'm glad to be back, people.

Enjoy.

And we're back...

I just started a new job today, so I now have access to a computer.

I figure that I should probably not spend my entire first day of work on the internet updating my blog, which is totally what I want to do.

Anyway, hopefully I'll find some time in the next few days to get a up a good quality post.

Word.

Ah crap.

My computer is broken for real now.

The operating system won't start.

I'm writing from a friends computer to inform everyone that posts will be very spotty until I get a new computer, which may be a while.

Maybe I can get a friend to guest post in the meantime.

Keep checking in, we'll make it work somehow.

Thanks everybody.

Oh, seriously though... if anyone in the NYC area wants to give me a good deal on a laptop, I'm interested. I don't need anything fancy.

E-mail me.

The Ties That Bind

For some reason I woke up wicked early this morning and couldn't go back to sleep.

It's Saturday and I woke up bright eyed at 7:30am.


Unacceptable.

I went into the kitchen to retrieve my lighter that I had left on the stove the night before so I could smoke my good morning cigarette.

I heard the TV on in the living room and realized my roommate(whom I have had a couple problems with) was already awake too.

I poked my head in and the following conversation commenced.

Me: "Hey man, what are you doing up this early?"

Roommate: "I don't know. I just woke up and I couldn't go back to sleep."

Me: "Weird, me too. Hey, I'm going downstairs to grab a sixer. You want anything?"

Roommate:(laughing) "So, you're just going to drink yourself back to sleep?"

Me: "Exactly. Why, is that weird?"

Roommate: "I'll take Corona."

Irreconcilable Differences

Ever since my computer started hanging out with Limewire, I've noticed my computer has had a change in friends, is lazy and irrational, spends more time alone and has bloodshot eyes on a regular basis.

A few nights ago, my computer decided for the last time that it didn't want to do what I was asking of it, which is my computer's only job.

At that point, I may have accidentally (see: completely on purpose) beaten the ever loving shit out of my computer.

The 'Shift' key and the 'A' key popped off and I can't get them back on. There are no two worse keys to have missing. One key is a home row anchor and a very common letter. The other is a key you have to hit at the beginning of every sentence and proper nouns and crap. The keys still work, but the buttons are so small that I may as well be trying to touch the tip of my nose with my head tilted back and eyes closed.

If my computer hadn't decided to be more loyal to Limewire than it was to my commands, this whole situation could have been avoided.

It's as if someone called Child Protective Services on me for beating a child who totally deserved it.

Is anyone giving away a new laptop or a child?

Boyfriend & Girlfriend: A Knowing Conversation

(This post is a serendipitous third installment of the "The Mace, The Axe and The Crowbar: A Love Story" series. If you are not familiar with the story, read it jerk. Everyone in the world thinks it is a great read.)


In hopes of making a long story short:

The former love of my life --the girl who the Mace/Axe/Crowbar story is about-- has contacted me after finding the aformentioned story on this blog.)

--

A few days ago, I was hanging out with my fabulous girlfriend in my bedroom as usual. She was watching America's Next Runway Nanny Factor, or some stupid shit. I was buried in my laptop sending long overdue replies to millions of e-mails.

Then I saw an e-mail from --the girl from the story--. I hadn't spoken to her in more than seven years.

My heart started beating ninety miles an hour and I started sweating.

I must have looked wicked guilty.

From across the room, my girlfriend whipped her head around to look at me in the most accusatory and condescending manner I can possibly imagine. The following conversation commenced:

Girlfriend: What are you doing?

Boyfriend: Nothing really, same shit.

Girlfriend: Really? Do I need to come over there and look for myself?

Boyfriend: What? No. There's someone I used to know, and...[interrupted]

Girlfriend: She must have been really special!

[a pause you could drive a truck through]

Boyfriend: What? Well, yeah, but...

Girlfriend: How far away does she live?

Boyfriend: What?

Girlfriend: HOW FAR AWAY DOES SHE LIVE?!

Boyfriend: Very very far away.

Girlfriend: Okay, go ahead.

Global Warming: Explained By Some Jerk Who Has No Idea What He's Talking About.

Forget everything you’ve ever heard about the causes of global warming.

Hole in the ozone? EPA? My ass.



I don’t know anything about this subject, but the following is common sense if you have a middle-school education.

This is my well uninformed opinion--

Omitting several technicalities:
1)Gravity exists.

2)Earth is within the Sun’s gravitational pull, thus Earth is always moving closer to the Sun.

3)Earth gets warmer because the Sun is wicked fucking hot.

Am I completely off base here?

If you think this big ass ball of fire(pictured above) wouldn't love to devour each and every entity(see: sitting duck) in its orbit, you are insane.

Put Me In, Coach

For those of you that don't know, I am a part-time poker dealer in NYC. I run all kinds of games ranging from your company Christmas party -- to underground high stakes Wall Street games -- to your run of the mill casino themed bar mizvah.

My agent(yeah, some part-time poker dealers have agents) called me yesterday and told me that a client is looking for a poker dealer for a photo shoot. She asked if I was interested.

Hell yeah. What a stupid question.

Normally, as a poker dealer I am contracted to be paid "x" amount of dollars per hour based solely on my poker dealing skills (combined with the likelihood that I will actually show up to the job). It seems reasonable to me that I could demand that my standard going rate be multiplied several times for the use of my "image and likeness" in this commercial publication.

My agent asked that I e-mail her a couple of appropriate photos that she could forward to the client for consideration. I told her that that wouldn't be a problem and that the photos where on their way.

I began looking through the depths of hell on my computer for appropriate photos. I soon realized that I didn't have one single picture of myself that accurately represents what I look like now.

Problem?

Solution.

I enlisted my girlfriend who has an amazing amateur eye for what looks good on film.

I sat down in a chair in my apartment with a deck of cards and a couple stacks of chips, and told her to start snapping while I fooled around with my tools.

Thanks to the mirror (and Caroline’s spooky-good photography skills), this picture catches me tracking the Ace of Spades to the middle of the deck and cutting it directly to the bottom with one hand.

(Click to enlarge, seriously.)


I have always been very hesitant to post clear pictures of my face on this blog, or anywhere online for that matter, but I couldn’t resist this one.

I Always Miss the Good Stuff

How does this happen? I don’t get it.

I spent the first 19 years of my life in a part of the Midwest called Tornado Alley. Tornadoes are a dime a fucking dozen down there. I never actually saw one though. Several tornadoes a year for nearly twenty years and I never ever got to see one, as they never came within fifty miles of my house, which I guess is a good thing, but still… When I left that region of the country to come to NY, I also left my hopes of ever seeing a tornado in person.

I turned on the news today and saw that there was a fucking waterspout (tornado over water) in the Hudson River! I basically live on the bank of the Hudson River, and I didn’t see it. Are you telling me that I could have just walked outside and seen a fucking tornado on the Hudson River? You have to be fucking kidding me. How do I always miss this shit?

When the big head-butt of the World Cup final game went down, I was in the bathroom.

One Man's Crack is Another Man's Beer

If the guy on last night's "Intervention" on A&E would have substituted "crack" with "beer" in his following quote, he would be my best friend.

"I am always thinking about crack. I dream about crack. I want some right now."
-the guy, "Intervention", A&E Network

Brilliant.

I feel you, brother. Cheers. (*clink*) Whoa, don't burn yourself.

Fourth of July

(Click to enlarge)

Dear Britain:

Ha!

Best regards,
Ryan

Buy this CD or you will be sorry.

(Click to enlarge)

My girlriend may or may not be the bass player for this band. The CD is in stores nationwide and you need one to make your days happy. Pick up a copy or order one online.

It will make you smile.

Check out the official Columbia Records website: http://www.SusanCagle.com

As seen on MTV's "You Hear It First": http://www.mtv.com/news/yhif/susan_cagle/

More Photos, Videos and Music here: http://myspace.com/susancagle

Susan also has a two page feature in the July issue of ELLE Magazine. Write a letter to ELLE's editors and tell them that next month they should do an article on Susan Cagle's bad ass bass playing sister.