They're off!

As I sit here reflecting upon all the hearts, and children's privates, Michael Jackson touched during his life, I notice the race to find which celebrity has been most emotionally affected by another celebrity's passing has officially begun.

Hey New York, stop fucking hitting me.

Look New York, in the past year, I've lost 20 pounds and have gone from 18% body fat down to 11. What I'm getting at is, I'm not taking up all that much space, so stop bumping into me!

I get smacked into, on average, ten times a day. On the subway. On the sidewalk. In the department stores. Everywhere.

When I lived amongst the Los Angeles sprawl, I could go months without a single soul even brushing up against me. Probably 'cause everyone was hermetically sealed away inside their cars. Not that I want to go back to such isolation. LA was pretty lonely sometimes. It got to the point where I considered getting into car accidents just to meet people. But the streets of wall-to-wall people here who act as if I were invisible is too much.

Here's a picture of what I look like (before the weight loss mind you). If you see me, please make some room. Thank you.

Broken English.

Trump Card

I was playing a game of Apples to Apples a while back. In case you're not familiar with the game, a card with an adjective is turned face-up. Each player has seven cards with nouns on them. All the players throw down a noun-card they think is the best match for that adjective. The judge of that round then determines whose noun is the best, or funniest, match. Usually, some lively debate ensues as people try to defend their nouns.

During this round, the adjective we had to match was "heartless." Here are the cards that were then thrown down, in order. When I saw "J.F.K. assassination," I figured nothing could top that. Guess I was wrong. Damn you Hitler. Damn you to hell. In defense of my card, I do think feminists are pretty heartless, although they are fun to objectify.

My iTunes plug-in (in development).

Buying and listening to music has changed a lot since my days of puberty.

It used to be you had to flip through racks of albums, only to find you've wound up with only one or two good songs scattered amongst ten tracks full of filler. Many times, the hunt for the record was more fulfilling than the record itself. You kind of lose that sense of fun when you buy music through iTunes.

In an effort to bring some of the old-school, record store charm to the digital age, I'm developing an itunes plug-in that recreates one of the staples of the days of vinyl. With my plug-in, you simply choose the songs you want in iTunes, click to check out, and then you'll be greeted with a smug, arrogant record store clerk who judges your selection with a roll of his eyes. And because he's digital, he can pop up every time you play the song to remind you that your salaried job will never be able to buy you the coolness he commands at 5.50 an hour.

My Larry David life.

Larry David and his Curb Your Enthusiasm writers must be following me around, stealing material based on the uncomfortable and awkward trouble which seems to find only me. Here are two recent examples.

A very well known, highly awarded, advertising Creative Director is a Facebook friend of mine. Here's a screen shot of an exchange we had.



I interviewed with this guy before, and was happy he still wanted to work together.

After this interaction to the left, I explained I was now full-time, but if he really needed help, I would try to do a little work for him on the evenings or weekends. He went on to tell me I was a talented guy and that we'd do great work together, blah, blah, blah.


Moments later, we have this exchange.

To those not in the "ad biz," Gerry Graf is another high-profile Creative Director, possibly even more awarded than the guy I'm talking with here.











Then, the next day, I had to see a doctor for a fairly invasive procedure. (I'm fine, thanks asking.) It being my first time at this doctor, I was greeted with a clipboard of obligatory forms to fill out. As I flipped the papers I got to one that seemed kind of odd. Turns out it was another patient's very personal records.

I went up to the office manager who gave me the forms and complained quite harshly, telling him it didn't instill a lot of confidence in me, knowing how this office was being run. He apologized, and I went back and sat down.

Turns out he wasn't the office manager, but the physician's assistant, and was going to be assisting as things were being shoved into my body. There was an uncomfortable vibe in the room, made even more so by my paper gown which failed to fully close in the back. It was faint, but I thought I heard the music from the closing credits of Curb.

The RSVP that got away.

I was recently invited to give a lecture at The Freedom Law School, an organization that believes federal income tax is unconstitutional. So why would a group like this offer to fly me, an ad guy, all the way out to California (all expenses paid) to give a lecture? Simple, they had the wrong Jeff Greenspan.

They were looking to invite this Jeff Greenspan, the SW Regional Coordinator for Ron Paul's 2008 presidential campaign, and controversial figure in Nevada politics. (For the record, I too dig Ron Paul.) Funnily enough, I've actually met this other Jeff Greenspan. I guess these Freedom Law dudes just went to my site, jeffgreenspan.com, and emailed me from there, assuming I was him.

I made the mistake of telling them I wasn't the Greenspan they were looking for. I should have accepted the invite. I should have gone and gave the following speech:

"Hello Ladies and Gentlemen. I'm Jeff Greenspan. Thank you for having me. Everyone in this room believes we should be exempt from paying any federal income taxes. (hold for applause) So, you want to make use of the nation's highway system, live under the protection of our defense department, and take advantage of the federally funded infrastructure of our country without any contribution of your own. Basically, you want a free ride. Well, I came here with a plane ticket that you all paid for, stayed in a hotel on your dime, and enjoyed a nice daily spending budget which you all graciously provided. But, I'm not the Jeff Greenspan you're looking for. I just wanted a free ride, just like you guys want. Kinda shitty, isn't it? Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I have an already paid for plane to catch. Good night."

I'd probably get beat up or something. So I just stayed home and curled up with my W2.

Hold please.

While on hold with my pharmacy, the Spice Girls' "Wannabe," was playing. As I was greeted with the enticing refrain of "tell me what you want, what you really really want," I thought to myself what a poignant question I was being asked, given the large amount of psychotropics sitting on the other end of the line.

What do I want, what do I really really want? Vicodin.

Ahhh, I amuse myself.

I made a joke awhile back that I thought of the other day, and I chuckled at my own cleverness. I figured someone had to.

My friend Ryan named his son Dash. I asked if that was short for Hyphen.

Haaa hahahha hah hhahahahhahahahah ahahh ahahahahah

In reality, it's short for Dashel, and he's quite cute. His dad (pictured) is pretty talented too. He's the creator and co-star of Sailor Man, a very cool show where the violent exploits of a well-known cartoon sailor are brought to blood-soaked life. It's been getting incredible reviews, and as of this writing, it's about to begin a second run. Check it out here.

Customer service in the afterlife.

I've come to expect poor customer service nowadays. From the never-present waiter, to the Sprint representative who couldn't tell me why they still sold the HTC Touch phone when the fact that it doesn't ring is one of their "known issues." Yes, I've come to expect lousy treatment like this, and the other day, Duane Read didn't disappoint.

They "lost" my prescriptions. When I pressed for more answers, the girl behind the counter giggled "I don't usually work here, I don't know what to do." There she was in her white lab coat, which when teamed with her skill set, barely qualified her to work behind a Clinique counter, let alone a pharmacy's. One of my most used phrases seems to be "let me to speak to the manager." It's a demand so inextricably linked to my life that I'll likely have it etched into my tombstone.

Mixed signals.

I've noticed a disturbing trend here in the East Village. The WALK/DON'T WALK lights have been misfiring, showing the red hand for "stop," AND the white walking-man for "go" at the same time.

I'm afraid this case of mixed signals has stretched beyond my neighborhood's traffic signals.

My job: They moved me out from Los Angeles, and pay me well, because they "value me for my creative abilities." Yet, they don't call upon me for these talents; not in a true sense. I find my role as a Creative Director is becoming more and more like that of a producer. My strengths when it comes to conceptual thinking and narrative storytelling aren't being mined, or even scratched at.

Now that I'm dating again, I've been exposed to a smorgasbord of mixed signals. I was recently at a club, talking to someone all night who showed serious interest, even asking me to leave the club and go hang out. Cool, right? I go to get my coat from coat check, and poof - a disappearing act.

I met somebody else who clearly explained we should have a strictly platonic relationship. Friends only. Okay. Then, this person text messages me to ask if I want to come to a "bit of an orgy." As if "a bit of an orgy" wasn't a mixed message in and of itself. How do you have a "bit" of an orgy? Hell, if I'm going to be in an orgy, I don't want some half-cocked (pun intended) "bit" of an orgy. I want a full on Roman-style distgust-fest.

And the other day I saw an online Sprint ad for a holiday promotion. It had a winter-like landscape with the word "calls" written over and over again in white type, falling through the sky like snowflakes. The message was supposed to be that this promotion gives you a ton of calls. All I saw were hundreds of "calls" dropping.

I guess if I'm honest with myself, I put out a ton of mixed signals myself. From what I say I want for myself not lining up actions that get me closer to them, to how I handle relationships of my own. I guess me and the white walking-man from the traffic lights are just trying to fit in, sending out mixed signals in a world where they're everywhere you look.

Sam was a guppy, with an urge to be free.

Found in Queens.

Some people see Jesus in their cheese danish.

Others se the devil in a box of apples.

You gotta fight. For your right. To Democratic Party.

So by now you may have heard Obama won. ( The large screen here in Times Square may have given it away.) I'm happy to say I voted for him. But not without a bit of a fight.

I went to my polling center and waited in line for about two hours. (I was psyched the lines were that long.) When I got to the head of the line, they told me my name wasn't in "the book," so I couldn't vote. I could vote absentee if I wanted, but that was it.

I had with me my letter from the Board of Elections saying I was indeed registered and was at the correct polling station. That didn't seem to matter. If I wasn't in "the book," I wasn't voting they said.This all powerful book seemed to take precedence over an official letter from the Board of Elections. How do we know a page of this book didn't get ripped out, on purpose or by accident. Maybe someone spilled their mocha latte all over the page with my name. Who knows.

After a prolonged and heated conversation, where they admitted it wasn't fair my name wasn't on the polling station's voter's list, I agreed to just fill out the absentee ballot. As I sat in the corner filling out the paper, something inside me cringed. After enduring the last eight political years, I wanted to PULL A LEVER damn it. Even though I knew New York would go to Obama, I wanted to PULL A LEVER. I wanted to take some sort of ACTION, no matter how small. I wanted my voice heard that day, not by mail. I ripped up the ballot mailer and marched back to the voting line. I'll admit it, I did a bit of grandstanding. I eloquently, and loudly, explained I have a RIGHT to vote on the MACHINE. Finally, they called the head of the Board of Elections for my district.

I got on the phone with him, he looked up my name, then asked "Did they check the supplemental voter's list?" Turns out the polling station guys didn't even know there was such a thing. Sure enough, my name, along with hundreds of others, was in that book. I got to pull my lever after all. But, how many people were turned away before I alerted them to the list? If that was happening in the Lower East Side of NYC, what kind of voter turn-aways were taking place across the country? What kind of people, who may have been less aggressive than I, were handed absentee ballot slips. And how many of those even filled them out and mailed them? It seems we should have a better system now that we're in the 21st century.

The rest of my voting day was filled not only with anticipation, but also with art. I had gone to an exhibit a few hours before Obama was elected. Half the room was red, the other blue. Two giant flat screen TVs stood in the middle, with CNN playing to the blue side and FOX to the red. I liked how both sides were forced to face each other for them to watch their broadcast. (Although I think my friend Seth, who I went with, was the only McCain supporter there.)

The walls around the gallery were lined with portraits off all the presidents of the United States. Directly to the right of George W. Bush's portrait was one of Obama. It was on the floor, leaning against the wall, with a hook above it. Waiting. There was no portrait of McCain ready to go.


















Another nice touch was a soda machine turned voting machine. It was blue for Pepsi, red for Coke. All were free, all you had to do was vote.



















I watched the results at Syrup, a design house here in NYC that had a huge party. I cried when it was announced Obama won. There were lots of hugs around the room. The streets were filled with strangers embracing each other, horns honking, and shouts of "yes we can." Even if Obama does nothing, he's already done more good than Bush has done in his whole life.

Turned my previous post into a comic strip.

Fast on the track. Slow on the post

Months ago, I went go-karting in Los Angeles. I just now uploaded the pictures off my camera phone.

I had gone on (what I had thought was) go-karting trips before. It turned out those were pansy-ass maneuvers in cars that could only reach 15mph max, and were ultimately controled by the operators remotely should you try to bump people.

This was a different story. These went up to 45mpx, were gas-fueled, and you had to wear helmets and gear. I can't believe I didn't get any pictures of the cars. But, you can see all about where we went at dromo1.com.

The only thing that got my butt in gear (no pun intended) to finally get these pics up was my friend Joe's visit to NYC (next post). I did this whole karting trip with him when I was visiting LA. I can't believe he got to NYC before I even posted these.

This bottom pic isn't blurry, it's me still vibrating from the ride.

Confessions of a stay at home tourist.

If there are no pictures or videos in this post, blame Joe, since they are all trapped inside his camera.

Last week, my good friend Joe came to visit from Los Angeles. It was his first time in New York City, and I took a couple of days off to play tour guide. I wound up having a great vacation of my own. Even though I'm from NYC, there are activities here I have never done, and probably never would have, had I not been showing an out-of-town-er around.

I was surprised how many NYC facts elude me. For instance, I still get my bridges mixed up (Joe, I hope I pointed out the right ones along the way), and there are buildings, even iconic ones, which I don't know the backgrounds of. With that said, our adventures went a little like this...

Saturday:

We went to check out Banksy's new exhibit in the West Village. It's a "pet shop" of sorts, but I highly recommend exploring this link (opens in new window) to get a good idea of what it was all about. I had a great conversation with the "shopkeeper." I asked if he was an actor. He told me he wasn't, and that he simply answered an ad for help wanted at a pet store. When he showed up, he was greeted with, well, you'll see when you click. I was curious if he had started to grow into his "role," and start messing with people's heads a bit. I was happy to hear he had.

Next, we walked around the last of the cobblestone streets of the West Village, and stopped in for some Mediterranean pizzas at Moustache. We made our way up to the MOMA, and charmed our way in to the sold-out Van Gogh exhibit. Although I don't know how much more modern you can get, in terms of art, than Banksy's Pet Shop from earlier in the day.

All the walking around the museum was tiring, so we took a rest on the Great Lawn of Central Park, checking out the crazy roller skaters along the way. Some Red Bulls helped us get to the top Rockefeller Center for an incredible view of the city at sunset. More Red Bulls (now with Vodka) and then off Wo-Hop in Chinatown for dinner before hitting a club, where our charm reemerged to get us in at a discount.

Sunday

My buddy, Ilya, lent Joe a bike and we rode through three boroughs in one day. We went across the Williamsburg Bridge and back, then up to the Queensboro (59th Street Bridge). We passed by the U.N. along the way, and took in Mies Van Der Rohe's Seagrams Building. Once we crossed the bridge into in Queens, we got some drinks at an outdoor bar and wobbled our bikes over to the waterside park for incredible views of Manhattan. We finished up at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater for the longest running improv show in the country (world?)

Monday

Highlight of the night came after some Sushi in the East Village, when Joe got up on stage at Rock and Roll Karaoke at Arlene's Grocery and sang U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday with a live band to back him. The Lower East Side hipster crowd went wild.

Tuesday

His last day here. Not too much time before his flight out, so we just rode bikes down to the South Street Seaport.

If you ever want to have someone visit you, invite Joe over. He's fun.

Sara Palin has made me rethink my entire world view.

Sara Palin is a self-professed creationist, believing Man and dinosaurs walked the Earth together.

I think she's right. Look at her running mate.

Neon imititaing life.

Caught this a couple of blocks from my apartment,
just a few days after the bank's collapse.