Duane Greed. Now easier and more enjoyable to shoplift.

Saw this poster at the Duane Reade on 2nd Street and Ave. B. Very well re-written in my opinion.

Fill in those blanks in. Yeah, fill 'em in good.

Shannon, a girl I hadn't seen since high school, came by to spend a little of my birthday with me the other day. We got to reminiscing, and remembered this.

I was her paperboy, and used to hang out with her a bit during my route. One day, she broke out a MadLibs book. I proceeded to fill in the nouns, adjectives and verbs with the dirtiest words my 13-year old brain could wrap itself around. It was prose that would have made Mamet proud.

When I came to collect the money from her dad at the end of the week, he stood there with the MadLibs in his hand. He then had me read from it aloud. It was pretty humiliating. Not so much because I got caught, but beacuse when he pushed me to explain what all the words meant, I didn't really know.

Back then, I didn't know if a blow-job was a noun or a verb, and I had no idea you couldn't conjugate a pussy. Still, I think it was some of the best writing I have ever done.

A funny thing happened on my way to nowhere.

I’m aware comparing yourself to others will only lead you down a rabbit hole. But, I’m only human. Or in this case, rabbit.

The other day I found myself walking around the city feeling blue. I had just turned 39, and I was going over in my mind how, lately, many of my friends have been racking up some seriously prestigious awards in the advertising industry. Meanwhile, the situation I’m in right now hasn’t afforded me many opportunities to produce finished work and shine as brightly as my buddies.

I’m certainly happier for my friends than I am jealous of them. Well, I might be a bit jealous, but in a way that pushes me to try and do better work myself rather than be all “sour grapes.” And I’m thankful to have so many talented friends. I also know creating your own projects can be fulfilling, as well as beneficial to any creative person’s career, so there’s no need to wait around for your job to plop an opportunity in your lap. Still, on this day, I was lamenting how the accolades of the ad world haven’t been coming my way, and truth be told, haven’t been due.

Then, I tried focusing on something positive about my creative output – my improv. Since returning to New York, the work I’ve been doing at the Upright Citizens Brigade has been met with a lot of positivity by my mentors and peers. While improv isn’t a tangible thing I can put in my portfolio, submit to award shows, boost my salary with, or share with anyone other than the small audiences who see it, I was patting myself on the psychological back for having a creative outlet that made me happy and garnered some recognition.

At that absolute very moment, I happened to look down at the ground. There on the sidewalk lay an empty box from a bobblehead of the character Hiro, from the TV show Heroes. Masi Oka, the guy who plays Hiro was someone I recruited to be in SNAFU, an improv group I put together in San Francisco. Even as I tried to find my way past envy, the world just couldn’t resist shoving another friend who’s achieved a higher level of success and industry acknowledgement than me in my face. I laughed out loud. As good as my comedic timing may be, the universe’s is better. Well, I gotta run. I have a hole filled with carrots to get to.

P.S. I’ve been typing this on a plane to Denver to see my buddy Sean and go on a whitewater rafting trip. They just announced we are about to land and need to close our laptops, right as I’m finishing this post. See, my timing is indeed stellar. Take that universe.

It's all a lie!

AgencySpy has it all wrong. Yes, there was an outbreak of Swine Flu at our agency. But what is being mistaken for "pandemonium" over a health scare was simply excitement over this being one of the first things our agency's been involved with that has truly gone viral.

(click image to enlarge)

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.