The New Roommate Song and Dance

So, I’m meeting my new roommate, Mike, who is cleaner and cooler than I am. I get nervous and start using pleasantries I wouldn’t normally use. “Would you like to partake in this loaf?” Who says, “partake?” Who says, “loaf?” Did I teleport to the pulpit of a baroque church and start holding communion? Perhaps, I could have the maiden of the house knit a crested tunic for Mike. Then, I’ll kill the fattest pig and we’ll feast.

Meeting a new roommate is awkward. We’re stuck together, but nobody comes right out and says it. I know what I'm in for: someone will always be sprawled out on the couch, there’s going to be toothpaste spit on the facet of the bathroom sink, and it’s going to smell like a mass grave at Auschwitz. As I shake Mike's hand and greet him, these thoughts go through my head, but all I can say is, “Nice to meet you. I’m Ross, decedent of Bob, from the shire of Pittsburgh.”

Later on that day, Mike started moving his stuff into the house. He drove from Indianapolis with his mother, a very nice lady. So nice in fact, I almost let my guard down and offered her a shot of Jim Beam. Adults are pro’s at getting me to let my guard down. They act super nice and carefree, so I think it’s okay to start dropping f-bombs and pouring stiff drinks. Next, I’ll be raving about my plans to take a Winnebago to Burning Man. But, yeah, adults are sneaky like that. It’s like becoming cool with your daughter’s boyfriend and waiting for him to slip up, so you can squash him like a bug.

The new roommate dance will continue. We’ll need to recite sports facts while watching ESPN. We’ll need to grill dead animals and eat them, while casually chatting about projectile vomit. And we’ll need to arm wrestle, just to prove we’re strong enough to get each other’s backs. Then and only then, we’ll we be able to relax and communicate by only using grunts.

How to Sneak Liquor into a White Sox Game

Step One: Buy Liquor. It’s a long hike from the stadium to the liquor store, which is at 35th and Morgan. Make sure to purchase flask size bottles or smaller. Remove change from your pocket, so you’re not clanking at the gate.

Step Two: The Gate. Needless to say, act natural. Put the bottle in your pocket, and make sure the top isn’t sticking out. Security doesn’t check pockets, just purses. Don’t give head nods, or be funny. Just breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, and try not to pass out from anxiety.

Step Three: Get Soda. Make sure to ask for extra ice. If you’re feeling brave, ask for ice and tell the vendor to fill it halfway with soda. The key to a good drink is a lot of ice and mixing it well. After you dump the whiskey in your coke (or whatever), fold the lid of the cup in half, and use it to mix your drink.

Step Four: Don’t get kick out. They’re pretty strict these days. You can get ejected just for throwing an away team’s homerun back on the field.

Commuter Confessions

I hate you in the car. I hate you in the truck. I hate you in the SUV. Your fumes smell like burning flesh. You accelerate, igniting another IED. You pump the blood of dead American soldiers into your tank. 89, 90, 92 octane, don't worry, bodies don't clog fuel injection systems.

The bus smells like piss and vomit. A drunk mother yells at her children. It's too crowded to get on. You fight to get off. Who are these people? You're better than them.

It's cold out, and it's a long walk to the train. It stops far from your destination. More walking makes your muscles sore. Or are your muscles sore from not walking?

Adults look funny on bicycles. Did you get a DUI? Are you working retail? Honking, jockeying, close calls. No respect. Does this thing run on steak and potatoes? It barely carries a grocery bag.

Take out your credit card and fight. Your aim is precise, smart even. Bam! More stuff. Bam! Less effort. Bam! You win. Blood flows through the streets in crude black rivers. Children watch it drain down the sewer pipes, thousands of miles from your home.

Printing pictures of body bags is illegal in the U.S. The legislative exhaust pipe keeps your conscious clean, O emissions from your decisions. Go drive to the store, buy some convenience, it won't kill you.

Love One Water

You may be sick of philanthropic water campaigns, but Love One is different. They're raising money for playpumps.org, which has invented a water pump powered by children playing on it.

Julia Mudre and I worked on some signage for Love One. It was promoted at the Race for Hope in downtown DC. Check it.

The Race:


Signage:










Learn more about Love One Water at OneDifference.org

Girlfriend Getaway

Promo work for Comfort Inn. So they give us the name of the sweepstakes, "The Comfort Inn Girlfriend Getaway with Every Day with Rachael Ray Magazine Sweepstakes." It's a mouthful. But thanks to Art Director extraordinaire, Sean Conrad, we came out with some cool looking stuff.

Print:


Banner:


Landing Page:

I Heart, Whiskey

I drink whiskey to remember. I drink whiskey to forget. I drink whiskey to remember the time we tried to forget. I drink whiskey after work. I drink whiskey before bed. I drink whiskey, and then I see red. I drink whiskey by inches. I drink whiskey by feet. I drink whiskey, and then I repeat. Whiskey is my agent of change. Whiskey is my keynotes speech. Whiskey is my long walk on the beach. Whiskey is my friend request. Whiskey is my status update. I was drinking whiskey, sorry I’m late.

LOL Politics

Hey advertising, are we in a recession?

If reading about it in the newspaper, watching it on TV, and tweeting about it wasn’t enough, advertising is here to remind us, *whisper* we’re in a recession.

“Now what?” Talk to Chuck, Charles Swhab.

Look! A financial institution with its finger on the pulse. Nothing slips by you guys. Oh wait, where were you two years ago before everyone lost their life savings? That’s right, you were convincing people to make risky investments, and purchase shit they couldn’t afford.

Ads talking about the recession are clever because it says, ‘hey, we get it too.’ Well, actually you didn’t get it. We saved your asses with a bailout. But you get it now, huh, Rick Wagoner Ex CEO of GM? We’re in a recession because you were socially irresponsible, and spent all of our money on hookers and blow instead of research and design.

Who am I to talk shit on corporate America? After all, they’re the professionals. Maybe if I put my money where my mouth is and make a prediction of my own. Well, okay, then. Hey Wendy’s, how does 3conomics work out when my insurance company has to pay $300,000 for a quadruple bypass? How does that affect the cost of insurance rates? Oh, hell. Looks like saving a couple bucks on food, isn’t an economical idea after all.

So next time advertisers think it's witty to say something like "Suffering from recessionitis?" fucking think again. You're too late. We're so over it.

So when I moved to DC, I joined the Surfrider foundation. Surfrider is about keeping access to surf spots, so rich people don't buy up all the land in front of the surf, and so they don't send their golden feces down the pipes into our lineup.

During my first meeting, I met Charles Allen, who is Chief of Staff for Tommy Wells, a DC council member. Charles introduced us to the Anacostia Protection Act. The act is designed to eliminate plastic bags and help clean up the Anacostia River by placing a five cent tax on bags at stores. Charles has his shit together and was knowledgeable and an interesting speaker.

I immediately became inspired to film a PSA for the cause. I enlisted the help of Evan Pease, the video editor/cameraman/sound guy at Arnold. It's funny agencies always have only one of these guys because they're extremely useful. We could use about 10.

Here's our final project:


Anacostia Protection Act from Protect The Anacostia on Vimeo.

The process itself was interesting. The first script I wrote was overly ambitious for what we could accomplish. I had also written all kinds of sensational copy. Luckily, I decided to get rid of it, go with the facts, and shoot a straightforward piece.

I learned a ton about plastic and our environment. I learned about how it gets in the food chain, and we're the top of the food chain, so the plastic gets in us. It affects our endocrine system, which is how we reproduce. Anyway, the interviews are intriguing, give you different perspectives, and I hope inspire you to hate plastic as much as I do.

Jim Connolly, Executive Director of the Anacostia Watershed Society

Anacostia Protection Act Interview - Director of AWS from Protect The Anacostia on Vimeo.

Dan Davala, Manager of Orvis Fishing Store

Anacostia Protection Act Interview - Manager of Orvis from Protect The Anacostia on Vimeo.

Julie Lawson, Chairman Surfrider DC

Anacostia Protection Act Interview - Surfrider DC from Protect The Anacostia on Vimeo.

Religion and Nature

Religion. It’s one of those things we’re not allowed to talk about in bars. Just blogs.

If you’ve ever been handed a pamphlet at the mall or gone to church, you’ve heard you were born with a hole; a metaphorical hole that needs to be filled. It cannot be filled by a passion for learning or being close with friends. Only the Lord can fill this hole.

But, lately, I’ve been thinking about humans, and how we love being right about things. Religion is carte blanche on being right.

The Lord’s word is indisputable. If you know the Lord’s word, you’re right. Ta-da! No more doubt. No more losing arguments. No more internal uncertainty. You’ve ‘filled your hole’ or need for being right.

Religious people have passion, no doubt. And we put a ton of resources into praising the divine trinity. Are we wasting our time?

Let me tell you how I ‘found’ Jesus.

Many people don’t know this about me, but at one time, I was a solider of the Lord. I went to church camp every summer, sometimes twice a summer, and even ended up working there. When I was at camp, I was outside a lot. And we constantly prayed to God, and thanked him for the awesomeness of nature.

Since then, I've realized nature was my evidence of a creator. And it still is. But nature isn’t evidence of the Garden of Eden, the Immaculate Conception, or the Resurrection.

My point is this: are we praying to the wrong God?

Imagine if we could harness the power of religion, and turn it into energy toward cleaning up our Earth. Imagine if instead of going out and cutting down a Christmas Tree, we went out and planted one. Imagine if, every Sunday, we gave thanks to the land that feeds and shelters us, instead of giving thanks to an invisible God.

The past hundred years have been a whirlwind of technological progress. But technically, our beliefs have not ‘progressed’ at all. Will the agent of change be global climate change? Will it be a religious Armageddon? Or will it be a generational shift, where we quit wasting our time, and start making heads-up plays.

Fat Sex

There’s something ironic about taking your date out to a restaurant for dinner.

All week, you anticipate your romantic Friday evening. You picture yourself laughing over a bottle of wine, holding hands while waiting for a cab, then going back to your place for a little impromptu slow dance.

Friday night comes, and it turns out perfectly. Your waiter is attentive, but not overbearing. The food is creative and well executed. You even tip a little too much—the cabernet was a good choice.

By the time you get home, you can barely move. The four-course meal you devoured is sitting in your belly like the boulder from Indiana Jones. Skipping the tiramisu would’ve been an absolute travesty. And the appetizers, how could you pass up bacon wrapped dates? They’re the perfect combination of salty and sweet.



As you lay in bed, you realize it’d be a shame to waste such a night by not getting frisky. You have an obligation, not just to yourself, or your date, but to the amount of dough you just shelled out on dinner. Seriously, you could’ve gotten a high-end hooker for the paper you dropped.

You muster the energy to roll over to your side and look at your prize. In the back of your mind, you’re hoping this person will put on the conductor hat and steer this train into the station. But, wait! You’re greeted by half-closed eyes, and you can sense the unconscious leg kicks of sleep setting in.

Time for quick action. Emphasis on quick.

Missionary is out. You’d have to be an Olympic gymnast to hold yourself up at this point. Plus, the sloshing sounds of your belly, alone, could kill a Viagra woody. You get an idea, “Hey baby, do you want to spoon?” You roll her over like a corpse on CSI, and prepare for the laziest position of sex possible—side sex.

For a guy, the one redeeming quality of this moment is you can get away with the most pathetic, shortest amount of effort, without being completely demoralized. Because, hey, this chick just got treated like a princess—you went out, killed the brontosaurus, paid someone else to cook it and clean everything up—and she’s too tired to perform the one womanly act still required of her? Permission granted for getting off, rolling back to your side of the bed, and mumbling “sweet dreams.”

This, my friends, is fat sex.

The alternative is going to bed and making up for it in the morning. But it’s not as fun. Mornings are too lucid, and you have to prepare by brushing your teeth. The whole spontaneity of sex is lost. So before you become one of those couples, who only gets-it-on once a week, partake in the gloriousness that is fat sex.

Plane. Etiquette.

If you’ve ever flown on a bunch of different airlines, you know, they’re not all the same.

Southwest does an excellent job of herding passengers into their seats and helping them put luggage in overhead compartments. They’re like packaging engineers from Apple; they fit everything in neatly with attention to how it's getting out.

Southwest makes a huge effort to help passengers follow their instructions. Passengers, whom given the opportunity, would throw everything except the clothes on their back into the overhead. It’s like a study in human behavior.

US Air, American Airlines, and AirTran are completely laissez-fair when it comes time to board. They ask passengers not to put jackets and smaller carry-ons into the overhead, but everyone does it anyone. The flight attendants don’t make any effort to change this. They stand at the front, chatting with each other, and spacing out.

I’ve been noticing more and more how terrible customer service is becoming lately. As the ‘entitlement’ generation continues to enter the workforce, I predict it’s only going to get worse.

Feel free to leave comments about the crappy customer service you’ve experienced lately.

Crazy Neighbor Mom

I recently moved to Arlington, and people are terrible drivers here. They're caught in between a city and country mentality. It's very strange, and the pedestrians walking across the street without looking, yes, you entitlement generation, are not helping either. I hate cars as much as the next bike riding hippie, and I try to drive as little as possible. However, I'm kinda worried for my safety.

Eat Your Hat, Michael Moore, Anti-American Fuck

It appears bowling has nothing to do with mass murders in schools. While stories roll in about the tragedy in Germany, where a former pupil slain a dozen students, I'm somewhat relieved.

These atrocities are not endemic to the U.S., yay, sort of. Our students are no more vicious than the krauts, and we can finally excuse Marilyn Manson and GTA IV, although I'm sure Germans play some freaky-deaky video games.

It happens everywhere. I'm actually surprised it has never happened at my high school. 

I remember one student, who received the nickname 'wrong hole,' after he allegedly fingered a girl in her ass. To boot, during one of our football pep rallies, the entire student body went from chanting "Franklin Regional," to "Wrong hole."

Can you imagine 1500 students calling you 'wrong hole,' and pushing and tripping you all the time?

Most of the time, these murderers are profiled as having uncontrollable psychological issues. "One out of 10 millions students are going to turn out this way. It's a disease. Blah blah..."

The school's don't want to take the blame, and nobody has the balls  to blame parents or other students. We're actually consoled by the fact we can't control it. We move on, business as usual. Granted, we do something about it on the local level, but there's no larger push to end these rampages completely.

"Security at German schools has been an issue in the past.

In November 2006, an 18-year-old former student strapped explosives to his body and went on a rampage at a middle school in western Germany, shooting and wounding six people -- most of them students -- before killing himself."

When are we going to make a concerted effort to hire the appropriate security to defend our children? We put so much money into the military; can't some of these soldiers be on our own soil protecting our children?