The Millennium Castration: Castration of the New York Mets

Remember, check out my new self-hosted site of




I Moved! Literally and Digitally!

To all my followers on (all 38 of you which doesn’t include my mother. And by not including my mother I don’t mean 38 of you plus my mother. I mean my mother doesn’t even follow me because, and I quote: “I have to listen to your shit, why would I read it?” Touche mom, touche.)…

I have changed platforms to a self-hosted site entitled:  Yes,

Please stay tuned as there is plenty in the works ranging from:

Family fights, a car accident, witnessing a mass shut down of traffic because of said accident, being immersed in the “The Lifestyles of the Rich and Pretentious”, and yes, my triumphant return to the world of online dating.  Plus a few other things, but those are the ones I have drafts of currently.

I’m actually working on a piece for social media page devoted to those in the entertainment industry called, and a series on the subjects of suicide and depression.

I ask you be patient as I’m trying to find my talent which instantly disappeared as soon as I decided to leave my career to, you know, harness and grow said talent.

And yes, I’ve moved from Vermont to New York, back to Vermont and now reside in the great state of Georgia.  I’ll be sure to go into detail about my experiences of Southern Fried Racism I’ve already born witness to. But, there has been love and hospitality graciously given to me in ways I’ve never experienced in all my years on this planet. (No, not incestual either!)


There was also this staring me in the face as I did my Bulgarian split squat jumps at the local Anytime Fitness…

With that…

To Be Continued, and remember…

Thanks for playing everyone!



The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure: Chapter Two. Heard and Not Seen. A Decade in the Radio Industry.

When you walk in, the first thing and only thing you hear is a Cha-Chunk of an obese security door shutting.

Then, an eerie silence.

Eerie especially when it’s a business whose fundamental core is sound.

As you step deeper, you realize the only lighting comes from exit signs and single bulbs going off and on every couple minutes or so.

As you step even deeper, you are smashed in the face with a smell of burnt coffee that has been sitting there for at least a couple hours.

The first sign of life is typically the man who doubles as a morning talk-show host and my sales manager.

I should say he triples; he possesses a superpower enabling him to be the biggest douchebag I have met in the thirty years I waddled across the Earth.  It is Krypton worthy.

He marches out with his short, stubby legs, weary-eyed and bitter from reciting the weather forecast every ten minutes.

“Your client played every hour, twice an hour Keith!”

“I guess they’ll definitely see some results than huh?” I quickly respond.

They didn’t.

I blame his show.

This was my introduction to the world of radio.

Radio is the only medium where everything belongs to only you.

What the storyteller looks like and what they are telling you is solely up to your imagination.

In a way, reading does the same thing. But does your imagination create a caricature of author/writer/reporter who is telling you the story you’re reading?

But I sure as shit can tell you what I think Howard Stern looks like when he’s telling me how awesome lesbians and the Squatty Potty are.


Whatever they say, belongs only to us.

It’s so cool. 

It was 1990 or 91. MC Hammer was asking me to not hurt him, the Giants just beat the Bills in the Super Bowl, and I weighed as much as I do now.  Z97, the local “Pop” station in my hometown, would have an all request hour or two every Tuesday and Thursday night.

I would call like fucking crazy!

I so wanted to talk to this DJ named “Mic Spirit”. (Some of you are smiling right now.)

He would usually answer, and then, what I can only describe as creepy, he would talk to me for a bit of time.  Like a good amount of time.  He would have mood swings and use this desolate tone.  (Foreshadowing) I was 12-year-old.

For me, it was epochal.

It was my access to a celebrity, you know?

Less than two decades later, my ability to convince you to buy a Ford, then a Chevy (awkward) gave me access that 12-year-old boy would have pissed himself to have. (Little did he know that in between those periods of time, all he would do was piss himself.)

When I got there, I, like every person who works in radio, wanted to be on the air.  And they’re lying to you if they say the contrary.

For example:

“Ya, so the client, ya, they want me to voice the commercial.”

And it’s the salespersons’ first sale. (I can’t remember specifically who it was. But production just smiled at me with this appropriately condescending, “ya, sure.”)

Anyway, first, the DJ’s.  (Oh, some people are cringing.)

DJ’s have an unenviable task.

They have to be a walking, and more importantly, talking contradiction.

They have to be immensely narcissistic and massively insecure.

DJ’s go from feeling being a diety for 4 hours, only to walk out into the masses making wages comparable to the person who just gave you change at Stewarts.

No offense to any store clerk.  But, a DJ, and some are talk show hosts, are speaking to a substantial amount of people at the same time.

There is a bit of influence at their disposal.

Some use it.

Some run with it.

Some abuse it.

Some fucking suck at it.

And all are scared to death to lose it.

At the same time, there is something so endearing about them.

Their passion doesn’t know any better.

Some will tell you it’s all they can do.

And I’ll tell you, thank God for that!

Because they do something we all think we can do because we all can do it: Talk.

And it’s not easy!

And some, some are phenomenal at it.

And then they walk out of their 10×10 “Fortresses of Solitude” and get crushed with the reality that is their slightly above minimum wage life.

And they walk into “the pit”. (Sales pit)

It’s nice when the place you wake up and go to every morning is named after a portion of your body that smells so bad that if you don’t put something on it in a quotidian manner, you emit an order that…Why onions?

Radio sales, as I’ve mentioned before, you need to possess a mindset which…

I’ve been around a LOT of radio salespeople.  I’ve been in the room when print was walking on death row, and TV was kicking ass, and I’ve been in the room when TV was on its descent and digital was showing you the power of stalking.

Radio sales though…

I’ve used the analogy of radio being a delicious, solid plate of fries.  Never being the main course, just being the last thing you eat because you know you’ll be satisfied.

Unfortunately, a plate of fries cost two bucks and it’s sitting next to a thirty dollar steak.

And no matter how much gravitas you wish to present, you, the radio salesperson, your default position is your chin inches from the chest.

Radio is the middle child.

A feeling which permeates throughout the entire building.

A feeling which, like a tic under your skin, goes with you “hit the streets” to make sales.  Sales calls spend where you spend your own gas money to sell a product I just compared to French fries. And when you hear the word no, 75% of the time, you find yourself being insecure as a DJ.

It’s this feeling in the back of your head and the bottom of the stomach.

It’s this feeling of not insignificance, but the thing right above it.  What’s above insignificance?

And that’s before you have to answer to people who own you.  And they feel like they own you.

Especially in the smaller markets.

I worked for a company that owned 5 out of 6 stations in the city.

Where is a DJ going to go?

Sales will jump from one sales job to the next.  I did. I even moved to New York.

Now, did it help there was this little gal, I was and always will be crazy about, with these green eyes and lips…

But it stops being about radio and starts becoming a profession of avoiding scrutiny.

I’ve been in the room when you’re the leader of the company and when you’re at the bottom. The taste is constantly despondent, in one flavor or another.

And that’s when it really starts to suck the spirit from your soul.

That’s why I heard Mic Spirit sound like he was being religiously beaten 27 years prior.

Yet…what’s the joke about the guy who shovels elephant shit for a living and a friend asks him why he does it.

His response: “What and give up show business?”

Radio is show business!

That’s it.

Working in radio is entertainment.

Radio is for those who have a love for music unlike a love for anything I’ve ever seen.

Except for Conservative talk radio, they are the reason white guys between 35-55 are the highest rate of suicide. (These statistics are not proven…Yet)

And radio salespeople, there are many who only wanted to work in this field they love so much, and sales was their way in. It was for me. But, the love slowly dissipated.

I used to say,

“Radio is difficult, it’s not hard.”

Pretty sure you can put any noun you want in there and say that.

Except digging a ditch.  Digging a ditch, for some reason, is our default worse job imaginable.

“Could be worse, I could be digging ditches.”

What does a ditch digger say?

“Could be worse, I could be a radio DJ”?

Not all the time though…

Sometimes, sometimes you see someone win a huge prize which you were a key part of obtaining.  And their eyes water because things have been pretty goddamn rough.

And sometimes, sometimes you do events for the seniors during the holidays and the response is what Christmas is truly about.

And sometimes, sometimes you walk miles for a DJ who died way too young and will never be forgotten by his “on-air siblings” and anyone who had the honor of meeting him.

And sometimes, sometimes you co-workers become a family who took you in, watched you fall in love, watched you have your heart broken, watched you get up, watched you finally fucking graduate college, watched you get promoted, and watched you say good-bye.

candy poster

And sometimes a DJ says cunt three times at a live remote. On a loud speaker. In front of a substantial amount of “Black Friday” shoppers.

And sometimes your traffic guy meets Chris Hansen.

And sometimes your little prick of a sales manager somehow gets elected to public office.

I’d rather vote for fucking Trump!

These people, they are the ones making you laugh every morning and every night.

They are the ones who will distract you while stuck in traffic waiting to cross the twin bridges or stuck behind a tractor on Route 22A.

And all they want from you is to listen…

And fill out Nielsen rating diaries…

And buy the products from their local, small-business-owning advertisers…

And tell them you heard their ad on the radio…

Then they get off the air or back from a sales call and become egocentric, introverted douchebags.

And I love them so much.

And I will miss them so much.

Except for you know who…

Who the fuck votes for him?



The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure, Chapter One: Commissions and Sex. Did a Life In Sales Kill my Love Life?

Authors Note: One day I made the decision to write about the past 12 years of my life in the world of sales. Then, a funny  (not funny) thing happened; I noticed it felt eerily similar to other blogs I’ve written.  Then, then I asked myself a question:

Self, do you treat women like you treat your clients? And did your progression in sales cause a regression in your relationships?

So, I decided to juxtapose my radio life with my love (or lack thereof) life. 

But first, an example of a typical morning of a single, advertising salesman. 


I wake having to pee.

I drink a lot of water.

Now, I’m somnolent, yet somehow the flashing light coming from my Samsung Galaxy S8 Plus magically pierces through my eyelids and finds the dark batcave I hide my anxiety.

Without thought or fail, a silent prayer is said,

“Please Sweet, Compassionate, Loving God, don’t let that yourforesaken blinking light represent a pissed off client ruining my day before it even has a chance to begin!”

What could the client possibly say to do so?

“My ad didn’t play!”

“My wrong ad played!” (This is much, much worse)

“My ad played back to back with my competition!” (Huge in a small market such as Rutland, VT or Glens Falls, NY. But excludes car dealers unless they are, let us say, two Ford dealers playing back to back.)

“My wrong ad played back to back with my competition!” (I don’t have to explain how incompetent this makes you feel even though in sales, you have little to any control to traffic. [traffic places the commercials where they play])

And my favorite:

“Give me some Great Escape, concert, rodeo, wrestling, or anything tickets or else I’m pulling my advertising!”

Authors Note: Radio stations are notorious for their ticket giveaways. “Caller # 10” shit.  Well, because of this, clients think you have an infinite supply of tickets.  Not understanding, or choosing to be ignorant of the fact that the purpose of tickets giveaways is to increase listenership. In particularly the stations Time Spent Listening [TSL]. Or, more importantly, bring customers for advertisers to solicit their goods/services to the stations airwaves…However, when unable to provide the client tickets, they have said, “You know, maybe I should give my money to, blah, blah, blah. I bet they can get me tickets!”  Because their marketing decisions are solely based on whether or not the station can get them a free pair of fucking Travis Tritt tickets?  That’s a country singer, right? By the way, this was an actual conversation a week, A WEEK, after I got him tickets to another show he wanted. When you’re in advertising sales, you not only have the standard management you answer to; you have to also answer how many ever clients you have.  Think about that. 

Stop being so melodramatic and just look at the goddamn phone, right?


If I look, they win.

Plus, there is this blue light emitted from our phones which, I guess, will wake me up. Like my flighty, effervescent, easily diagnosable A.D.D. mind isn’t already doing psilocybin influenced triple axels.

Nonetheless, I have to pee.

Dilemma, I don’t have a window in my bathroom.

What does that mean?

No starlight, star bright, please let me see my pee hit the toilet tonight.

And we’ve already established I refuse to subject my eyes to any light, so…

Before I conclude the previous prayer about blinking lights and temperamental clients with its highly anticipated conclusion of “Amen”…

I say another prayer…

“Please, kind-hearted, forgiving, great sense of humor God, please let next thing I hear be pee hitting water. Amen.”

I do, and my countenance looks like I’m stoned with my eyes slit and a grin representing relief.

That only lasts for a brief moment until my body reminds me what I had for dinner last night; asparagus.

My grin dissipates and yes ladies, the opening scene from “40 Year-Old-Virgin” couldn’t be more spot on.

I waddle back to my bedroom and step in something squishy.  I can only assume it’s something “Nightman Keith” decided he needed to consume at 11:37PM.

I belly flop onto my foolishly purchased off of white comforter. Why are white comforters the dumbest invention since Zubaz Pants?


One time, one time the aforementioned Nightman ate something chocolate.  Let us just say when you wake up the next morning and completely forgot about your midnight meal; there is a flash of sheer panic and you… You can figure it out.  (I thought I pooped my bed…I’m working on my writing clarity)

One of my eyes is submerged in my one time Virgin Snowman white comforter. Now, it looks like it runs “tricks” in Comstock prison for cartons of Kools.

Meanwhile, my other eye is being blinded and tortured by the interminable blinking light.

I will not give in.

I can’t.

What can I do to put my mind at rest?

“Sexytime Keith” decides to make his presence felt and proclaims,

“You know what to do…”

brown chicken brown cow

Not thinking, I go to grab my phone ready to Google “Lesbian Massage Seductions”. (Don’t judge me)

Then I quickly remember,

“That goddamn blue light!”

I become disheartened and a feeling of hopelessness sets in, until…

“Douche, you’re this up and coming screenwriter NO ONE has ever heard of. Well, other than a few guys at the office, your cynical family, and the three people who read your blog. We got this.”

My crusted eyes slam shut, and my mind does its own search. (I call it Oogle) 

“Lesbian Massage Seductions”

Or wait…

“First-time Lesbian Massage Seductions”

Or wait…

“Interracial Lesbian Massage Seductions”

Or wait…

“First-time Interracial Lesbian Massage Seductions.”


But calm down tiger, it’s too early in the morning and I realize with the amount of anxiety building coupled with the excitement of my imagination; I’m a belt around the neck away from being David Carradine.

I’ve “settled” on a brunette masseuse with blue eyes named Orchid and a mulatto vixen with green eyes named Jasmine.

Jasmine knocks on Orchids door.  (Pretty sure 98% of porn starts with a knock at the door. And let me say being unemployed for the past month, you do wonder; what IF someone just knocked at my door?)

fat woman with tattoos

Orchid opens the door to her extravagant mansion which also doubles as her private massage studio. (Business is good)

Both ladies are wearing skin-tight dresses and enough makeup to pose as either models or prostitutes. Archetypal for masseuses and those about to be massaged.

Jasmine tells Orchid she doesn’t know what to expect because she’s never had a massage before.

Orchid tells her she’s in for a treat because she uses a “special technique” which her clients seem to enjoy.

Jasmine tells her she comes highly recommended from the “gals at the gym”.

Fast forward to Jasmine, lying on the massage table covered only by two hand towels and lavender scented massage oil.

Orchid is massaging Jasmines legs with long, soft, sensual strokes. For some reason, unbeknownst to Jasmine, Orchid is in lingerie.  Orchids hand moves further up Jasmines’ thigh. It seductively approaches the area covered only by a thin piece of cloth…


Jasmine, startled, looks back with her piercing eyes and says,

“My wrong ad played and I’m canceling my advertising.”

For the first time since I woke up, there is no blood flow to my penis.

They win.

Appropriately my phone sits next to the clock, because, as I grab it…

I just punched into work…

It’s 4:27 AM.

“Don’t get too high, don’t get too low, just keep it in neutral.”

After about 4 years into my life in sales–two in auto sales, and two in radio–a guy told me, “don’t get too high, and don’t get too low, just keep it in neutral.”

He’s never been married, no kids, and has been in sales his entire life.

Neutral doesn’t have numb as a synonym…It should.

At this point, my dating life was much more “successful” than my radio sales commissions.

However, that was about to change.


In sales, nothing is more exciting than finding the new, willing, and eager prospect.  I’m charming, witty, show no signs of the quotidian routine of pre-dawn “Lesbian Massage Seductions”. I’m willing to do anything to see them again. Hopefully to make the sale.

In dating, nothing is more exciting than meeting someone new, exquisite, and passionate lady.  I’m charming, witty, and act as if I’ve never watched porn before in my life.  I’m willing to do anything to see her again. Hopefully in the nude.

Eventually, I make the sale.

Eventually, we get naked.

Times are exciting. They call to let me know they heard their ad and they love it. I love it too.

Times are exciting, She calls to let me know she can’t stop thinking about me and she loves it. I love it too.

I tell them to not hesitate if there is anything more I can do for them, and thank them so much for bringing me into their life.

I tell her to not hesitate if there is anything I can do for or to her, and thank her for bringing me into her world.

I bring them restaurant gift certificates every month and they give me little tokens of their appreciation.

I bring her flowers every month and she gives me “little tokens” of her appreciation. (Blowjobs…Clarity)

Slowly, we only talk when we need to.

Slowly, we only text when we need to.

Eventually, all I hope for is they don’t fuck up my day.

Eventually, all I hope for is she doesn’t bring drama to fuck up my day.

Once a month, I’m obligated to give them attention by changing their commercial.

Once a month, I’m obligated to take her out to dinner.

A year in, I’m somewhat charming again because it’s time for them to sign their annual contract.  I bring them a present and tell them how much they mean to me.

A year in, I’m charming again because it’s our anniversary. I bring her a present and tell her how much she means to me.

Things are changing, my commission checks are getting bigger and bigger.

Things are changing, the times we have sex are fewer and fewer.

Occasionally, there is a disagreement about their commercial, or a campaign didn’t work.

I’m neutral, so it doesn’t bother me.

Occasionally, we get into it because she’s telling me I’ve changed and this isn’t working.

I’m numb, so I blame her.

I try to be endearing and looking out for “their best interests” by upselling them on the potential of buying an event or a specific package in search of a higher commission check.

I try to be endearing and looking out for “her best interests” talking about marriage, buying a house, or having a child in search of something to break the mundane misery that is my life.

Then, one day, they say they’re cutting back.

Then, one day, she says she’s not happy.

Panic!  I scramble to do anything to rescue this.  I bring in a manager and start offering things they never received when they were paying more. But now, now they are coveted.

Panic! I scramble to do anything to save this. I bring in a counselor and start offering things they never received when they were more loving. But now, now they are coveted.

They say yes, but they know it’s only a matter of time.

She says yes, but she knows she already made up her mind.

Predictably, the time comes and they decide they are going to pull and allocate my funds somewhere else.

Predictably, the time comes and she leaves deciding she is going to take some time for her.

The client informs me, as a parting shot, I stopped giving them as much attention as I did when they first signed.

The girlfriend informs me, as a parting shot, I stopped giving her as much attention as I did when we first met.

Little do they both know, I loathed who I’ve become.

Eventually, eventually I find a new client, but the fear of blinking cell phone light terrorizes me.

Eventually, eventually I find another girl, but the fear of an empty bed paralyzes me.

Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely loved my clients, but after a while, I have so many, they only become a number.

Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely loved my girlfriends, but after a while, I took for granted everything.

Saddest part, in hindsight, which is a bitch, I realize how much I objectified both.

It didn’t use to be this way.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The compensation for living a life like this is more money than you’ve ever had in your life.

The penance is a blinking phone and an empty life.

Does having a career in sales kill my chance of having an actual, legitimate relationship?

I have no goddamn clue. I really don’t.

All I know are two things:

  1. The ratio of salespeople I met who were either never married or divorced was astonishing. I being the latter of the two. But there are people who genuinely love this life. I am not one of them.
  2. There is no goddamn way this job is going to stop me from seeing Jasmine experience her first massage from Orchid with her “special technique”.

So, what did I do?

I sat down, looked in the mirror, and sold myself on moving on…

To be continued…








The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure: Preface

Authors Note: Yes, I’m fully aware the last post was called the prologue, and the preface precedes the prologue.  Well, something happened before I was ready to publish what I intended to be Chapter One.  At least one or none of the four versions of. 

What happened you don’t ask? Well…

“Your writing is funny. I like it. I don’t care what other people say.” – Anonymous Microbrewed Breath Source

The last time I submitted something I wrote for public scorn, I informed you of the decision to leave my career of ten years in the radio business to pursue my dream of becoming a professional screenwriter.

A career where I was lucky enough to be a part of promotions ranging from the inspired to the absurd.

A career developing relationships with people that became kin, and people that were cuffed and processed for crimes worthy of Friday night primetime programming.

Between that moment and now, really haven’t had much to write about.  Just a 16-hour drive with a house plant and squatty potty where I was introduced to Rear Admiral George Cockburn and Maryland Medical Marijuana.  An arrival to a city where I faced the prospect of living with a man the 15-year-old version of me proclaimed never wanting to share a residence with again.  A summit where I learned the harsh reality of becoming a professional screenwriter and how delusional I would be to continue on that path.  A moment of almost total emotional breakdown wondering what the fuck I just did with my life.  Watching a cat eat my child/plant while her cross-eyed sister stared at me and the fly on the wall behind her. The moment my 90 year old grandmother read off the dashboard what type of porn I watched.

And the phone call while I was an online video classroom that informed me a person I once loved very dearly but fell out of touch with suddenly died and the uncomfortable time warp that followed.

So, as you can clearly see, I really didn’t have much to sit down and blog about.  Thank God though, I ran into this person I know so little about that I don’t feel comfortable including the word know in the same sentence.

I won’t give any detail to the person, to the content of the conversation, or its context.  It’s not about her. It’s about, well, transparency.

That’s a total horseshit, it’s because if I don’t write this I’m going to fucking explode!

“Your writing is funny. I like it. I don’t care what other people say.”-Anonymous Microbrewed Breath Source.

It wasn’t so much the words, okay, it was. But the randomness of it all.  My response:

“Love you, thanks for reading.”

I don’t know where the bold-faced lie came from because, well, I was actually leaving an establishment when this now subject showed up beside me in their Camel smoke stained hoodie.

And I further don’t know what my countenance consisted of with these…I have really big eyebrows. And when I’m perplexed or pissed, they turn into a pair of burnt crinkle cut french fries providing the viewer a virtual look into my soul.

I shook my head and b-lined for the door.

As I re-entered daylight/reality after opening and shutting the popcorn butter, booze and tar-sticky portal of this one time all too familiar dwelling; a meteor shower flurry of responses assaulted my psyche. Yet, with every wave of nasty, go for the jugular insulting inquiry that rushed it’s way to my lips for me to projectile vomit all over them; the more steps I took in the opposite direction in my two years beyond help Clark clogs.

Was it cowardice? Was it fear? They’ve never shut me up before, so why the fuck would they now in this Super Bowl-like opportunity for my vulgar creativity to shine?

Because I knew I was better than that…Or, with a little more humility, what would have it accomplished?

“Names! I want names!”

What, was I going to interrogate them as if they knew the whereabouts of Geraldo’s sources for Al Capones vault?

“Please, what are people whose BAC is higher than their IQ saying about what I write?”

As if their comments were as vicious as the $99.89 TV Stand reviews on

As if I wouldn’t do the same fucking thing.

I’m neither ignorant nor obtuse my friends.  I realize what comes with putting out things like this out there.  It’s multi-layered in its purpose, ranging from practice to preparing for the unfortunate reality of what awaits.

But at the end of the day, I have to tell you…

It ain’t fucking easy.  I mean it. It’s really quite hard.

When you first put it out there, you get this rush of adrenaline that puts a mischevious smile on your face like a guy eating pineapple on a first date.

Which is followed by penis shriveling terror.

I don’t know how many of you can possibly fathom how much scrutiny this glob of LSD, THC, and CTE between my ears can create.

But that’s reality.

And I will say this about any and all comments…

They are welcomed, expected, accepted, respected, and most importantly, encouraged.

Why did I write all of this?

Because it makes me feel better.  And now, I do.

Just remember the brilliant words of Grace Slick:

“Let them say we’re crazy, what do they know?”

We being me, my squatty potty and of course, my plant.

Me and my plant






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The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure: Prologue

A box of heath bar.

It’s that what we call it? Heath bar?  Anything with toffee wrapped in delicious chocolate goes by the name of Heath, right?

I personally credit Ben and Jerry with its meteoric rise in popularity as opposed to, well, Heath.

Meanwhile, the folks at Skor are calling me a son of a bitch.

Oh, and if you’re one of those who refers to it as chocolate covered toffee…Enjoy your catsup you pretentious douche.

Anyway, back to the box of heath bar, or in this case lack thereof.

Also known as the “gift” which finally caused me to quit my career of  10 plus years.

A career that saw me as the #5 (bottom of the totem pole…even though on a totem pole, the bottom is actually the most artistic due to the more experienced artist…you don’t care do you?) on a radio sales team in Rutland, VT. (#5’s don’t bill shit, we’ll get to that) Eventually though, after a change of scenery (moved to another market, more on that in a moment) I became a Senior Exec. (long tenured, suffering salesman), and finally, most recently, promoted to General Sales Manager.

The market was/is Glens Falls, NY.  A market I moved to because I desperately needed to leave a city, Rutland, which made me feel like I constantly needed to shower while exfoliating all the dead skin years upon years upon years of drug abuse and alcohol addiction created.

And the fact I’m a sucker for a gorgeous face.  Especially when it talks back to me for longer than “anything else with that?”

Recently a young lady asked me if “I’ve found everything I was looking for?”  Instinctively I wondered, “is she flirting with me?” I struggled until I heard the woman behind me ask the same thing to the 90-year-old person in front of them.

Yes, I was at Hannaford.

So, my judgment has always been a little off when it comes to the ladies.

I don’t know if you’ve heard or read.

Well, within the first few days of having a new zip code, the man who hired me was leaving and the girl I salivated for told me to wipe my chin because she thinks of me as her brother.

Which is the nice way of saying, “ya, I don’t want to see you naked.”

So, what did I do? I hooked up with a mentally ailing girl that got me hooked to Xanax. No shit. Fucking Xanax. The exact same pill a 17-year-old, LSD dropping, leather pants wearing (I had this obsession with Jim Morrison. Did I mention the LSD?)  version of me who “tried” to pull a Hemingway while writing like, well, Jim Morrison. (You ever read some of his stuff? Not that good.)

Ya, this gal “got me” (she didn’t realize she had the job of handling my life) addicted (like I needed help) to Xanax.  Why? I don’t know, maybe because she knew what I was inevitably going to do in a month.  (I have this thing about 30 days.)

Funny thing, not like ha, ha funny, well, the reason why she offered me her Xanax; WHICH by the way, this bipolar, beautiful girl, like diagnosed bipolar, well, she shouldn’t be doling out milligrams of her prescribed medication now should she? Well, I was paying for everything, dinner, flowers, breakfast, one way trips to Schenectady (shiver), so I got that shit for free! (not really, dinner was usually at this Italian place down the street where the bread and butter they put on your table is $20 added into your bill. Not literally, unless you don’t know what literally means. Then yes, literally the bill had a $20 charge for fucking bread and butter you fucking moron.  Google literally! Fuck!)


I was taking Nyquil and Advil PM at the time. Not at the same time.  That’s like low budget “speed-balling”.

“We found Mr. Hannigan comatose on the couch with syrup leaking out of the corners of his mouth while it appears that he was masturbating to a young ladies bikini pic.”

Let’s get back to my job.

I hated my job and it was causing me to not sleep and have my eye twitch. Which I can only imagine was due in part to the former. So, instead of quitting my job, I decided to plow through by developing a psychological addiction to sleeping medications that were “non-habit forming”.(Challenge Accepted.)  One night, she noticed how I took double the recommended amount (I do that with EVERYTHING.  Because, I’m 5’6, 165lbs.  I clearly need twice as much as everyone else). She scoffed at my “poor man’s Ambien.”

Thank GOD she did because she then introduced me to her bottomless bottle of sedatives.  Which eventually “evolved” into a mild addiction to a pretty high dosage of Xanax. (mention she was fucking nuts?  Like “literally”?  Teaching moment: She wasn’t actually nuts, like an almond or cashew.  That’s what literally means.  So, if she were “literally nuts”, she would be a pistachio.  Come to think of it, if she were a pistachio, I would probably have kept her around. Swear to Christ I’m going to crack my tooth trying to open the one that doesn’t have an ass crack to it.  Know what I mean?)

Anyway, after countless trips to a city I despised. After a rapidly dwindling bank account. After days of calling and texting with no response because she couldn’t get out of bed for days! After she made me sit there and watch fucking “Marley and Me” knowing how much I missed…well…


Oh, and after she broke one of my two, fucking TWO rules I have for dating me:

  1. Don’t cheat on me (funny thing about that, and if you’re not aware, have you heard about my student film “Good Grief”?)
  2. Don’t do cocaine.

She didn’t cheat on me.

Instead, I did get a phone call at 6am on a Sunday with her telling me why I was going to break up with her.  She was strung out on blow while sitting on her filthy tiled bathroom floor trying to come down as others were crashed in her bed.  Something tells me Rule #1 may have been involved as well…

Needless to say, we broke up later that week…

Not before the first and only night she slept in my apartment. (you know, a man’s compelling urge to have sex one last time, knowing it is, well, the struggle is real my friends.) However, when you’re fucking crazy, I guess you sleep, A LOT!  (By the way, if you’re bipolar, you’re not crazy. All her ailment gave me was/ is a reason to call her fucking crazy. And if you’re reading, own that shit.)  Why do I mention her sleeping pattern? Because you had to lock the door from the OUTSIDE in my overpriced dorm-room in Saratoga Springs, NY. (Beautiful. Saratoga, not my apartment. It was a piece of shit that had a smoke detector 5 feet from the fucking oven!)  Think about that. I wake up, have to go to work, I have a Angelina Jolies character in Girl, Interrupted knocked out on a Hunter S. Thompson nightcap in my bed.

So, I did what any rational, clear thinking, intelligent human being would do…

I left her my key……………………………………….(…………………………)…………

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate?

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate and have a potential situation lying in your bed?

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate with a potential situation lying in your bed who is now the recipient of the Keith T. Hannigan Apartment Spare Key Award?

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate with a potential situation lying in your bed who is now the recipient of the Keith T. Hannigan Apartment AND 2006 Ford Fusion Spare Key Award? (yes, same keyring. #WINNING)

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate with a potential situation lying in your bed who is now the recipient of the Keith T. Hannigan Apartment And 2006 Ford Fusion Key Award, while chatting with another girl for the past week who would eventually become your ex-wife? (Did I forget to mention that?)

And I needed some GODDAMN XANAX!

Eventually, she left my place, and I broke up with her via Facebook Chat. That night, I was unable to sleep due to not only fear of her coming into my place and slitting my throat as I slept and then taking off in my 2006 Ford Focus;  but, what I could only imagine was a mild case of  Xanax withdrawal.

I ended up going out with the girl I was chatting with.  We fought, fucked, moved in, bought a house, married, then… Have I told you about my student film “Good Grief”?

After my divorce, I went back to school, made said movie, finally got my fucking degree but also got bitten by a rabid cat, broke up with a girl who was one of many (Feel free to read more at  PS:  I’m neither athletic or a hippie, I just get stoned and workout.) thought I caught an STD, had a Prostate Cancer cancer “scare”, (it had been a few years since I had a good ole greasy finger shoved in my ass so, you know...) got promoted, went to Tony Robbins, went back to Church, realized why I hated Church, discovered having a faith is nice, stopped paying attention to everything I couldn’t control, isolated myself for the past couple years and decided to write with a self-deprecating yet sanctimonious tone, went to another Tony Robbins thing that cost me a year of student loan payments (I wish it was that little…), got back and didn’t get my goddamn box of fucking heath bar!

So, I said:

“I quit”.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t tell the whole thing about the basket case blonde in my bed to say I should of quit that day. Even though the thought did go through my head so I could just make sure she didn’t keep my key. WHICH SHE DID!

Good for her. I was a piece of shit for breaking up with her on Facebook Chat.  (It wasn’t messenger back then, so fuck off!)

Anyway, the heath bar.

Every year, and I mean the last three or four, the owner of the company gives us a box of this heath bar for our Christmas “bonus”. Jelly of the Month Club it ain’t, but it is pretty fucking amazing!  More addicting than Xanax (nope) and twice as delicious (yep).

Well, it just so happened that my “Date with Destiny” was the same day as the “Annual Awkward Christmas Party”. Past parties have included such hits as  “drunken boyfriend of the part-time (2 hours a week) salesperson ($550 a month in sales, not much, typically the amount the #5 salesperson bills. See what I did there?), yeah, he told us about how much he didn’t like country radio (our top biller) and then told us to not sell just radio, but to tell people to buy our competition”.

And then there was “Why don’t you invest in H.S.A?” speech last year.

“Ask not what you can do for your country” worthy…

So, you can clearly see I was heartbroken for not being there.

I’m also 6 foot 2 and black.

And clearly when I got back from my six days and six nights of “Emotional Bootcamp” (where I was getting my balls inflated to finally do something)  I wanted to know two things:

  • What were the inspiring words given during the “not too bad, not too great either” dinner?
  • Where’s my goddamn heath bar?

For you see, I just completed my first year as General Sales Manager.  And thank God for my team, because in a year where the company and industry as a whole was hemorrhaging due to, well, a lot…We were up! Year over year, we were the only ones fucking up!

So, the least I could get, being the one in charge of generating revenue, was some delicious heath bar to make me feel like shit and fat before I see my judgmental family during the holiday season!

“Sorry, he took it back.”- Anonymous Source.

I sought out confirmation, and it was true.  The day after I just flew back from Florida on 3 hours of sleep, the early stages of the flu/bronchitis that would last for two weeks, and a spot on impersonation of Kathleen Turner due to singed vocal cords and the aforementioned sickness; My beloved heath bar was in the belly of another. Or sewage system.  More than likely sewage system.

That was the moment I said to myself “I’m done”.

I said it out loud too.  To my boss.  A man I absolutely admire and adore. A good man.

I’m done waking up to the initial thought of  “when will I say enough is enough”?

And if I should jerk off.

When will I wake up and not have to be burdened by numbers when I fucking HATE numbers?


Meanwhile, my job is only about numbers.

Before, well, before I could write. I could write fun, creative, inspired commercials.

Before I was so consumed by having to hit a number…

I had the freedom to just write.

Write commercials with a Scottish dude yelling at you why a golf course was ruining the game because their prices were so low.  Commercials where a badgering salesperson called relentlessly to a woman that wanted to think about spending 30k on a car.  Commercials where Bill Clinton wanted to fuck the waitresses and eat Prime Rib.

Now, now I have to adhere to daily, weekly, and monthly budgets.  And if we hit, nothing, I’m left alone. Except, well, not really. Because, well, I receive more emails that suck than praise. A 60:1 ratio. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care to have my ass patted and told “atta boy”. But I sure as shit don’t like reading how “we’re a disappointment” and “need to turn the pressure up” when we’re doing what we’re supposed. (I need some Nyquil thinking about it.)

No more.

Years ago, I got 6 “brownies” during a specific type of season in Vermont where, well, things are good. Hours later, my fat, selfish ass (out of 6 brownies, I had 4, I gave one each to my roommate and BFF) was flipping out in bed while my cell phone rang with ringtone of “Shout At the Devil” by Motley Crue.  You could say I was a c-hair away from flipping the fuck out.  Then, I realized I was on drugs, calmed down, took deep breaths, and tried not to call 911 from my Satanic Samsung.

A friend looked at me the next day after telling him this story, and he said:

“All those years of drugs prepared you for that moment.”

Nice way to think of it. As opposed to, well, the fact I was actually taking drugs…so, you know, you deserved it.

I say that to say this…

I’m done wondering when I’ll be ready.

I’m done waking up and wondering when will today be the last day…and if I should use a sock or tissues.

I’m done reading emails about being a disappointment when there is ZERO to be disappointed about.

I’m done allowing myself to feel inadequate to something that will never, EVER be adequate.

I’m done wondering if I will have the balls tomorrow to say it’s over.


Because it is tomorrow.


Fucking heath bar…



The girl I moved out here for, actually we’re great friends.  She’s found her perfect man and I have a really hot “sister” that I want to…get advice from.

The bipolar girl is a mom, I believe, which means I know through photos I’ve found via Facebook stalking.

However, there is someone out there missing their 2006 Ford Fusion.

Please feel free to follow to find out when more Chapters of my “Pursuit of Inevitable Failure” are released.





Why I Like Saying Goodbye…

My plan was to post a series of blogs chronicling my “pursuit of inevitable failure”, then, well…

Life is life…

Because life will eventually take one…

The world lost a friend today.


I’m not going to pretend and act as if we spoke regularly, often, or at all.  We really haven’t. The last time I saw her was by stopping into a store she was working at in my hometown of Rutland, VT.

She looked tired. I didn’t know her candle was running out of wick and wax.

The notion of hindsight only exists to torment us.

Years ago, at my wedding, which I will refer to again in this post, I mentioned to a friend,

“I’m the last one.  It’s all re-marriages and funerals from here.”

Unfortunately, I was spot on.

Unfortunately, this one stings.

Days ago, I quit my career of 10 plus years and I said good bye in an email to the staff.

One friend/co-worker responded by saying like many do,

“I don’t say good-bye”.  And then replaced the term with something not so finite.

“I do.” I quickly responded.

“There are too many times, I never got the chance.”

Anyway, this is a letter to my friend.

Oh you,

I’m sorry, but I have to tell this story about you.  A story about your heart, that sapphire filled with pure love housed by the exceptional beauty that was you. 

It was my wedding day, oh you know where I’m going with this don’t you?  Well, we’ll see. 

You were pissed.  Remember? 

You were beating yourself up because you forgot your camera!  I mean honestly, Michele, how the hell were you supposed to guess that you were about to step foot on grounds so beautiful they were straight out of a goddamn daytime soap opera? Not only the fact you were surrounded by flowers of all colors, varieties, and flavors.  Not only the fact you were embraced by sculptures worthy of Athens.  But the fact it was my short, dumb, hairy ass that requested your presence at this “Enchanted Garden”!  Where the fuck did I of all people find this sublime plot for one to say “I Do”?

I remember smiling at you, and you, you looked beautiful.  You smiled back with that oh so mischievously radiant of a toothy grin, and bitched about not having your fucking camera.

Suddenly, like a falcon spying a field mouse, you noticed something and took off. 

I had no goddamn clue what you were doing. 

Oh, Michele…

What you saw…

You saw a beer can. And at that moment, you made it your mission to find anything that would dare trash my wedding day. You went out, found it, and put it out of its misery without asking if they had any last words or wanted a cigarette.

You assured me there was going to be no trash that day.

Kinda, wish you took out the trash in the white dress…(Hindsight is such a bitch…not as much of a bitch as the one in the white…I kid)

Ironically it was trash.   

Ironically, I being the one who was trash on your wedding day many years, and many incarnations of Keith prior…

You were so exquisite on your day.

You clean up so nice, so nice…

This story of you proves my theory you were a better person than I, the masses, and the few. 

Goddamn it Michele! What the fuck!  The world CANNOT afford to lose good people right now, and you are one of the exceptional ones. 


We drifted apart for years, growing up/old sucks.  It secretly does that to us.  With every year, comes a larger gap between two people that once shared the same toilet.   

But, every time we crossed paths, it was as if Melrose Place never ended. 

All I can think of from those days is how much you fucking loved Rosanne, and when that GOD AWFUL show came back- and I’m sorry Michele, I still think it’s white trash awful- I thought of you, and how happy you must have been with its return to poison what I thought was your amazing taste. 

How excited were we when “Hello Nasty” came out? I’m actually listening to them right now as I write. It’s only fitting. 

The last time I saw you, we hugged, and you hugged me with the grip of either a mason or a person simply filled with so much love.

So much love.

I’m so lucky you hugged like such a fucking champ. 

I won’t forget the last moment I saw you because of. 

I don’t know what pain you were numbing my friend, but I hope you went peacefully, to rest peacefully in perpetuity; to rest peacefully surrounded by those who you missed so very much; to rest peacefully. 

Because you earned peace.    

Heaven just got a fuck load more tattoos and attitude today.  With a great ass.

Heaven just got a fuck load more beautiful today…

I love you, I will miss you, my life is better for having you in it,  and thank you, thank you,  for letting me be your friend…


P.S. I never told you this, but when I first saw you, you were wearing this really thick wool sweater that I’m pretty sure I owned its akin to. Nonetheless, I didn’t know you, and you were walking up North Main St.  I almost re-ended the car in front of me checking you out. It was odd when we met and I knew that.  

I thought you were so hot…so hot… 😊




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