Have you ever wondered why you make poor decisions in a bad mood? It’s because your emotions dictate emotions and this is how.
Remember, check out my new self-hosted site of
To all my followers on WordPress.com (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 WordPress.org site entitled:
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 Stage32.com, 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…
To Be Continued, and remember…
Thanks for playing everyone!
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 match.com 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:
- Don’t cheat on me (funny thing about that, and if you’re not aware, have you heard about my student film “Good Grief”?)
- 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 http://athletichippie.blog. 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:
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.)
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…
WHERE ARE THEY NOW:
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.
Analytics are a fickle little bitch. I work within a world that is rapidly being inundated with them, all the while having none of substance to provide. However, when you have a WordPress account, (my unfortunate blog platform of choice; they’ve gotten better though.) you have access to a portal which displays all this exciting (not at all) data. For example: If you read this blog through Facebook, I would know it. Just a number, no name. I bore you with all of that to bore you with this; for the past couple months, someone keeps searching my home page. On an almost daily basis, someone is going to my “library” and seeing if I’ve uploaded anything…
Yes, this is the one about you. (more of a composite character…For those that don’t know what a composite character is, or choose not to simply Google the fucking term; it’s two or more that are made into one. Think Donald Sutherland in JFK. Actually, this is really about one, while a bit about another, while mentioning a couple, so like 5 characters, including me…I think…There is nothing composite about this, not at all…)
Oh and if you’re just being introduced to me and my writing “style”; I swear, like, a lot. And I misuse parenthesis,
(Like, all the fucking time.)
“Who’s walking down Broadway?”
You can set your watch to it. Okay, I don’t have a watch. Actually, I do have a watch, it’s not my watch per se, but…Real quick. (This won’t be quick)…
9 years ago, my father got my brother and I matching Citizen Eco watches for Christmas. This was shocking because they were pretty damn nice! Totally unlike my father. However, very much like my father, they had something to do with the NY Giants (Eli Manning endorses. Yes, this is my fathers mind). And very much like my father, he got me something I will never use. There was this time when I was 15, and I was a “husky” 15-year-old
And he got me a tennis racket for my birthday…Cats and kittens, I literally looked at him and said,
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
Fast forward to said Christmas morning, and I never ever, ever, ever, ever wore a watch. Actually, now that I think, that’s not true. I had a gold Movado. I got it for $20 in Tijuana. It fell apart a week later. I currently wear a Hamsa around my wrist.
(Yes, the struggle between the cast of characters who comprise my personal sitcom is real. Currently, there is a battle between Nightman Keith and Dayman Keith. Nightman Keith continues to go to the fridge in the middle of the night and suck down a bottle of maple syrup like it’s his “purpose” to totally fuck with Daytime, healthy Keith.) Where the hell was I? Oh yeah, the watch dad got me was stolen from my car in the middle of a beverage center parking lot because I just so happened to leave my car door unlocked with my brand new watch in its case (getting a link removed) in my car…
Years later, I took my brothers because that’s what brothers do (I have no goddamn clue what brothers do), which has since been replaced by the aforementioned Hamsa (Namaste).
BUT, if I did wear that watch…
You can pretty much set your watch to it.
“So, who’s walking down Broadway this weekend?”
This is the line I hear every Friday morning from a colleague/friend. This harmless interrogation is his way of asking who is going to be my next victim, I mean blog antagonist or protagonist and maybe I’m the antagonist (that’s going to fester), I mean life I’m about to traumatize…My next goddamn online date.
Funny thing, he was actually the DJ at my wedding. (Not really that funny.)
Funny thing, I NEVER take girls “down Broadway. ”
Broadway is the beautiful, picturesque strip that runs through downtown Saratoga Springs where there is never any parking. Where food delivery trucks just stop in the middle of the road and throw their flashers on causing a half mile traffic jam. Where god fucking forbid during the months of July and August (track season) you dare drive through this “quaint little city framed by the Adirondacks.” (I don’t know why I used quotes there. I really don’t.)
During track season, if you don’t accidentally clip with your car some drunken debutante in a hat so goddamn gargantuan that you don’t necessarily wish ill upon, just an event which will traumatize her so much she will forever associate THIS moment with THAT hat. And clutching her hand while carrying a PBR (so hip) is this douched in Creed Aventus (yes I just Googled expensive mens cologne) and a cigar hanging from his mouth wishing it was his private school bunkmate Bradleys penis, acting as if his last name is Rockafeller (could be) dressed in a checkered shirt and salmon shorts by POLO Ralph Lauren (Jesus Christ, I’m a description of an entree and review of “Hip to Be Square” away from being mistaken for Marcus Halberstram) prick …Yeah, if you don’t hit them with your car… You win the day.
By the way, 19 horses died there last summer.
Other than that Saratoga Springs is amazing!
Karin, Karin was the last girl I took “down Broadway”. We had a great conversation about food and I’m pretty sure I watched a male duck (a drake) try to fuck his lady of choice, a duck. Fun fact, a female duck is called…a duck. I wish I could find a GIF of Drake (the rapper, is he a rapper?) fucking a duck…Instead well, this is what you happens when you Google search a “drake fucking a duck”…I’m sorry (not one bit)
I would have broken her heart…Karin, not the duck…
Actually, I had coffee with Arielle on Broadway where we watched a homeless man get thrown out for swearing at a group of dreadlocked Skidmore students. Arielle and I would talk about…
I miss her every day and I’m pretty sure I broke her heart.
Don’t you wish there was a way you could hold onto people, the good people you come across and simply say, “the timing is just not right”? Instead, well…
“I’ve gone celibate”, was my latest and lamest retort this past Friday when the spotlight was flashed in my eyes and the typical Friday, Broadway question was posed.
“What? Is that what you’ve given up for Lent?” He guffawed. (I’m so fucking excited I found a way to use that word!!!)
And no I didn’t. Not guffaw, I didn’t give up sex for Lent.
But I sure as shit did now!
“Yes, yes I did! Now get me a goddamn steak!”
This is my story of voluntary celibacy…(As opposed to my late teens when, well…1998 Keith would strangle 2018 Keith…)
Oh and a story about how I came home to this…(hence the fucking title)
It started when I told her to read my blog and a “pfft”…
Quick story. And when I say quick, you know for fact this is going to be anything but. It’s going to be long-winded, it’s going to be melodramatic, and it’s going to be 10 minutes longer than necessary.
No worries though, because nothing has changed since you last checked your Instagram except:
Your “friend” is drinking a glass of beer.
Your “friend” is drinking a glass of wine.
I’m a recovering alcoholic and I hate these “friends”.
Your “friend” really hates Donald Trump so they share a meme calling him a misogynistic, xenophobic, putz.
Your “friend” really loves President Trump and they share a meme calling the other “friend” a “Whiny Liberal Pussy”.
And there are a bunch of pics of someones fucking kids, dogs, cats, and some quotes about being positive or some shit.
Needless to say, you’ve got a minute or two for a cool little tale.
Anyway, not so quick story from about 12 hours ago.
Many of you who I have the pleasure of being Facebook friends know I’ve been running again…
You want to know why I post my runs on Facebook? Not for some shit like “if I share X amount of posts, I receive a coupon”. Even though I do get 40% off Under Armour every once in a while.
I do it because it pisses a friend of mine off. I know for a fact there is one person who legitimately gets all hot and bothered every time he sees it. He even confirmed it via a text one night.
And I so get off on that!
I may go for a run tonight just because…
I’m such a spiteful, cheeky cunt.
Anyway, it’s more of a “spirited jog” really. I sustained injuries to my Iliotibial Band and my Iliopsoas last year and I’m still “in recovery”. Essentially, the side of my leg and a muscle whose origins are just alongside my belly button are absurdly tight.
And let me tell you this, the latter, well, yeah, there is no greater hell than having a massage, from an attractive woman, who is alleviating this massive pain, all while having to fart. And folks, where did I say this muscle originates? Oh and friends, for some reason on this day, the air coming out of my ass was worthy of Auschwitz. Yeah, I said it. And I’m also owning the fact it was that goddamn bad.
Anyway, I can only jog. While jogging through the village of South Glens Falls, NY last night, I see a young lady and her dog. Instant thought, look graceful. Instant reality, I’m as graceful as, well…
Let me say this about the “flightless bird”, sometimes your hands go a little numb and you need to get blood pumping into them again.
Needless to say, here comes the 5’6 flightless fucking bird. She heels the dog, which he (it’s a he) does perfectly. The young lady looks up and smiles proudly, as she should. Cute dog, cute girl, I’m a fan of both, I reciprocate the smile. And I nailed it.
You know when you just crush a smile? Well, I sure as shit just did and you know what?
Anyway, fast forward 2.11 miles and 19 minutes and 47 seconds later. (I’m so goddamn slow and it…whatever) But I have permagrin like Hippie Keith one hour into a Phish show and a piece of paper on his tongue. My grin is not satisfaction due to my “end of the day jaunt”. My grin is because I’m about to post something that will cause someone to curse my name.
Oh it’s such a glorious feeling, I highly recommend it.
Then, I see a car pull up along side of me. It’s a lady with her arm out waving me down. I say a quick “Our Father” it’s not any of the 13 girls I’ve blogged about and lean in to see since my eyesight has gone to shit.
It’s her. The girl from before.
And yes, I’m like:
Then it dawned on me…Oh no!
I literally said “Oh no!”
Because the “Cute girl with the cute dog”, is now just the “Cute girl”.
“Hey, remember me?” she shyly inquired.
“Remember, I’ve been thinking about you for a solid 2.11 miles”…Ya, I didn’t say that. Why?
“Where is he?” I quickly retorted.
“I don’t know!” She replied with horror behind her eyes and terror trembling in her voice.
Now, this is all happening right after running…okay, jogging, the excitement of infuriating a friend, and spiking a smile like it just won a Super Bowl. Now,a cute girl and her cute dog are in need. I say that to say this:
Did I respond this way because she was cute?
You bet that sweet ass of yours I did!
“What’s his or her name?”
“We got this, meet me down the hill at the path.”
“Oh no, you don’t have to do this.” She’s scared and I’m a sweaty guy in a bright blue North Face fleece. I’d say no to me too.
So, what did I do? Only delivered the single greatest line of my life!
“Yes, I do.”
If Nicholas Sparks is reading this, his skinny jeans just got tighter.
Yeah, I gave her hope. And that was a pretty badass moment. Which I discovered was about to be trumped (ugh) in about 43 seconds.
She went to turn her car around and I started to jog down the hill. Remember how I just said 43 seconds? (Of course you do, it’s literally words ago.) Well, it was more like 17. Odd numbers are just funnier. Don’t know why.
I heard a ruffling in the woods to my left. Said a quick “Glory Be” that it wasn’t a rabid cat, looked over, and there he was.
“Ozzy”, I somehow exhaled out of my “holy shit moment lungs”.
He comes right over. No shit, walks out of the woods right up to me. Stops, I give a quick “hey fella”. Pick up the leash, look up, see her in the car, yell, “hey!” and hold the leash above my head like I found fire.
Now, I couldn’t see shit, but you bet your sweet ass I could see her smile from a solid 25 yards away.
And, well, I can just describe the next moment as…well…
Nicholas Sparks just grabbed some tissues and lotion.
Seriously, I felt this urge to go chop wood and grow a mustache.
Now, in hindsight, I totally botched my opportunity to walk up and say.
“I believe this is your dog miss.”
Instead, it was more like,
“Holy shit! That was so cool!”.
And then my glasses-less face came to discover that this perfect, serendipitous moment just happened with a girl…
Goddamn it…a girl that IF she was 18, it was because her birthday was yesterday.
The most superhero moment fucking ever, and well, of course, right?
She was overjoyed, relieved, and on the cusp of tears.
I shook her hand introducing myself, because well, it’s nice to know peoples names, and headed home.
When I got home, I pondered for a brief second what just happened.
Now, I don’t know if you can tell, but I believe in God. At that moment, I reflected what just transpired, looked up, smiled and said,
“Thanks, man. That was pretty goddamn cool”.
Then you realize you just had a front row seat to:
Seeing someone proud.
Seeing someone frightened to death.
Seeing someone inspired with hope.
Seeing someone euphoric.
Meanwhile, she brought this douche who gets off on letting his friends know he’s running… jogging…
She brought him grace.
And ya, I’m thinking it too…
I wonder if she has any older, psycho sisters?
I sell air.
If you give me an hour of your time, I’m pretty sure, no, I’m positive I’ll convince you that the air you breathe isn’t nearly as valuable as the air I’m selling.
How do I know that?
Because the air I sell you contains language and harmony. The air I sell can make you think, make you informed, make you laugh, make you angry, make you aroused, make you intrigued, make you cry, make you wonder, and make you dream.
While your air gives you life, my air makes you feel alive.
Do I honestly believe all that is true? Truthfully, I’m indifferent.
For you see, all that matters is that I convince you.
When I’m done, you will be absolutely fucking convinced my air is the greatest goddamn thing that ever happened to your miserable life.
Don’t get me wrong, I used to face the world of tangible products, aka a coupon.
I then went toe to toe with narcissism and bad acting that is television.
Then fucking Stern goes to satellite.
But, yet, like spam, and I’m not talking about the emails for dick pills or your long lost Dominican uncle that was worth billions just died. I mean like the can of jelly coated fake ham.
Like that spam, we survive.
Wanna know why? Because we don’t cost shit.
Think about it. Radio is totally free. While everyone thinks we’re archaic, or worthless. Guess what? We are! We’re old and trusted and we don’t cost you, the consumer a fucking dime. Call your cable company now, if you have one, and tell them you’re going to cancel. Don’t own the top package? No worries, they’ll give it to you for what you’re paying now. Go ahead, try…You’re welcome for your 3 free months of HBO.
And are you receiving Sirius mailers like their fucking Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons? If you wait, they’ll pay you to listen.
Yet here we are in radio, in all our canned, slimy, pink glory.
Oh are we currently going at it with the “sexy” analytics that is digital? Yes. Why? Because, right now, analytics are to businesses what cocaine was to 1981 Miami Beach.
At least that’s what they’re being told.
Does anyone know what an impression is? No, I’m not talking the sweaty outline of your fat ass peeling your almost dead body off your yoga mat. It’s when you see an ad. Or more than likely, don’t see an ad. Think about the boxes on the right that show some donkey getting jacked…..think about the pair of shoes on your Facebook page, that you JUST looked at on the G.H. Bass website. It’s called retargeting. Did you buy or get pissed? I bet you in your subconscious you were not only annoyed, but creeped out.
In a world where paranoia and fear are as regular as those goddamn Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons,(I have enough to build a fucking lean-to) all digital advertising does is make you feel invaded. It doesn’t convince you to do jack shit.
And if it does, I ask you to dig a little deeper before making a decision.
You ever hear a funny radio commercial?
You did, didn’t you?
Of course, you did.
Ever laugh at a pair of shoes haunting your soul the next 24 times you go anywhere and everywhere on the World Wide Web?
Don’t you get it?
We like to be told stories. We all do. Whether through person, song, film, book, game, et cetera. Don’t believe me? What’s that book of stories that so many people read?
Oh yeah, the FUCKING BIBLE!
On radio. We tell you stories.
And we’re damn good at it.
Our stories can inform you, anger you, sadden you, and of course, humor you.
I leave you with this thought, I took statistics a couple times, so I’m going to say I have zero credibility on the subject. But you’re reading this, and that’s because I’m a good storyteller. Or, a good bullshitter. Many will choose the latter and I am one of them.
Nonetheless, for my final project, I was to present something based on statistics, in, well, my 16th Century European History class! Goddamn, my A.D.D and repetitiveness get so fucking annoying. Seriously, I’m the guy that has ham at Easter and talks the next 3 weeks about:
“Why don’t I eat more ham?”
Because, it’s fucking ham…
Anyway, I had this statistics project and I did mine on the NFL QB Rating. Wanna know how they compute the NFL QB Rating? No, you really don’t, but allow me to cut and paste:
Start with .095 and subtract interceptions divided by pass attempts. Divide that product by .04. To gain 2.375 in percentage of interceptions, a passer would have to go the entire season without an interception. Add the sum of 1-4, multiply by 100 and divide by 6
If you can figure that out, you’re an asshole. And you may always be an asshole. So own it…being an asshole.
Anyway, during my presentation, I read what I plagiarized to the class, and then asked the class, what’s the one thing that is not represented in that entire equation?
…wait for it…
I don’t mean the Wilson sisters. Even though, I saw them live one summer and they fucking killed it. Best show of the summer. And I saw Phish, Motley Crue, and Journey that same year.
Ya, not them.
The one thing that we can’t measure in any Nasa nuclear quadratic, (by the way, I typed quadramatic. Thanks red squiggly line because I didn’t have a goddamn clue.) formula that only can be understood by (stereotype) an Asian student at M.I.T?
It’s our heart.
Don’t be a douche and say and EKG. You know what I mean and you’re about to kill the moment and my momentum…
Not only does radio make your heart dance, your heart sing, your heart race and your heart gently weep, but we play Heart too!
Radio doesn’t try to predict your decisions…radio just helps your heart make them.
And the last time I checked, the best decisions I’ve made, you’ve made, we’ve all made…
Came from your heart…