Tag Archives: NFL

The Life of Radio Salesman

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.

That’s right.

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…

Heart.

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…

 

Convinced?

-k

 

Advertisements

The Art of Nothing: Long Weekends in Solitude.

Christmas Eve was, and for the most part, still is a very special occasion for my Ma’s family. Back in the day,  we would all gather at my late grandparents home located on South St. in the “Gut” of Rutland, VT.  South St. was “Little Italy”.  I remember walking down the street with a friend one day and started rattling off the last names of those who inhabited this street; every name ended with a vowel.

Every Christmas Eve, one of my Uncles, traditionally my Uncle Benny, my mom’s eldest brother, would dress like Santa.  I, being the eldest grandson, would always love seeing Santa.  Especially when Santa lectured me about screaming “Holy Shit” at pre-school one day when my Uncle Tony, the middle child, scared me when he was given the responsibility of picking me up from school.  Par for the course if you know Tony.

Well, it took some time, but finally after my grandparents passed and my mom was given the house for her and her now husband Scott. Not to be confused, which usually is the case, with my brother Scott.  Yes, screaming “Hey Scott” is always an adventure. Especially when the opposite is typically the first to respond. But after years of having the Christmas Eve party somewhere else, finally we had it again on the street of “Little Italy”.

As the night was winding down and everyone was leaving slowly to get ready for their Christmas Morning, out of nowhere, there arose such a clatter.  When I answered the door, it was my father, and I asked what’s the matter?  My father was there for a very special reason, gifts to be opened by my brother and I in front of my parents.  Now this is over a decade ago, so humor me.  But we received laptops that my father waited in line for on Black Friday.  How special this gift was, was not based on financial investments, even though it was substantial. It was more so based on the fact our parents agreed to do something.  That in it self was a monumental occasion since they parted ways a decade prior.

My brother needed a laptop as he embarked on his next semester in college. As I needed it to download porn and be introduced to online dating:

Spac Profile Pic

 

I’d had only been sober for a limited amount of time then, so lets just say I had a lot of free time to fill.  And even then, when my weekends were filled with…downloads and stalking, I would walk away feeling like I did “something” that weekend.

Today, I would call that a waste.  A day of doing nothing.

This weekend, a coveted 3 day Labor Day weekend, I did absolutely nothing and loved every goddamn second of it.

And no, I didn’t download any porn…Simply due to the fact there is no reason to these days…With that being said:

What is nothing?

Totally subjective, I get that. What I define as nothing may be considered as exhausting to another.   I mean, nothing for me means not leaving the house for more than 90 minutes.  Doesn’t have to be in a row, just has to be 90 minutes.

No, I don’t count the minutes, but I do acknowledge the time spent after the fact.

I mean, cleaning your place.  Okay.

Going to the gym for an hour…I mean, I guess.

Going for a hike/walk right outside of your place…Only if you talk to somebody which consists of more than wishing them a nice day and them thinking you said “happy birthday”.

(No shit, just happened.  Turns out it was her daughters birthday.  Her daughter wasn’t there.  I think she thought I was cute and was making it up to say hi to me.  But I think everyone thinks I’m cute.  So…)

Is it about human interaction? Is it about breaking our routine? I mean, we all have a routine right?  And if we do, it’s near impossible to break.

Let me give you an example that I just realized today:  I’ve been living in South Glens Falls for just over three years.  In all that time, I’ve taken the same path, Ridge St., to work in Queensbury every day.  When I was Sr. Account Executive, I would have the liberty of stopping by my place whenever I needed to. Couple that with lunch, and the drive to and from work, I would easily guess I’ve made that drive at least 500 times.

For at least the pass three months, there has been massive amounts of sewer line construction going on.  It’s been hellish.  The delays are anywhere from a 5 to 15 minutes.  They’re probably more like 2 to 5, but they feel 5 to 15 to 30 minutes long.  Nonetheless, I know good and goddamn well there is a going to be a delay, and what do I do?

I think to myself: “Hey, today you may get right through!”

And maybe, just maybe I’ve waited long enough for Cindy Crawford to come sit on my face.  I’ve been patient, I’ve earned it.

That had nothing to do with anything right there and I’m sorry you had to read it.  I could erase it, but I will simply let it sit there, for I should be ashamed.

Point being, I don’t get right through. Out of the 60 plus times I’ve driven through, I know for a fact I haven’t gotten through more than a fist of times without delay.  Fist is my clever way of saying five. Five fingers, you know?

I guess clever can be subjective, just like doing nothing!

Totally went six degrees of Kevin Bacon on that shit.

The Art of Doing Nothing

What is the art of doing anything? Is it being so masterful that it looks effortless?  Is it enjoying it so much so that your love is obvious as you perform?  Was Michael Jordan an artist? Was Tiger Woods? Is Serena Williams? I use athletes because of the cult like figures we create them to be, and I find myself of doing jack shit when I see them on TV!

“Hey what did you do this weekend Mike?”

“Well, Jason, totally watched all four rounds of the Masters with Ben.  What did you and Maggie do?

“Oh the French Open was on and we watched a 5 set, four-hour match between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal!”

Okay, a few things:

  1. Yes, all the characters involved in that little skit were named after the Seavers in “Growing Pains”.
  2. I’m really fucking impressed with my knowledge of tennis names even though I had to look up Rafael Nadal.
  3. Don’t knitpick you trolls about how the Masters and the French Open don’t take place at the same time.

Why is watching someone on TV do something considered, “doing something?”

I mean, what time of year is it? NFL Football  Sundays are GONE!  Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Tinder (not really, but I’m trying to say something about Tinder in every blog I write) is going to be a big, hot, shitty, mess filled with Super Fans #12 talking like they’ve watched their favorite player grow out of infancy and they have stock invested in him.

And that is called “doing something”. And if you don’t do it, let’s say you went out of your house and spent the days outside,  you’re that dipshit at work the next day that didn’t see it.

Seriously, I think that Odell Beckham catch would have gotten more “likes” the Neil Fucking Armstrong walking on the goddamn moon!

“Oh the machine did all the work, OBJ caught that shit one handed bro!”

But why do we consider it as “doing something”?

Because we love to do it.  That’s it.  That’s the difference between doing something and nothing; it’s just loving the every living shit out of it.

Go ahead Cody and Linda Lou, watch 16 hours straight of the WWE Network while eating four bags of Sonics.  Just love the shit out of it.

Go ahead hot lesbian couple of Alex and Bobbie, go hike that mountain, take 43 pictures, brag about how nice it is to unplug and get away while uploading all of them to Facebook and Instagram. Just love the shit out of it.

Go ahead aspiring screenwriter that has a very energy consuming 9-5, sit there and watch 10 episodes of the same TV Show on Netflix while checking all of your dating apps and websites

Spac Profile Pic

Just love the shit out of it.

What’s the difference between nothing and something?

I guess loving it.

But what the fuck do I know about love? I have a plant. A goddamn plant. I’m still surprised I’ve kept the thing alive.

I do love that plant though.

-k