Last Friday, the annual Jesse H. Neal Awards Ceremony was held in Manhattan. According to the folks who run the awards, the Neals “are the most prestigious editorial honors in the field of specialized journalism.” I always describe it as the Oscars of B2B journalism.
I wasn’t there last Friday. I don’t work at Ad Age any longer and while the Ad Age family was kind enough to invite me to the ceremony, Cara and I were on our way to Philadelphia. Thankfully, you don’t have to be present to win. Because I finally won. Yours truly took home the award for Best Commentary.
This year’s work included me screaming at the media about their lack of Louisiana flood coverage, me pointing out the absurdity of pharmaceutical advertising, and me noting that gender diversity isn’t the ad industry’s biggest diversity problem.
I was a finalist the previous year and was, indeed, bummed not to win. But the previous year, Ad Age took home so many Neals — and, for its first time in history, The Grand Neal — it didn’t get me too down. Hard to be sad, when you’re forced to go on stage to give an acceptance speech for The Grand Neal and you’re completely unprepared.
So this year, I won for my brilliant commentary on this and that via my Last Word Column in Ad Age. Go me. And congrats to the other folks at Ad Age who won and all the winners I may or may not know.
The Brooklyn Democrat Felix Ortiz, a state assemblyman in New York, “has introduced a bill that would ban the use of salt in New York restaurants – and violators would be smacked with a $1,000 fine for every salty dish.”
Of course, he’s portraying this as a way to save lives. What kills me is that anyone is even taking this joker seriously enough to debate him on the harm to the restaurant industry or the quality of food. I’m going to guess that Felix Ortiz is a man-child who’s never cooked a single meal in his life. Perhaps his mama still cooks his meals. And he’s obviously never worked in a restaurant. Probably doesn’t know a thing about food preservation.
Hey, Felix? Don’t like salt? Don’t eat it. And if your constituents have health issues supposedly related to salt, tell them to stay there asses home and eat fresh vegetables and fruits. The rest of us, we who actually have some element of personal responsibility and self-control remaining, kindly request you leave us alone.
A school in Brooklyn has decided to start teaching handwriting again. Seems that New York City schools in their ongoing quest for excellence had quit teaching handwriting.
“No time,” they said. I’m sorry. Are there somehow less hours in the day than there used to be? How did our teachers, back in the day, manage to find the minutes in the day to teach us to write our own alphabet.
Continue reading “Why Your Kids Are Dumb”
Watching the news this morning, I heard some wank going on about his project and it sounded like this. “Blah blah blah sustainability blah blah blah urban blah blah blah sustainability blah blah blah buy this.”
The word sustainability, much like the word fascist, seems to have lost all meaning due to overuse by loads of people who, having never even known the original intent of the word, throw it around as a catchall. Perhaps not coincidentally, it seems that the people who ground fascist into a meaningless pulp are the exact same people who like to use sustainability.
As far as I can tell, these are the current definitions of both words.
Fascist: someone who disagrees with my historically ignorant and vaguely progressive world view.
Sustainability: a marketing term implying something environmental; used to sell pretty much anything to green-worshippers. Please view my sustainable water bottles, my sustainable shirts, my sustainable car tires, my sustainable dog-grooming kit, my sustainable art project. (See also: organic)
God, I feel like such a fascist for writing this.
The family of four was treating the subway car like they’d treat the beach at Coney Island, throwing trash under the seats, building a nest of garbage. And not just paper, mind you. The father was making sandwiches and throwing slices of salami under the seats. I half expected sea gulls and pigeons to get on at the next stop.
Continue reading “One Day I Will Get Shot”
So I’m sitting there enjoying the new Star Trek movie the other night when I notice something is just, I don’t know, wrong. As a guy, there’s a quick fix for this feeling: I just need to readjust my package, so to speak. So I deploy the left hand to shift my junk over just a fraction of an inch and my index finger finds not the roughness of denim, but the touch, the feel of cotton.
Continue reading “The Fail Files: Lucky Brand Jeans”
Excuse my language, but someone explain to me how the FUCK the MTA gets to stick taxes into my cellphone bill. And not just one, mind you, but three separate ones. An MTA sales tax, an MTA excise tax and an MTA surcharge. I’m sorry. A surcharge? For what? This sniveling group of math illiterates does nothing to enhance my cellphone service on a monthly basis. I could possibly–POSSIBLY–see a small fee if there was actual cell service in subway stations and on the trains. But that’s not the case (and, to be honest, I don’t want to hear the morons on the train making plans with their idiot friends or fighting with their stupid spouses over whose turn it is to pick up the damn milk on the way home from work).
Of course, New York City being what it is, there are a total of 10 taxes on your cellphone bill. Plus the Federal tax.
I love this quote from the story: “If there was a $5 monkey fee, even if they couldn’t explain it, you would still have to pay,” sniped Danny Schluck, 28, of Bushwick.
Hey, you know what Danny Schluck of Bushwick? A monkey fee is something I could get behind. At least monkeys are funny and bring joy to the lives of many. Besides, considering the MTAs rational budgeting plans, perhaps a monkey fee would be a more honest way of describing their taxes.