Respect Authority

On any given Sunday (not to be confused with the overly dramatic football movie) I find myself lounging on the loveseat, talking absently to Godzilla and watching all manner of awful television. During the cold winter months, when snow or even the mere threat of it was enough to keep everyone indoors, this sort of sloth seemed at peace with the greater population’s proclivity for, you know, DOING things on the weekend. I could claim exhaustion, or illness, but most rewardingly I could just say - to my friends and indeed to myself - “Fuck that, it’s just too fucking cold.” In other words, winter is one big scapegoat for homebody potheads.

Yet these days, as the temperatures inch up and there’s not a cloud in sight I find myself anxious about the climate’s good fortune. For how long can I justify sitting in flannel pants and a clashing sweatshirt, munching on leftovers and lowering my cinematic standards with every new Lifetime movie? The answer appears to be - approximately one hour, after which the sounds of wildlife outside (my rambunctious neighbors included) begins acting as a 50-degree guilt trip over my inability to get out and appreciate the much-anticipated change in seasons.

I don’t even have any particularly riveting activity ideas, or wads of cash with which to spend a day on the town, but spring has the power to make even my refusal to  just go for a walk — among the overflowing trash bags and halfhearted stoop parties of Bed-Stuy — feel like an affront to Mother Nature. I get it, bird chirping right outside my window, it’s not quite winter anymore. The onus is on me to get up and out and enjoy these beautiful days before summer sneaks in and makes it okay to lounge around at home again, sipping ice-cold beers and saying things like “Nah I can’t go out. It’s just too fucking hot.”

Ima keep it short because it’s a Saturday, so I’m feeling a little “dehydrated” to say the least, and have been wasting away on the couch all day watching skateboarding videos online. And guess what, now all of you are too.

Ever been parched after an exhausting session at the skate park? Why not choke down a thick, gooey snickers bar to relieve your thirst? Well… because that would be retarded. Just like this commercial:

If you’ve seen Lakai’s epic exercise in melodramatic slow-mo mixed with interspectacular skateboarding, Fully Flared, you’ll immediately realize what a bunch of bullshit this Spanish Snickers commercial is. Aside from the creative swashbuckling and shameless lack of originality displayed in the ad, as someone who has never once reached for a Snickers bar after sweating it out riding my board on a hot Summer afternoon, watching this makes me want to perform a fucking “hungerectomy” on the agency who spawned this foul abomination.

And there’s the real deal for those poor unfortunates who haven’t seen it. Alas, its only flaw is the conspicuous lack of a Mexican Colin Farrell.

Next week on Zero Tolerance: When sites become YouTube blogs :\

I know what you’re expecting. After all, it is Valentine’s Day. You’re expecting 1,000 words of vitriol on the misfortune of being single on a day like today, a Saturday no less. You’re expecting me to whine about the sad reality of watching TV instead of being taken on a romantic tour of New York, or ordering Chinese food in lieu of  a pricey dinner for two on the town. You’re expecting my lamentations on the placement of seasonal goods at Duane Reade - can a girl not buy her oatmeal in peace? Without staring down three aisles of chocolate and  stuffed animals.

A year or so ago, you would have been right. But I find myself on this particular Valentine’s Day entirely unphased by the proliferation of media and merchandise surrounding the holiday. Being single on Valentine’s Day is like being single every other day - sure, no kiss goodnight, but also no budget-breaking restaurant meals. Or navigation of gender-based behavior patterns. Or drama. The self-righteous cynicism that comes with being a single New Yorker is just an added bonus.

No, these days I’m just as happy, if not happier, to lounge around the comfort of my apartment than to try and wind my way through the complicated monster that is dating, and subsequently, relationships. Which isn’t to say I won’t be shooting mental daggers at any couple I see snuggling in public this evening - I am, after all, only human - but neither will I be pitying myself for any lack of snuggle partner these days.

Unfortunately for those of us who have long since embraced our independence, the marketing and merchandising arm of Valentine’s Day is strong, and getting stronger. Even though we few and proud find little difficulty in dodging the retail smorgasbord that comes with V-Day (after all, post-Feb. 14, it’s just another bag of chocolate, except now its on clearance) I have seen dozens of commercials and feature news stories advising unfortunate singles on how to keep their collective chin up during this - their 24-hours of personal Hell. Even Gawker, from whom I would have expected far more in the “fuck relationships” category - wrote up a list of things to do when alone on Valentine’s Day - among them dining solo and “having a love affair with New York.” Thanks Gawker, if I wanted cliche nonsense, I would have stood in the 15-minute line at Hallmark yesterday.

You know what you do when you’re single and in New York on Valentine’s Day? The same fucking thing you do every other day - watch TV, go the the gym, eat food, go out with friends, drink. And when all of your betrothed or attached peers are done picking up their $150 dinner tabs, you meet up and buy them a beer. After all, take-out Chinese is cheap.

It’s pretty hard to complain when it’s suddenly 56 degrees in the middle of a punishing Chicago February, but you can bet I’m going to try! Here’s one downside to all the melting snow banks encroaching on every sidewalk. Months worth of cryogenically frozen shit festooning the grass, contributing its own very particular bouquet to each overzealous breath of fresh Spring air. It’s like finding a caveman encased in ice… only shittier. Sorry for that, puns stink.

Not exactly an appetizing post for the mid-afternoon burnout snack hour, but what can I say, I’ve got shit for inspiration these days.

Back in the day, when my faith in the magazine industry was not yet lost, I made the massive mistake of subscribing to Radar. I say this was both a mistake, and massive, not because I don’t enjoy Radar — rather, it was and is one of my two favorite magazines — but because the process of subscribing to a dying media is trying, frustrating and ultimately heartbreaking.

You see, in a way this was my fault. Being something of a nerd for media gossip, I knew Radar’s unfortunate history: the magazine had already started and folded several times before its latest incarnation, sort of like a determined toddler whose attempts at walking keep ending with crashes into the coffee table.

Moreover, Radar’s latest foray into the great big world of publishing came at a time when magazines were already on the decline: some of the country’s more stalwart titles — Time, Newsweek, Men’s Vogue — were already seeing storm clouds on the horizon, so for a magazine devoted to the very celebrity gossip and snarky commentary reinvented by the mag-killing blogosphere to attempt a print revival — well it was sort of like glossy suicide. Read More ›

"VitaminWater heals bullet wounds."

The following information might be difficult to swallow (no pun intended): VitaminWater, the erstwhile companion to athletes and hipsters alike, is not actually “good for you.”

I know what you’re thinking: “But they said it was!” “It has Vitamin in the name!” Sorry compadres, in a shocking turnaround for massive beverage companies the world over, it seems Coke may have *gasp* misled us.

Indeed, nutrition advocacy group the Center for Science in the Public Interest is suing the Coca-Cola Company, for what it calls “deceptive” claims the company makes about VitaminWater, including Coke’s promises that VitaminWater boosts immunity and reduces the risk of disease. The group called Coke’s claims “nonsense” and has filed a class action lawsuit over the matter.

The suit is a downer for Coke, who shelled out over $4 billion for VitaminWater less than two years ago, considered a savvy move at the time given consumers’ increasing predilection for all variety of chemically enhanced water. VitaminWater, for its part, had already become one of the biggest names in faux H20, capturing the image of 20-something urban centers with the added benefit of athlete and musician endorsements. I find Formula 50 no more appealing than a watered down glass of grape juice, but if 50 Cent prefers it every so often to a bottle o’ bub, well that’s quite a testimonial. Read More ›

Randolph Cook

YO — Oprah’s so fat, she got more crack than HARLEM! SHIT SON.

Anyway, what I find interesting is that this is sort of an old story. Like… fucking 14 years old. In an episode about those crazy crackheads that aired sometime in January, 1995, Oprah admitted to hitting the rock in her 20s. She blames it on an addiction to a man (whose name I’m guessing is probably, um, crack), but it seems by the 80s the tables had turned considering these new allegations by Cook, who first learned how to cook crack thanks to Oprah and one of her past book club nominees, Just The Crack, Ma’am.

This latest revelation is even more ironic, considering in 1995 Oprah admitted, “It’s my life’s great big secret. It was such a secret because — I realize the public person I have become — if the story ever were revealed, the tabloids would exploit it and what a big issue it would be.”

Hah, and they did it to you anyway! Merciless bloodsuckers, that’s what they are, those papapizzas. It took 14 years and some dude had to get fucked by the painful dick of esophageal cancer, but they did it. Ah, the media truly has become high school gossip wars in high speed broadband with blazing fast speeds, WAY faster than DSL so it’s perfect for online video.

Nonetheless, the truth is — and I’m sorry Oprah, but I thought you might have heard this by now — crack is, in fact, wack.

Did you know that at the height of World War II, Soviet Russia would send its prisoners of war to brutal forced labor camps buried deep in the tundra of Chicago, Illinois? The inhospitable environment there lent itself to the demoralization of the inmates and provided a general atmosphere of hopelessness and dread. It’s true, and maybe you’d know that if you read a book once and a while, hm?

Fast forward to the present, and it’s not hard to imagine what those conditions must have been like. It snowed Tuesday and Wednesday. I can’t really remember if it snowed Thursday, but it snowed yesterday. And, oh, get this, the weather forecast has just informed me that it will snow for the next four days in a row as well. Looking out my window into the white abyss, it’s easy to feel like a prisoner myself, hot tears streaming down my face like rivulets of spilled borscht.

Having a lot of snow on the forecast in Chicago doesn’t hold quite the same meaning as it does in a cramped, sweaty Williamsburg party. Fortunately, Chicago’s only advantage in this arena is that I can at least sleep through the nightmare, which is, absolutely, my intention. Frankly, I’ve really grown an appreciation for this whole “hibernation” thing our mammalian cousins enjoy this time of year.

Granted, even when it’s all you ever see, snow has a kind of desolate, serene beauty to it. And everybody is always thrilled at the first magical snowfall of the year (even when that happened to take place in October, and is, more importantly, a dark portent of the next six months of your life). But let’s not get to fooling ourselves — femmes fatales are beautiful too, it’s precisely where they derive their power. If you want to see the true side of snow, think about the slop of ice, slush, and mud you have to trod through on the sidewalk every day while you’re going to work. Doodoo water. That’s what I call it.

Also, a surplus of snow only makes it easier for the Abominable Snowman to hide. NOT GOOD.

Honestly, I don’t care if each individual snowflake is unique. When there are this many of them falling at once, they all just look like the same pain in the ass.

There are a lot of things I plan to own when I’m old that would be considered unacceptable at the ripe age of 23: orthopedic shoes, canned prunes, a subscription to AARP. But while growing older justifies more than a few forays into the realm of the uncool, there are some things it’s never acceptable to possess, and nonsensical Christmas paraphernalia is at the top of my list.

It’s not that I have anything against Christmas decor, per se. As we speak, my apartment is decked out with a whopping three items: a one-foot-tall knit Christmas tree that, despite a 100+ year presence in my family, somehow ended up in the hands of the person with by far the least Christmas spirit; a cheap Santa hat draped creatively over a lampshade; and a $5.99 stuffed dog on a sled that barks “Jingle Bells” when you pinch his ear. Which I bought primarily in an effort to frighten the cat.

As you can see, I am nothing if not festive. It was in fact that very holiday spirit that temporarily desensitized me to the abundance of Christmas decor in my mother’s house - that and the beeline I made for the eggnog. But upon closer inspection, of which I have had plenty of time to conduct being trapped in suburbia without friends for three days, I began to notice that my house has at some point in the last few years become a veritable dumping ground for the detritus of every Christmas kiosk in at least a 50 mile radius.

For one, there are at least three decapitated Santa heads, though I’ve chosen to photographically document only that which I have long considered the most creepy and least jolly. It appears as though someone found a miniature Santa, threw him in the guillotine, and mailed the result to my mother as a pint-sized bundle of Christmas joy. Dude doesn’t even look cheerful. Read More ›

It feels like far too often lately I’ve been reading about misguided female teachers getting caught pants-down, sometimes literally, with their students. At least four times in the last two months have I stumbled across a local news story about some lonely 33-year-old who convinced both herself and a semi-willing eighth grader to experiment sexually behind the jungle gym.

These stories culminated earlier this month with the tale of a Long Island PTA mom found pantless in a car with a 13-year-old boy. There’s a lot wrong with this picture:  44-year-olds and 13-year-olds probably shouldn’t be hanging out alone in cars regardless, but even when they do it’s most likely in everyone’s best interest that pants be worn all around. Oh, and when cops ask what you were doing, and you’re not wearing pants, “kissing” may not fly as a valid answer. Read More ›

A. That hardcore shit will make you feel the toxic.

Occasionally I choose to emerge from the dank cave dwelling I call home, and more often than not, I am brutally reminded of the ever-expanding litany of reasons why agoraphobia exists. It’s like getting punched in the stomach the second you start to think that maybe getting punched in the stomach isn’t all that uncomfortable.

Although overall, the entire song/video/band is an extremely comprehensive multiple-trains-involved fiery holocaust of trend whoring, my favorite part is, nonetheless, the one guy who’s sole purpose is to yell at some point during every measure. Maybe the reason he’s so upset is because somebody promised him a solo.

LIARRRRRRR!

People who gloat about being “freaxxx” are annoying, and not only because that’s one less insult you can call them in the hopes of reminding them that they will always be alone, like, seriously… forever. It’s possibly even worse than all the generic college girls who like to advertise to the world, via Facebook “About Me’s” and AIM away messages, that they are, in fact, ~*cRaZy!*~

So, uh, basically what you’re saying is, you’re not crazy at all and those University branded sweat pants are the same ones you’ve been wearing all week? Read More ›

As you should well know by now, ‘Merica lost 533,000 jobs in the month of November, bringing the Recession Job Loss Grand Total to more than two million - and rendering Barack Obama’s plan to create 2.5 million jobs in two years insufficient before the man even takes office. Hooray!

But just in case this all continues to seem just a tad too abstract to take in - after all, shit, I’m still employed so who cares? - let’s take a look at the meaning of the number 500,000.

• Number of iPhones estimated to have sold on the phone’s debut weekend in 2007.
• Amount of money IKEA North America agreed to pay in civil penalties for failing to immediately report “incidents about defective outdoor candles.”
• Decline in the number of company cars on Britain’s roads since 1999.
• Amount federal auditors say Al Sharpton’s 2004 campaign owes the government for illegal donations and other financial improprieties.
• The indigenous population of Australia.

In other words, that’s a lot o’ jobs, and a lot o’ problems that are gonna need fixing right off the bat. Seriously economy, we get it. You’re hurting, you’re probably going to get worse before you get better, and frankly you’re getting just a little needy.