Starting September 7th I will be hosting my own morning show on a sister station, 95X (95.7 and 95X.com), from 5:30 to 9am, Monday through Friday here in Syracuse. I will be working literally across the hall from Ted & Amy and our friendship will continue. This was an opportunity that, in a time where most radio stations are dumping local talent and going syndicated, I simply could not pass up.

Joining me every morning will be Hunter Scott who you can currently hear on “Shut Up and Rock Mornings” on 95X. Except now, he will no longer be asked to shut up.

Yes, this show will be broadcast traditionally in the Syracuse area, but the show is national in the sense that I want my friends & fans in New York City, Los Angeles and everywhere in between joining me on 95X.com every morning. We will have a lot of interactive elements so that everyone can be involved!

Ted & Amy completely support my decision and have told me I always have a home with them. So in six months when I do something offensive and get the show taken away, I can simply walk across the hall again, but I would much rather be a part of your morning for many, many years to come, just on a different dial position!

I will continue to do Walk-Up Radio, my live podcast from Wise Guys every Wednesday night with Paulie Scibilia and Kevin Keefe. On top of that, I will continue writing for SNL’s Weekend Update this season. Add to that my wife, my one-year-old daughter and another one due in January, to say I’ll be busy is an understatement. But I still plan to deliver quality, entertaining content in all my projects and I anxiously await talking to you again on Tuesday, September 7th, 5:30am.

I can tell you exactly what a “social media expert” looks like. They are 24-35, usually male, they read Mashable. But “The Oatmeal” shares my EXACT feelings, he just put it cute line-drawings to it. See below.

But the reason for my most recent anger is I just read this job description: Maria Ogneva is the Director of Social Media at ________, a social media engagement and voice-of-customer platform that helps the social enterprise serve and collaborate with the social customer.

Ever. In your life. Have you heard a more bullshit job description? But the trick to it is it uses words that CEOs are told they like right now so they get boners at the sheer thought of it! Watch this trick. I can replace “Social Media” and “Social” with “Cow Slaughtering” and “Livestock” and it will make just as much sense to us, but sound really, really good to a slaughterhouse owner.

Maria Ogneva is the Director of Cow Slaughtering at ________, a cow slaughtering engagement and voice-of-customer platform that helps the livestock enterprise serve and collaborate with the livestock customer.

Did it make any sense? Nope. Did it sound good? Totally.

And yes, do I use “Social Media?” Uh huh. Will I promote this using said “Social Media?” Bingo! That’s not my point. My point is that we need to rid the world of these so-called experts. Just because it’s something new and confusing to business owners and makes you feel smart because you found a link discussing business growth using “Social Media”, shrunk it with TinyURL, made a vague comment, tweeted it and then watched as the lemmings RT’ed it, not an expert make you.

Media experts pinpoint their expertise, grow their business idea with a specific plan and become successful & wealthy. Social Media experts sit on their laptops at Panera, pontificate about how knowledgeable they are, attend “Tweetups,” make $24K a year and their biggest accomplishment is when someone #FF’s them.

Also, before I go. FourSquare is stupid, has no point and is obnoxious. Good day.

THE OATMEAL

But last night, I awoke to a realization; that Hypercolor T-shirt is exactly what the iPad is. See, we had t-shirts already in the 80′s and well before. Hypercolor wasn’t replacing t-shirts. It wasn’t offering us any kind of clothing that we didn’t already have. It was simply a specialty item. And like the iPad, was sensitive to your touch and had difficulty connecting to WiFi networks.

When my grandmother took my brother and I to JC Penny’s that Saturday morning for school clothes, I didn’t need the Hypercolor t-shirt. I wanted it. I wanted it because I could show it off to all my friends, let everybody touch it in the lunch line. Most importantly, it was a status symbol. It showed that my grandmother was willing to spend an extra $5 for a t-shirt that had embedded thermochromes.

Hypercolor was, much like everything ever, marketed as “the wave of the future.” This is what clothing is headed towards. Replace “clothing” with “computing” and you have most of the reviews of the iPad. But soon after my mother washed my Hypercolor shirt in warm water and it took on a permanent light-purple color, the novelty wore off and I was back to my regular t-shirts.

So as I type this on my $2,800 Macbook Pro with upgraded RAM and Hard Drive space, I am figuratively wearing the silky, button down shirt my mom bought me to wear to church on Easter. Sure, it’s not a “t-shirt,” much like my MBP is not a “tablet,” but it does what I need it to and then some. The Hypercolor shirt did what I needed it to do for a month or two and then I was done with it. But that silky button down with the neon yellow and black squares? Damn. I got two Easters, a Palm Sunday and my cousin’s birthday party outta that bitch.

Let it be known, I really have no idea what is happening when I watch these events. But this hasn’t stopped me from watching it for a total of 10 hours over the past two days. I know there’s a “stone” and a “house.” You have to get the stone into said house, and much like shuffleboard, closest stones are points. But for some reason, there’s also a clock involved. People are calling timeouts. All that is beyond me. But with that said, I am confident I could bring together just a few of my friends and have a competitive curling team. I am sure these people are amazing athletes, but I am pretty sure I can do this too. I can’t hit a baseball. I can barely shoot a basketball anymore. But I truly believe I could curl with the best of them.

One of my other favorite aspects of televised curling; the announcers are total dicks! They don’t say things like “oh, that was close.” They will say things like “oh, wow, terrible shot. That was a disgusting shot by Denmark.” It’s like, really? Was it? Because from here, it looks like it made it down the ice and is in one of those circles. But you are telling me that if it were three inches to the left, that would be a far superior shot? Your fat ass isn’t even advanced enough to play curling. You are analyzing curling. Your life is a sad, empty shell of misery where you sit in your ivory tower telling viewers at home exactly how you would have thrown the stone. Well, you didn’t. So shut your hole.

Oh, maybe that’s my angle? I could be the John McEnroe of curling. Start fights with commentators and officials. I’ll be the bad boy of curling. This could be my chance to make a name for myself in the small, desolate world of curling. Hm.. I’m in!

If I were a Hobo, sure, I’d drink. It’s the Hobo way, but I’d keep it classy. Maybe some Johnnie Walker Blue Label or something. I’d try to be a down to earth Hobo, but I’d stay a touch flashy so the other Hobos knew I had something special going on and that I’ve kinda got it all figured out. When, really, I ain’t got nutin’ figured out.

Oh, and Hobos have to use a lot of double negatives, too.

If I were a Hobo, I’d wear the usual Hobo garb. Tattered jeans, old shirt, worn out shoes. I’m still on the fence about the ball of clothing on the end of a stick, though. Something about that just doesn’t seem practical. Unless, of course, you’re in an area that has a lot of bears. Then I think they advise you to tie your belongings to sticks or something. I’d probably just find an old backpack or maybe a trashbag.

If I were a Hobo, I’d be real mysterious like. I’d answer people in one word responses and they’d be all like “woah, that Hobo is real mysterious, but he has the ingenuity to use a backpack instead of a stupid ball of clothing on a stick, so for that I respect him.” I’ll hear them say that as I walk away and I will be touched.

If I were a Hobo, I’d have to kill a guy. It’s another part of the Hobo code, I think. But don’t worry, I’ll just kill another Hobo. Some real crazy one I meet jumpin’ cars in the Midwest or something. Plus, it’s probably easier to be a Hobo if you’re running from something and I’d rather be running from the law than running my feelings, ya know?

If I were a Hobo, I’d probably hold parties for the other Hobos. Like the same day every year at a certain field in Iowa or something. And all year long the other Hobos will be talking about my party like “You going to Josh’s party this year?” And the other Hobo would say “Dude, you bet your shoes with the one toe poking out that I am.” That party will be awesome.

If I were a Hobo, I’d probably befriend an inanimate object. Kinda like Tom Hanks in “Castaway.” Not because I’d be lonely. I like the quiet. But mostly because if I don’t naturally lose my mind, I need to at least give the perception to the other Hobos that I have. If you walk around a rail yard with your high end whiskey and a fancy backpack, you better be talking to a box of potato flakes, because if not, you’re gonna get jumped.

But most importantly, if I were a Hobo, I would be the coolest, most kickass Hobo ever. I’d offer to talk to school kids about my journey (and I would sit outside schools all day until someone invited me in, too). I’d play cards. I’d get some of those Rosetta Stone DVD’s and learn a second language or something. I’d have so much free time that I could finally do with my life the things I couldn’t before. And for that reason, I hope that when I grow up, I become a Hobo.

I’m not asking much, just maybe rake up some leaves or collect a little horsehair. And really, how embarrassed am I that whenever someone comes over we have weeds, or crows. Then who looks like the shithead? Me! They all think it’s my farm, but we’re in on this 50/50, buddy. Who did I buy the cottage for? You! Who got a sweet new push lawnmower? You! Not that you would know how to use it.

And for the love of God, did you even notice that we have a cow in the top of our Dairy Farm? How the fuck did it get up there!? You’re walking around this place all day long. You didn’t stop for a second and think “wait a minute, there’s a 1,500 pound cow peaking his head out of a window that is barely big enough for a rabbit.” Who, by the way, are never in their cages!

So now I gotta come home, get out the fork lift and try to shimmy that fat ass out of the top of the Dairy Barn. Really, what a great way to end my day. And you just stood there looking at me like a retarded dog. Not even offering to help.

Last week when I was out of town and all that corn went bad, tell me why you didn’t harvest it in my absence. You have the harvester parked right there. You have a shed full of tools. You saw it turning brown and you didn’t do a God damned thing. Why? Because you’re an asshole.

Should I even mention the fact that now you’re buying Reindeer? What the fuck am I going to do with Reindeer? I’m not Kris Kringle. I have zero God damned interest in Reindeer, but now I have fifteen of them sitting on my property, eating my food and making piles of glorious Yuletide Reindeer shit that I have to shovel up.

And as if I don’t have enough work to do, anytime I am out on the farm, all your buddies keep sending me messages like “Hey, can you come help me out on my farm?” Are. You. Kidding. ME? These freeloaders can get right in line to kiss my ass — right behind you.

I feed you. I clothe you. I pick out your hair style and skin tone and all you do is sit around here all day long looking into the sky at an exact 45 degree angle? I’m sick of it. Either you start pulling your weight around here or I am shipping you off to Farmtown where the rest of the losers are.

]]> http://thisisjoshua.com/?feed=rss2&p=242 2 http://thisisjoshua.com/?p=240 http://thisisjoshua.com/?p=240#comments Wed, 04 Nov 2009 03:03:00 +0000 joshua http://thisisjoshua.com/?p=240 I’ve really been trying to give Twitter a fair chance here. Do I understand what it does? No. Do I see it’s purpose? Barely. Do I update several times a day? Absolutely. And I have no idea why. I feel an obligation for some reason, but I also enjoy living inside social media. I can get into a whole dissertation here on the mechanics of social media here and why Twitter flourishes, but that’s for another day.

Luckily for me, I follow almost exclusively educated, smart, funny people. They spell things correctly. Write in sentences. Hardly, if ever wander into “text language” (i.e. “Ur” & “L8r”). For this I am thankful. But I do like to wander into the “Trending Topics” from time to time to make sure I am staying hip to any and everything. This is where idiots shine. Tonight, I read this:

yoo do any one noe wats realy gud wit t-mobile why dey not letting no one text

Did that really just happen?

I won’t even tell you his name because I don’t care to add to his 13 followers, but from what I can deduce, there appears to be a problem with T-Mobile’s service. I only got to this conclusion after reading several other tweets in this same trend. But what Captain Grammar poses here is almost a deeper question about T-Mobile. After spending several hours on Urban Dictionary, I was able to figure out that “wats realy gud” becomes “what’s really good [with T-Mobile].” Now, whereas “what’s really good” is also a greeting in some circles, I’m led to believe this person is working on more of a phylisophical level. What’s really good with T-Mobile?

Wow. Well, what’s really good with any of us? You’re asking, on a deeper level, are we innately good people or rather products of a negative environment? But since we create the environment for which we live, how are we truly products of anything other than ourselves? So on that level, if we create and thus can destroy ourselves and our environments, then it would seem to me that you have answered your own question, sir.

T-Mobile (known as “dey”) aren’t the ones stopping you from texting. You are. T-Mobile is your (our) creation, so they exists only on a single, non-physical plane whereas we (known as “any one”) exist on multiple planes — the physical and the spiritual. So “why dey not letting no one text” isn’t about a mobile phone carrier or a piece of technology. It’s about you. You did this. So turn the mirror around, buddy and ask yourself “what’s really good with ME?”

Damn. I need to lay off the Mescaline.

Every year I go, my emotions follow the same course. The day before, I am ignorantly excited. I seem to always forget how much I truly despise going. That morning, I get up all bright eyed and bushy tailed and drive with a grin on my face to the dusty, over priced parking lots. (Sidenote: Why do these parking lot attendants NEVER seem to check for empty spots up front? I left at 2pm adding to another dozen or so second row parking spots, yet the attendants keep sending people to the back!)

This year, we went before the gates opened in an effort to beat the crowds. Today was Kid Rock day, so anyone showing up after 3pm was bound to have on wife beaters, crustaches and very few teeth. Not a stereotype. Fact. Unfortunately for the Great New York State Fair, this clientele seem to be there no matter what day it is. Which is truly astounding, because the fair isn’t CHEAP. A soda is three bucks. Hot dogs are five. Yet, there they wander. Not a pot to piss in, but plenty of Newports to smoke and empty beer cups stacked inside of each other resting gently in the cup holder of their infant’s stroller.

Another concern I had is that the mentally challenged seem to be allowed to just wander the fairgrounds on their own as they choose. I am all for empowering the disabled. If they are capable of enjoying the fair and taking care of themselves, go for it! But when these fine people are given a fair ticket, a bus pass and a fist full of ones, hasn’t someone seriously dropped the ball there? Although, now that I think about it, it was Kid Rock night…

But going back to where I started. The first few hours, I am happy as a clam. Then it starts to get warmer, more crowded, foul smelling, loud, obnoxious and depressing. That’s when Josh Hulk gets mad and I just want to go home. Usually not a problem except this time, I found myself trapped in the Colosseum during a horse show. You’d think I was trying to escape Shawshank! Every exit blocked. Every door closed. And just when I see an opening of light and what appears to be people walking outside, I am greeted by a chain and a parade of horses waiting to enter the doors. Trapped!

It was at that point, I started to envision myself helplessly darting out in front of a group of these horses as I break for freedom and being trampled to death. And at that very moment, it was a risk I was willing to take.

But finally we got to the car, drove home and showered the stink off us. Now comes fair detox: those few days after the fair where you just try to drink water and apologize to your body for what you did to it. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a gallon of Pepto to drink.

Last night, I went and saw the film “The Hangover.” Much like the rest of the world, I loved it. I sat in front of a group of three teenage stoners. That’s another feature of their unoriginality — they travel in packs. During the film (like, every 6 or 7 minutes) they would say the phrase “Oh dude, let’s do that.”

Really? You want to “do that?” You want to get punched in the face by Mike Tyson after stealing his tiger? It’s fiction, guys. It’s a comedy film. The whole idea of comedy is exaggeration. I could give you guys $10,000 cash and tell you to go to Vegas and nothing that happened in that movie would happen to you. You’d get there, find a dealer, smoke up, order $8,000 worth of room service and fall asleep.

One of them even started cracking up over a sign on a door that said “Please Enter Here.” He began laughing and even repeated what he was reading as if to emphasize it’s hilarity to his cohorts. They didn’t get it and neither did I. Must be over our heads. Well done, Todd Phillips. Way to slide some hidden cerebral stuff in there for the smarter people in the crowd.

The truth is, I’ve never smoked weed. Have no desire too. I watched plenty of my friends in high school burn out on it and go work in a factory assembling lawn chairs at the age of 18. Not my thing. But I do think it should be legal. I like the idea of it and I think if people can handle themselves with it, more power to you. While I have met a lot of burnouts in my day, I have also met some brilliant casual weed smokers. If we can drink, we can smoke weed.

The point of all this is, teenage stoners are generally stupid people. They are going to be stupid with or without the drugs. These three champions sitting behind me in the theater weren’t on a track to RIT before pot de-railed it. They were born stupid and will go through life stupid. Unfortunately, they think smoking weed makes them some how better than what they are. It’s unoriginal. It’s an old drug. Nothing you are doing is impressive, so maybe take all that free time you had — judging by some of the “ideas” who had when you got to Vegas, you’ve got plenty of it — and invent a new drug.

I’m not talking about going all meth-head and mixing a bunch of shit with bleach. No. Go in the woods for three or four weeks, smoke everything you see growing and bring us back what you find. Doing that kills to birds with one stone: you find the new, hip cool drug and you’re lost in the woods for three weeks and I can try to enjoy a movie.

David Carradine, 72 – 6/3/09. Ed McMahon, 86 – 6/23/09.
Farrah Fawcett, 62 – 6/25/09. Michael Jackson, 50 – 6/25/09.
Billy Mays, 50 – 6/28/09.

I think the worst part is that we were on quite a death ladder here. Each death was more news-worthy than the last (until Billy Mays brought that to a screeching halt). But really, who could have topped Michael Jackson? The President? It’s a tough act to follow.

But the fact of the matter is that out of all of these, I am most upset over Billy’s death! I loved his new show “Pitchmen.” He’s got a great family. He was fainlly getting som recognition. I was pumped for him. Because out of all these names, he was the only on on the climb. David, Ed, Farrah and Michael all had their time in the sun and sure, they were still working to some extent, but their candles had flickered out. Billy Mays was a shooting star, baby.

Plus, he wasn’t weird. Carradine died jerking off with a belt around his neck while wearing ladies stockings. Michael Jackson – do I even need to get started on him? Billy Mays, to me, was your everyday kinda guy and while the news is still fresh, sure, reports could come out that he died in some freaky way, but right now, in this moment, he is the moon.

If I can give you any kind of advice this summer, do not get famous. Hold onto that screenplay. Cancel your one-man show. Don’t respond to those MTV voice mails. Keep a low, unfamous profile for a few months and then this Fall, hit the ground running. That is, if anyone even cares about you anymore.