Down the Rathole
Paul Vandenburgh used “rathole” as a stand-in for President Trump’s “shithole” remark this week. Coincidentally, both rathole and shithole are acceptable when used to describe his radio station.
Anybody else sick of these ads that are wrapped around your goddamn Times Union every day?
The Ripoff Report
I like the Empire Report website and visit frequently. It’s a great way to keep up with New York political news, but I’m perpetually bothered by the site’s design, which is basically swiped from Drudge Report. Here’s the thing: when you steal someone’s design, you’re also taking all the hard work they did to build their brand — and in the case of Drudge, that’s worth a fortune.
My name is Rob and I own a cat. But wait, I also have a dog!
Look, I usually go my own way with head held high, but the matter of cats and dogs stirs some uneasy feelings. There’s a subtle prejudice in our culture about men with cats that’s cut with sexism and old stereotypes. In a nutshell, it’s the idea that cats are feminine, dogs are masculine and a guy with a cat — particularly a single guy — is not a manly man.
Don’t get mad at me, I’m just telling you what I’ve observed. And if you don’t believe it, read what Kristi Gustafson Barlette wrote on the topic. She stopped just shy of calling it “creepy,” for God’s sake.
You might think that as a married man with a dog none of this would phase me, but the cat stigma has affected my behavior. Here’s the thing: when I go to the pet store and buy two dozen cans of cat food, I’m always sure to throw in a dog item so the clerk doesn’t judge me over my pet proclivity.
Dog treats, dog toys, various dog accessories and dog chewy things — as long as it’s clearly for a dog. I’ve even held up an item and said to the cashier, “My DOG is going to love this!”
Yes, that’s nuts.
What can I say? Blame society for this cruel view of men and cats. It benefits no one — except maybe for my dog. She loves it.
Something came over me last Friday and I texted my friend Tom.
He’s been starting off the year with the Lake George Polar Plunge for more than a decade and he’s been after me to join him for a while. I’d never quite managed to pull it together, but this year would be different.
So — why start during a cold snap that’s made the past few weeks downright miserable? Some things can’t be explained, and this is one of them.
It was quite a sight as people started gathering on the beach: they were a mix of young and old, men and women all dressed more for an ice fishing shanty than a day at the beach. There a lot of energy in the air , very much like what you feel before a road race. But this was no 5K. As we stood on the shore watching the volunteers slide big sheets of ice away from the waterfront, some of the plungers started to wonder if they’s started 2018 by making a very bad decision.
I didn’t expect a walk in the park; a quick glance at my Google search history will reveal various combinations of the terms “cold,” “freezing water,” “shock,” “hypothermia” and “heart attacks.”
As the mintues ticked down, the clothes started coming off. Soon I was standing in my bathing suit, water shoes, gloves and a knit cap. There were jokes that my body hair would keep me warm. If only.
When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. When my time came I stormed into the water and went out as far as the safety crew in their cold water suits . It wasn’t terribly deep, so I crouched a bit to bring the water up to my chin. At first it wasn’t so bad — hell, the water was 30 degrees warmer than the air — but it didn’t take long for a weird combination of numbness and burning to begin taking hold of my legs. Time to get out.
Once in dry clothes I felt pretty great, deeply refreshed and oddly renewed.
I thought my friend Tom was pulling my leg when he went on about cleansing away the old year and prparing for the one to come, but he wasn’t kidding. And my penis didn’t break off, so that’s also a big plus.
An Itch for Christmas
A few years ago, there were lots of stories around about ticks in Christmas trees. Well, the good news is that ticks are not really a problem. The bad news? There could be 25,000 other bugs on your tree.
Quote of the Week
“People don’t know what wine tastes like until they taste it.” – Paul Vandenburgh
That’s either a brilliant nugget of wisdom or the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
I made a lot of news promos, and I’m still impressed when I see something that nails it like this MSNBC spot.
These folks have been portrayed by the idiot in the White house as enemies of the people. Their response: we do this because we love you. Extra points for using R.E.M.’s Orange Crush.
On our way home from getting the tree, we passed another car on their way home from the same mission.
The other car’s tree was secured with a cheap piece of frayed twine that looked like it would snap at any moment. I was sure the tree would tumble to the road on the first sharp turn.
I try not to be judgmental, but the ability to tie things down is a fair measure of one’s competence.
My wife wanted me to honk and alert them.
I refused. “No. He needs to learn.”
My tree? There was a ratchet strap across the middle holding it snug to the roof and then a heavy nylon rope to keep it from pivoting. I could roll the car over and that tree would still be attached to the roof.
It wasn’t exactly pretty; no sailor would be impressed with these knots, but they were secure.
People get stressed out at Christmas, but the key to having a nice holiday is to accept that there are some things you can control and some things you can’t.
Accept the things you can’t control, and you’ll be happier — tying a tree to your car is something you can control, so don’t screw it up.
The Times Union tried to charge us extra for the privilege of receiving their big Thanksgiving edition. What the what? You should be paying me to take your giant pile of advertising. And , yes — I still have the paper delivered, which I guess means that I’m old.
Quote of the Week “Everybody says something stupid at one point in their life.” -Paul Vandenburgh
Yes, they do. In fact, some people say something stupid every fucking day of their life. On the radio. In Albany.
Two high profile departures from WNYT announced this week: morning anchor Phil Bayly and meteorologist Jason Gough. Both were really solid guys and great at their jobs.
What does it mean? Maybe nothing, but two in one week seems a little weird; if we get a third, then we know something’s up. Too bad we don’t have a media reporter in this town.
I’ve listened to Prairie Home Companion for more than thirty years, but it wasn’t until a few summers ago that I got to see the show live at Tanglewood.
When I heard the words, “From American Public Media,” in the canned open, chills ran down my spine. Within the first few notes of the show’s signature song, Tishomingo Blues, I swear to god, a tear ran down my cheek.
The show was great – everything I expected – but both me and my wife were struck by something: Garrison Keillor seemed to be unusually intimate with a young women he sang with on several numbers. Watching them, I thought that they were either involved romantically (eww) or he was hopelessly in love with her. Let’s put it this way, his attention wasn’t grandfatherly, unless your grandfather is Roy Moore.
I saw sexual harassment up-close once when an employee complained about unwanted attention from an older, male co-worker. This was not he said/she said. There was plain evidence that a line was crossed, and it even extended to outside the workplace.
I took the matter to my boss and it was quickly elevated to corporate HR. The people in that office (the ones who made us take endless sexual harassment training) then made it all go away. They basically told the complainant that she should first go to her co-worker and explain that she was not interested in his advances.
Yes, they told the woman who complained to go deal with the creepy fucker on her own. Good job, HR!
Look, there are no easy answers to all this. Maybe the current climate will bring change. If you have sons, teach them this: Treat women with respect, behave like a gentleman and keep your filthy mitts to yourself.
I watched for a few minutes at Bob’s Trees as children lined up to visit with Santa. He had a real beard and a pretty good looking Santa suit. Maybe he was a tad thin, but that’s OK. Good on him for watching his weight.
To a little kid, spotting Santa is a pretty big deal — and seeing those children reminded me of something that still makes me feel bad.
Years ago, I produced a Christmas commercial for a local liquor retailer. The concept was simple: this store has such great prices, it’s where Santa shops for booze. I hired a local actor with experience playing Santa — he even had his own suit — and we spent a morning getting shots of Santa darting gleefully around the store picking out bottles for people on the ‘nice’ list.
All this was going great — but then, a woman came in the store with her young daughter to buy a bottle of wine. While we worked, the little girl kept peeking around the end of the aisle to catch a glimpse of Santa. Our talent played right along and coaxed the girl out from behind a stack of boxes. He was great, launching right into full Santa mode, and it really made that little girl’s day.
OK, that doesn’t sound bad, does it — and the commercial turned out great — so what’s the problem?
Even now when I think about that day — and this was nearly 30 years ago — I get the nagging feeling that it was wrong to put Santa in a liquor store. To that little girl, this was the real Santa, and I was using him to sell hooch.
Santa’s been used to sell so many things, but to see the power he has over children, right before my eyes — in a liquor store, for god’s sake — just made me feel dirty.
I’m probably the only person in the world who remembers all of this, but Santa, please accept my apology for exploiting your image in such a crass way. I hope you can see fit to forgive me — and if you do, a bottle of Glengoyne 18-year-old Scotch might help ease my mind.