Lost, Not Found

This is not another story about pit bulls. About how they’re amazing dogs, surprisingly so, over-bread and burdened with tarnished reputations thanks to Michael Vick and his kind. This isn’t a story about spay and neuter, or evil puppy mills “Why Shelter Dogs Rule,” or “Why Pet Stores Suck.” They do, but that’s not what this is about.




Because there’s a good chance they that you don’t care. Not to suggest you’re some robot devoid of human emotion. But the problems within our shelters are enormous, unending and painful. Who’s got the time or emotional capacity when you’ve got to care for your own?

But you might want to care about this. Because this is about your dog.

More specifically, it’s about the little bone shaped ID tag hanging off his collar. The little jewel that you, the responsible pet owner, knew to go hand in hand with having a dog. The address and phone number representing the risk that your pet could get lost. Maybe you’re extra responsible (or like me, excessively paranoid) and obtained additional insurance in the form of a microchip. Because there’s always a chance that your dog might escape without his collar. You know these things to be true, that’s why you prepare for them.



There’s another organization that’s also well aware of this danger. And they should be, given they’re the Center for Animal Care and Control, the New York City agency designated to do the job their name describes. But as a pet owner, there is further danger you need to know. The New York City Shelters do not perform lost and found checks. They don’t maintain a Lost and Found page on their website. You know, the one that begs for donations? They’re only required to SNAIL MAIL the address his ID tag so prominently displays under the words “IF LOST.” If the letter isn't answered in 10 days, the dog dies. And if you try to actually phone them, good luck. The CACC no longer has a central phone system, as it was a victim of the most recent budget cuts directed by Mayor Bloomberg. If your dog becomes lost, you may be able to gather your wits during this traumatic experience and call the city shelters. But if a phone rings and rings with no one to answer, does it make a sound?

Note, if your dog is picked up without ID, CACC is only required to hold your dog for 72 hours before they suck the life from those big brown eyes.


If you’re like me, you always imagined that if your dog got out, it would be her ID tag and microchip that would ultimately bring her home. You’d email blast everyone you knew. You’d post her picture all over the world – lampposts, community boards, Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter. You’d comb the streets, her favorite dog parks and pet stores. You’d do everything that one human could physically achieve, all the while assuming that if picked up by Animal Control, they’d scan the microchip or read the tag and call you immediately. I mean, that’s what they do, right? Animal Care and Control. Shelter your dog until a hired cab tears through uptown traffic and delivers a very relieved and likely sobbing doggy parent to her best friend finally found.

But thanks to Mayor Bloomberg, the chances of the above scenario are about as likely as a pit bull leaving the CACC alive. While romancing the presses with his line “There’s never been a better time to be a dog,” Cruella De Vil, ahem, Bloomberg was busy cutting $1.5 million and subsequently Lost and Found from the CACC’s services. As I’m sure you can imagine, that’s not all we’ll be losing.

This is a quote from a story from a NY Magazine article that is unfortunately all too common at the AC&C.

"I was away with my family over the weekend," says Adrienne Evans, a financial assistant at BMG Entertainment in New York. "My neighbor was watching our dog for us. She took him for a walk in the park and he slipped his collar." The dog, who had the misfortune to be born a pit bull, was sitting on his own doorstep when the CACC picked him up. Evans came home a day later and immediately began searching. When a neighbor informed her that the CACC had picked up the dog, she called the shelter right away. "I was told they couldn't find him, and that I had to come in and look for myself. The dog was really distinct, brown and white with big blue eyes." His ears and tail were not cropped, indicating that he had never been a fighting dog. The following day, Evans went straight to the Manhattan shelter after work. She went through the wards, calling out the dog's name. "I knew he'd cry out to me," she said. She stopped every kennel worker and described her dog. Yes, someone told her. "He's here. I saw him." Yet no one could find him, or knew where he had been caged. After a painful search, one of the managers brought Evans into a room and sat her down.”

Her dog’s body was still warm.

And this was before they stopped doing lost and found checks.

But this isn’t a story about Evans’ dog. This is about your dog. And the Unfortunate Case of the Faithful Owner Who Turned His Back for Two Seconds. Or went out of town. Or had a had a dog walker who said, “I’m really, really sorry, but…” And anyone who says, “Not me, not my dog.” By cutting Lost and Found, the CACC has indirectly decided the fate of every companion animal who risks becoming lost. In other words, every animal.

There are so many issues wrong with the CACC. So many. As a dog owner/tax payer, for me this represents the last straw. I hope it does for you too.

Even restoring the lost and found checks, will help enormously. It will free up cage space, as dogs and owners are reunited. It will ensure that others there are walked, fed, and loved more frequently. Most importantly, it will bring your dog back where he belongs. The side effects of which could ensure more dogs share the fortune of the one proudly donning the address he calls home.



Sign the petition.
Write Mayor Bloomberg.
Watch this ABC report.

Aint Too Proud

When I heard the news about bin Laden's death, my instinctive reaction wasn’t much of one. “Isn't he more powerful as an idea?” I thought. It’s not like George Washington's death marked the end of America.

Or – what I find much more troubling – American nationalism. This badge we proudly emblazon across our collective chest to suggest unity, and/or if we were more honest, the belief we're inherently better than any other land mass. Listening to NPR the morning after the announcement, meant hearing plenty of alcohol soaked pride as Ground Zero celebrators waxed bromidic about their country’s “achievement.”



Frat boy, please. Your pride runs about as deep as the party's supply of Budweiser.

The soberest (pun intended) words I heard were from an ex-pat German, warning against the nationalism he witnessed. Apropos, because what nationality better to warn us of nationalism's absurdities. Its randomness And its dangers. But observing our fellow country people the past few days, its almost like WWII never happened.

There’s more than one event we should “never forget,” you know.

I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on foreign policy or the War on Terror, so I'll stop here an let this TruthDig articlespeak with far greater authority and articulation.

Obviously, I’m not a nationalist. Unlike many may be quick to accuse, I’m not anti-American either. I care about as much about America as I do every other arbitrarily drawn land mass. I wish them all the best, and that’s about as deep as my Rabbit hole goes. I'm not ignorant to the freedom's grated to me by America, I just believe they only make me luckier than others. Not "better." I'm not defending bin Laden. Nor am I suggesting he didn't deserve to die for killing thousands of people. But like nationalism, justice is just an idea. One rife with potential danger. One that becomes far less immediate if retaliation affects our physical world.

It's our double rainbow, but really, what does it mean?

Oh, and America nationalists and Glen Beck have something in common , FYI.

Get Out of My Pants

Try not to choke on your hashtags, but I’m a big fan of the 30 second spot. (I’ll give the digital strategists a second to clean up the Massengill they just blew out their nose.) Call it media blasphemy. But I’m a fan of the crafting that once lassoed my extreme ADHD, capturing me for a full 30 seconds, while I inquired along with Clara Peller and the rest of America, whereabouts of said “beef.” Yeah, them were simpl’r times. But better simple (and funny!) than utterly fucking disgusting.

Disgusting like this digital advertising version of the Garbage Pail Kid. Hey, gals! Kotex is inviting you to put on your creative caps and get artsy by designing its, well, Maxi Pads!?!? Maybe it’s because I have the sophisticated sense of humor of a 13-year-old boy. But this complete FAIL of an execution conjured up all kinds of uncomfortable questions (and images) like, “Aren’t we already kind of coloring these things anyway?” (Properly disgusted yet? Ok, then.) This isn’t the first time we’ve invited the audience to craft the message, it just happens to be a big “REALLY?” from an industry that’s lost its fucking marbles and/or more and more seeing itself as curator rather than creator. When I say I’m a fan of the 30 second spot, what I really mean is that I like stories. Good ones. The kind told by people with a knack for that sort of thing. Not anybody with a mouse and a maxi pad.

Here’s something actually worth your attention. Martin Scorsese’s documentary Public Speaking on writer, Fran Lebowitz.
(Go see it. It’s hilarious. Seriously.)

In it, she laments the democratization of creativity. “There are too many books. These books are terrible, and this is because you have been taught to have self esteem.” She also admits to not owning a computer. Which is probably for the best. Because given her attitude about literary content that actually made it through publishing, I suspect if she got her eyeballs on a “mommy blog,” she would croak immediately.

Digital’s greatest strength is also, I’m afraid, its greatest weakness. There are too many lazy advertising “creatives” out there, equating brand conversation with handing out “crayons for everybody!” Result? There are too many story tellers, but not enough stories. There’s a lack of connoisseurship, because we’ve done away with the traditional gatekeepers of content, instead adapting the kindergarten teacher mentality that “Everybody’s creative!” No. They’re not. (Nor is everything a canvas. Especially maxi pads.) “Interactive” doesn’t mean we let the audience do all the talking. That would be like going to MSG, only for James Murphy to pass out turn tables and clarinets to the audience, sit on stage, and wait for us to play.



That does not, however, mean digital doesn’t possess a wildly important role. The Times just ran a great article about the ways Museums have adapted social media to engage their audience. It’s turning museums into “virtual community centers. Curators and online visitors can communicate, learning from one another.” It’s about, says Ian Padgham, the SFMoMA digital engagement associate, “off the cuff transparency.” Which for a museum, makes total sense. An organization which might have been viewed as stogy and inaccessible, is now an open-armed community, empowering its visitors with a voice. But here’s the key difference. While there’s an invitation to talk about it, nobody’s creating the art.


I don’t mean to say social media etc is only good for product discussion. (I know it gets a little mucky because they’re both about “creation.”) It just happens to make perfect sense for museums. But that’s the thing. It makes perfect sense because there’s an idea behind it. Dare I say it acts as a narrative for a larger story: “Museum art exists for it’s audience.” It certainly does not create a microsite inviting users to “Punk your Pollock!” and digitally splatter away. (P.S. If you’re not groaning there’s something wrong with you. ) Sure it might increase attendance. But what’s good for business might cause another freaking earthquake, as the entire generation of abstract expressionists roll over in their graves. It’s a quick fix, but ultimately the real Pollock suffers. Not to mention our culture.

“Curation” may be the culture’s buzz word de jour, but we’re not going to have much of one, if we leave it up to everybody.

A Major Prize, I Won I Won I Won!

Today i received an email that changed my life. For your Friend Til the End Or At Least the End of the Bottle is one of 8 recipients of the highly esteemed Anger Management Award! No, seriously! Look!



Who fuckin' said I can't manage my goddamn anger? Seriously, who the fuck said that? I'll cut him.

Dog Days of Sunday

Gratuitous sunday funday shot. By one of my favorite dog photographers.

© Scruffy Dog Photography

This Ain't No Disco

Some people don't need heads to be rad.

The Hope That Keeps Us Alive, Or Vacation.

© Lluís Artús

Party on, Wayne. Stay classy, San Diego.

It Could Be Better

Spending one of many frustrated, disgruntled Saturdays stuck in a coffee shop working with my partner during a beautiful afternoon on a advertising brief we had questionable chance in selling, gave rise to considerable amount of complaining on my end. Finally my partner offered this tidbit of consolation.

“You know, once I watched this clip on Youtube. Horrible. This lion catches a guy and eats him alive.”

Figuring this was prelude to an idea, I begged her to go on.

“So when it gets bad, I always think, at least I’m not getting eaten by a lion.”

That's the alternative? Work weekends or spend the last moments of your life hearing the skin you so diligently SPFed every summer get shredded like a stack of junk mail? I think it could be better.

I blame lazy mothers. If a four year old refuses to eat dinner, mom shouts that there are starving children in China. Or in my case, my dad actually took regular trips to third world countries as a photographer and had pictorial proof that I had it better. But in my experience, Ethiopians eating tsetse flies in loincloths didn’t change the fact that mom’s cooking sucked.

And so from that malleable age we’re taught to settle for shitty because at least you’re still breathing. Yeah, it’s with the help of life support, but count your blessings. Maybe mom needs to go back to the drawing board and learn how to cook my fucking chicken. Maybe hearing another misfortune on top of my lament only makes me more depressed. You’re damn right it could be worse. You just turned a shitty meal into the hopelessness of mankind. I need a drink. And I'm only four.

Of course, I could get behind this ideology if I could use it for my benefit . For example, I get an assignment, only to turn in a couple crappy headlines and call it a day at 4pm. When my Creative Director shoots me a threatening, “WTF?” email, I could reply, “Well, at least it’s not a letter from your future self detailing your imminent death by carnivorous jaws.” I could lower his expectations *and* get home in time for 5pm high balls. What could be better?

Buelluer?

In a surprising turn of events, after posting this tweet earlier:

I was invited to a private screening of the very film. Perhaps I'm psychic. In which case Madame Concha will tell you your fortune for $5000 a pop. No refunds.

But I digress. Point is, I saw the doc. Tweet and you shall receive. Adverdouches abound. Now this isn't meant to be a film critique as I am not paid to do so. Nor am I about to provide a summary because Concha Libre headquarters is not a venue for book reports. I do however, have one observation. As we left, the pervasive reaction centered around one consensus. "Shit, ya'll. I wanna go make some art now. Anyone can do it." But just like adverdouches flocking to the film in hopes to augment their rank on the cool meter, to me it seems they're missing the point. Thousands of people waited outside for hours to see someone for whom artist is a questionable title. But the time they spent pales in comparison to the money; these "fans" made MBW a millionaire over night. Hype breeds fame. Fame breeds title. When our idea of artist is something we define, does that make MBW an artist, or are we just projecting, comfortable to live in a reality our perceptions have neatly defined?

Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I don't think the point was "anyone can make art." I think the crowd buys its own bullshit. Figuratively and literally. We thought we came to see a film about one artist, Banksy, who turned the camera on another, MBW. But is he an artist? Who's to say? If great art is supposed to hold a mirror to its audience, this film took it a step further by manipulating it. Quite Banksy-eque, if i'm even at liberty to draw such comparisons. Because here we are, busy looking for the face behind the silhouette. The point isn't "anyone can do it." Because how can anyone make "art," when we don't even know what it is in the first place?

Maybe there is a god. And it's Bansky. Laughing at anyone searching for meaning behind the goddamn hamster wheel.

Whatever. I've had a few beers. When there's no point to nothin', might as well.

some cool shit

i'm tired of writing. thoughts in my cab ride to work this morning included those of retiring. or at least putting it away until it's fun again. fun like this piece i saw in a chelsea gallery last week.



silly putty transfers - photographed, framed, done. this is some seriously cool shit. that i want to steal.

i was reading too much atheist literature and it was making me angry.

As much as I love a good blood boiling over the greatest lies of mankind, how many glasses can you drunkenly throw before you realize it's time to lighten the extracurricular entertainment a bit? Luckily the trusty bookstores of NYC and the near and dear to my heart Brooklyn offered up this gem in their storefronts, complete with glowing reviews and book-of-the-month discounts. But don't take their word for it, here's what I had to say in my Facebook virtual bookshelf review:

"This man has mastered language like a dominatrix driving a stiletto heel into the chest of Webster. Yes, Nick Harkaway, I will be slave to to your writing, wherever your career takes you."



So yeah. Read it. It rocks. And, as they said when naming my favorite Brooklyn bookstore, "Word."

it's the network

last night i had a dream. and in that dream, i discovered AT&T was not only a terrible cell phone service provider but an eeeeevil corporation. you see, i dreamed their corporate heads were the main organizers behind Bilderberg, or as my fellow conspiracy fanatics might know it as (cue dramatic music) The New World Order. I dreamed AT&T's shitty service was actually a purposely corrupt network built to interrupt mass communication and create a world where they could more easily facilitate world domination. put *that* in your pipe and ask me what i'm smokin'.

what, what?

ahem....

bloggin' for bengamins














aw sheet...

stoney, rainy sun(les)day

I've been pretty amused by a common comment I've been hearing from conversations about Iran: We should be ashamed. We just stood by and let W hijack the election (twice!) while these intrepid revolutionaries are inhaling more tear gas than we smoke marijuana. We've become pussies.

Become? Ha! (This is not meant to be taken as a criticism) liberals tend to favor things like education, art and sharing. You know, the kids who got beat up in high school. Yeah that's a little stereotypical but there's a general thread there. The pussies suffer through high school and get beat up by the thugs until graduation where they go to college and continue their ascent. Meanwhile the thugs stay home for community college, eventually dropping out and managing an Arby's. But the moment the "pussy" comes back in town from his relatively successful job to see his parents and decides he's hungry for a beef sandwich, who's the winner in that exchange? There are certainly a few people in high school I'd enjoy coming home to tell them to supersize my fuckin' chicken.

So pussies we may be, but so was the tortoise. And, as Mr. Lebowski enlightened us all "The bums will always lose!"

stoney, rainy saturday

you know when you keep trying to hook up with someone, but the connections keep getting missed? that's called fuck-tag. like phone tag, only a fuck of a lot more frustratin'.


entirely unrelated, 'cept for the fact i fuckin' love it.

the fast and amphibious

Everybody's all like, "It's 2009, where's the flying cars?" And while all you jokers stumble around searching the sky for a Camero with wings, this dude rolls by and is like ya'll is stoopid.

big birthday on the horizon

i've been a bad blogger lately. it's not that i'm lazy (entirely) but i've been blogging elsewhere for a brand. which is to say, i've been getting paid to do what i do here for you. i suppose that makes me, not only bad, but soulless. whoring myself out for consumerism what i'd normally do for free. but my soul is basically up there with every crappy gift the rican bought me. i'll sell it to the highest, or frankly, any bidder. good luck suing me, bc i'm rich, beotch! (well compared to the blog's early days.)

anyway, the contract's on my desk at work so i don't know if i'm legally permitted to claim authorship or what not. i wrote for them under a pen name. but i'm sure i can go as far to say it's for a brand i used to work on. the only relatively cool one i actually produced stuff for. and if you can solve that riddle and recognize my words there will be five essays for your reading pleasure. i am nothing if not industrious.

anyway, how've ya'll been? (if you're even still here.) i'm home drinking a beer on a saturday night bc the office beacons mañana. sucks. well that and i have no real interest in getting beyond a 1/4 mile radius from my apartment, and my friends are heading into deep brooklyn for a crazy party. if the approaching date weren't evidence enough, my stay at home ass is a pretty good indication i'm turning 30 in less than a fortnight. i can't say i'm amused. but then again, not as depressed as MTV thinks i should be. but fuck MTV. anybody who parades kelly clarkson isn't exactly an opinion i stick under a shrine. i got a specific finger with your name on it, if you don't agree.

but for the part of me that actually does morn for the death of my younger years, i've got a little dity that might just cheer me up: buy me somethin'. yes, your dear friend and blogger of all things concha loves her some presents. i'm an only child whose affection was purchased in frequent trinkets from her mom. And frankly, i feel a little off when my life isn't frequently wrapped in shiny gift wrap. bows are cool too, especially on larger ticket items like cars and hot boys.

so without further adieu, i present you my amazon wish list. it ain't the entire collection of what i most desire, but i'd take anything on it with all the glee of a gay parade. and if the beginning of my 4th decade isn't enough reason for you, then just think about all the hours of hilarity i've bestowed upon you all these years. i mean, don't i deserve just a little sumthin'? it's not like i do this shit for free.

by the way, you look great today.

¡viva la amazon! and ¡viva la concha!

ps, don't be afraid to write me a check.

DO IT

lesson.

this is an example of un-targeted communications placement.

today's assignment

go download "born under punches" by the talking heads. and dance.

(how the fuck did i forget about this song?)

breaking news

wow, the times, you know i love ya but this ain't exactly insightful reporting....