Hey there, party people! As you guys know, we at In This Economy are big into South by Southwest. We are all, in some capacity, psyched about Interactive, Music and Film. We’re fanatics about at least one, up to all three, depending on who you talk to down at ITE HQ. Last year, we were part of a panel about citizen journalism (because we’re bloggers, obviously), and this year, those of us who could went down there and worked the fest to the best of our abilities. It wasn’t as awesome as that first year when we were hocking our recession cases and giving our ITE business cards out to anyone with fingers, but it was definitely an experience. Anywho, if anybody reading is considering joining in the nerdy fun next year, here are some things I learned from my last two years at SXSW Interactive.

I know, this post is so “Wear sunscreen” of me but I’m bossy and I have opinions to share. So here they are.

Get some sleep, take vitamins, limit your drinks.

Or, come back with SXSARS. Your choice. Trust me, I learned this one last year. I was down for the count, coughing and generally feeling ass-like for about three weeks. This year, I’m alive, and maybe even well. Shout out: Emergen-C, lots of water, 4-5 hours of sleep per night and a 3-drink-per-night limit. Curtsy.

Look cute but comfy in the morning,

because you are not going home until 3:00AM. Unlike college, at SXSW there isn’t that between-class-before-going-out primp time. No naps either. Wah. And you’re probably going to have your picture taken a few times, so try to at least look presentable. Wear TOMS, not just because they’re awesome, but because they’re comfortable and they’re not sneakers. Don’t wear heels or short skirts or bra straps hanging out like you’re at a club 5 years ago. I noticed a distinct proliferation of SXSluts this year, and it looks like they’re just preying on nerds to sell them shit. Gross.

Be prepared to pay for parking.

every single day, if not multiple times per day. First thing, screw HP for taking up my favorite lot across from the ACC with some bullshit tents and whatnot. Now there are more and more people attending SXSWi every year and like 500 fewer parking spaces doesn’t help us out. I don’t care if you’re giving away free beer or electricity or whatever, HP. Screw you. On Thursday, sketchy parking lot no. 2 was $5 all day. On Friday it was $10 all day. By Saturday it was $10 until 5, and then come back at 5 and pay another $10 to leave your car there still. GOUGE. If you want to drive to a panel at the AT&T Conference Center, be prepared to shell out a shitton. My 2.5 hours there was a hefty $14. Damn. So just make peace with the $100 you’re going to lose just on parking. You paid hundreds, if not a grand or so to be there, you might as well drop another hundy in the bucket.

Take notes. Use hashtags.

For serious notes, check out those by other people who typed like crazy like I did. Use those hashtags. Hit up search.twitter.com and type in #agileagency for an example. Oh, and check out some visual notes on ogilvynotes.com. They’re not the same as being there, but they do capture the buzzwords. And they’re pretty.

Get an iPad 2.

Why? Because everyone else has one. Got one on the first damn day they came out. Oh, you only have a first-gen iPad? You loser! And you! You don’t have an iPhone! What ARE you?? SXSWi is a place for Apple fanboys. Yes, fanboy itself is an obnoxious term and kind of wish I never used it. But if you’re at SXSW and you’re not one, keep quiet. Okay, okay, there are some Android lovers there (I met some cool guys who worked on the Gowalla app for Android), but at SXSWi, Apple is where it’s at. Accept it.

Bring lots of business cards,

but use them discerningly. Lord knows, you don’t want to be a douchebag. If you talk to someone and you want to keep in touch with them, that would be the appropriate time to perform a business card trade. This seems obvious, but we’re nerds in a digital age and some of the social norms have gone by the wayside, unfortunately.

Win shit.

It’s everywhere. There’s so much shit to win it’s like if you make just the slightest effort you’ll probably get something for free. My friends won Gilt Group gift cards (JEALOUS), wristbands, even awesome shit like a DVR with a year of paid service. Loopt was likely the most givingest of all apps this year, but the point is if you want to play the game, it can be played. And won.

Check in.

See item above. If you don’t have Gowalla or Foursquare on your phone, you should. It’s already paying off and it’s going to do that even more in the future. More importantly, at SXSW, it’s an invaluable way to find out where all your friends are, without texting all of them. Last year, it was all about Foursquare. This year, Gowalla won me over. In case anyone cares.

Pedi-cab drivers can be dicks.

Or they can be cool. If they want to charge you $50 to go ten blocks, you can (and should) tell them to eff off. They’re legally not allowed to charge anyway; they’re supposed to work on tips. That said, be cool and tip them right. Those guys work hard.

Eat three “meals” a day.

I didn’t listen to this, often eating lunch at 2:00PM or not at all. Popcorn for breakfast doesn’t cut it. On Sunday I almost killed a man for cutting in line at a fajita bar at 9:00PM. That was my first meal that day. Don’t become a number. Also, don’t cut in line in front of me when I haven’t eaten. Three words: Low. Blood. Sugar.

Don’t cut in line.

See above. There are lines everywhere. Just deal with it. Or get there early. It’s a product of you and everyone else wanting to get into the same panel/club/show as everyone else. Fact. Lines suck but are inevitable, especially with the growing number of attendees each year. At this rate, by next year there should be ONE MILLION SXSWi attendees. Yeah you can quote me on that. I know there’s a long line for free Gordough’s at the Squarespace food truck. But you’re an adult, not a 14-year-old. So get in line. In the back. 

Wear sunscreen.

The V-neck I wore on the first day has provided me with a nice, pink upper-chestal area. Oops.

Be nice.

This is not New York City, and yet there’s a chance that the good people of the City of Austin could easily come to hate us for rushing into their city, trashing it, and leaving it sad and dirty. Austin is no Times Square. She’s no cheap whore. She is lovely. Respect.

Tip the waitstaff.

Yes, a lot of Austin places are used to cheap-ass college students, but they work hard when SXSW is in town. They deserve a little kickback. Tip 20%.

Look people in the eye.

Don’t look at their crotch, boob, stomach or wherever their SXSW badge is. Ask them their name. Let’s try to break the stereotype that interactive folks are all about their phones and their memes and their backchannels and their tweets. Let’s shake hands.

Bring anti-bacterial goop.

(See above) Use often. Especially before those aforementioned “meals”.

There are tons more things, and please feel free to add your own tips and whatnot in the comments, but mostly I’d recommend squeezing every little drop of awesome out of the time you spend at this fantastic conference.

People. Panels. Parties.

That’s what it’s all about. In that order.

See you next year!

–breadwinner

Dear 2011,

I really don’t know where to begin.  For starters, I should admit that I was arguably the most excited human being on earth that 2010 was coming to an end. I mean, I almost hit an infant in the head with a full beer can on my birthday, for Christ’s sake (but that’s another story for another day). You, sir, were supposed to be my beacon of hope – the year where all of the ridiculous things that happened to me the year prior would suddenly vanish and all of the painful memories were null and void! But no. You couldn’t even let me be happy for three hours, could you?  COULD YOU????

I hope you rot in hell, 2011.

Yours Truly,

FakeBritishAccent

I should really take some time to explain my almost immediate disdain for 2011:

Remember that show California Dreams?  It was always much easier to feign hatred for the show with your friends than it would have been to spend hours trying to explain to them why that show rocked so hard.  That’s a lot like New Year’s Eve to me.  It’s much easier for me to sit around complaining about NYE because of the buildup and the cost implications and the fruitless efforts to be in the right place at the right time.  But secretly, I love NYE, and my friends are all full of shit.  Buildup?  It’s New Year’s, not acne.  Cost Implications?  I can’t think of a better reason to spend a lot of money on absolutely nothing!  As for the fruitless efforts to be in the right place at the right time – you just described every Friday night of my life since May 2003.

All of that said, this was arguably the greatest send-off ever.  It was also the most abysmal ring-in ever.

I’ll just start at the beginning.

Due to a drink experiment gone wrong the night before, I woke up Friday afternoon with a headache that induced vomit.  My hangover had a hangover.  I watched When In Rome. That bad.

At 2:37 p.m., I received a phone call from Kevin. Kevin was without a sweater that he hoped would complete his outfit for the night (Ladies: I want it to be known here and now that guys also worry about what they will wear for NYE – fortunately, we have the luxury of avoiding sparkles and 8-inch pumps.). He informed me that I would be accompanying him to Northpark Center, where we would look for him a sweater, and we would look for me some oxyconton.

At 5:21 p.m., we left Northpark. Kevin found his sweater, and I found a pair of blue suede loafers that were on sale.  Sometimes, God proves his existence to me in the form of painfully ironic context clues.

7:45 p.m.:  I’m out my door en route to Brad’s house. Brad and his girlfriend were riding with me to meet our friends at a snooty restaurant for overpriced drinks and not enough food (whoever invented tapas is a stupid jerkface idiot…face.).

8:58 p.m.:  Unfortunately, I had no time to finish someone else’s side items, because I had to rush back to Brad’s house. I sent an Evite earlier in December informing everyone that the party we were hosting was to start at 9 p.m. This left us little time to devote to dinner. No matter – Brad’s girlfriend and I had to concoct a New Year’s punch that consisted of a liter of vodka, a liter of rum, fresh fruit, kool-aid and lemonade – this would later come to be called “Where’s My Dignity? Juice”.

9:10 p.m.:  Concoction mixed, guests begin to arrive. Effects of third glass of punch begin to be felt.

9:25 p.m.:  More people, more punch, more hilarity. At this point, those who stayed longer at the restaurant arrive hammered.

9:45 p.m.:  Final wave of guests arrived, and I had switched to beer in an attempt to slow down my metabolic rate. That school of thought proved later to be completely erroneous and surprisingly backward.

10:30 p.m.:  If there is a single person at this party that isn’t drunk, they probably weren’t invited. Someone makes note that we still have an hour and a half until the new year, and rather than slow us down, that nearly incites a riot of flying alcohol. By this time, my friend Mike is teeter-tottering on the cliff of consciousness.

11:30 p.m.:  The first wave of guests have left the party to go to the bar. This was a good move in the long run, since the place was packed after midnight, and they were lucky enough to save us some room at a table.

11:59:59 p.m.:  Happy New Year. I make out with Girl #1.

12:10 a.m.:  We stumble to the bar, but I forget about the cover that I warned everyone of hours before. I am informed by a stranger that an ATM exists on the opposite side of West Village.

12:25 a.m.:  I finally make it back to the bar. I am greeted by a shot, a fresh bourbon/coke, and an attractive brunette’s hand on the back of my neck.

12:26 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #2.

12:49 a.m.:  New drink. Exit the dance floor. Enter the weird.

12:50 a.m.:   I make out with Girl #3, who also happens to be my good friend who moved to Houston five months ago.

1:30 a.m.:  I swear – most of what I remember from the bar took place on the dance floor, which is crazy; not because I don’t like dancing (believe me, I do), but mainly because I know for a fact now that only about an hour went by where we were in that area of the bar. Strange, huh? I know.

1:58 a.m.:  The bar is closing. We make plans to after-party at my friend Martin’s house. This is fairly run of the mill – Martin throws after-parties quite often. No big deal.

2:27 a.m.:  I walk into Martin’s house, and I see my friends CeCe, Katie, Jenny and Nicole sitting on the couch.
2:28 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #4 – CeCe.

2:28 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #5 – Katie.

2:29 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #6 – Jenny.

2:29 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #7 – Nicole.

2:30 a.m.:  I process basic math and ascertain that New Year’s is the greatest holiday ever.

2:40 a.m.:  I make a routine lap around the house. People are either having a great time or are passing out where they stand.

*AUTHOR’S NOTE TO THE FAINT OF HEART:

Please stop reading here. Call it a wash. Great NYE, right? Right!!! AAAHAHAHAHA, I LOVE NEW YEAR’S!!!! LET’S JUST STOP READING NOW, OKAY???? YAY!!!

…you didn’t listen to me, did you? All right. It’s your funeral.

At around 2:45 a.m., I retreat to the kitchen for a new beer, when I notice that my friend Scott is nowhere to be found. I was worried, because the group that came with me to this after-party from the bar isn’t part of this particular social circle, so it was important to me that I keep tabs on them. No matter – I’ll smoke a cigarette and find him afterward, right?

Wrong.

I walk outside on the patio and see my friend Scott rested against the side of my house with my friend CeCe.

And my friend CeCe is giving my friend Scott a blowjob.

…

…

It was like watching the dinner scene in American Beauty…if meanwhile, Kevin Spacey was getting blown by a friend of yours named CeCe.

After she was busted, CeCe makes a beeline toward me as I storm back into Martin’s house. She tries to explain to me that they were just having fun and she made a mistake and things were really weird and he tasted like a saltine cracker (which I found puzzling, since Scott is black), but by this point, I had already tuned out and grabbed my keys.

I wish I could make this up. I wish I could tell you that all of this was a joke, and that what 2011 really gave me at 2:45 a.m. on January 1 was love at first sight, or a promotion, or vaginal penetration. But instead, I got the one thing that I couldn’t want any less: a front-row seat to Peter North’s next mediocre screenplay.

I hope your New Year’s celebration ended a little better than that.

Welp, that’s it! Talk to you later!!!

Hello there, ITE family!

Just like our real family members, you’ve been ignored for a while in favor of the hustle and bustle and binge drinking of the holiday season. Not that it’s any excuse, but we’ve been a busy, busy bunch of hooligans these days. But as the New Year is a time for renewal and resolutions, this downward trend will not stand. Instead, we’ll coast into 2011 with a holiday-focused post and keep our content coming hard, strong and steadfast in the future. Yes.

Now for some holiday merriment!

In this economy, and especially during this here holiday season, we’re thankful for our jobs. They’re (sometimes) fun and they give us money. Above all, they keep us busy as hell. That being said, we’ve filed this post under the recurring, “You can’t spell advertising without ITE” umbrella. Why? Because all three of the founders/creators/babymamas of ITE are in the sheisty business of …no, not used car sales, but advertising. And since all advertisers are just out for themselves—or so we hear—we’d like to ask for your help. But we promise it will be A) free, and B) entertaining enough for this often-boring week between Xmas and New Year’s. Enjoy!

Shameless Advertising Agency Holiday Efforts Plug #1!

First of all, our very own rondostar would like to request your help in his quite ridiculous efforts to win a “Light War” between his (5th) and the 6th floor at his agency. His shit is so damn legit even Agency Spy got hold of it. So check out these videos and then be a baby Jesus lamb and vote for floor number 5 to win. Maybe then rondostar will shave that ridiculous facial hair he’s got going on. Please.

VOTE for Floor #5 and RONDOSTAR!

Shameless Advertising Agency Holiday Efforts Plug #2!

Secondly, if you’ve got another spare few minutes to dedicate to advertising agency-style holiday waste-of-time merriment, check out this tasty treat brought to you by breadwinner‘s agency of late. If you like what you see, feel free to (please!) fan this page on facebook, and also to even follow the efforts here on twitter. Why so vague? You’ll see…

Check out what breadwinner's been up to...

But the fun’s not over yet!

Last but not least, drocolate has a little bit of holiday cheer to share with you as well. Here he is, as a ghostly ginger elf photographed inside his current copywriting stomping grounds.

This creature is stirring all right.

Sleep tight.

NOTE: The following article comes from ITE guestblogger FakeBritishAccent.

I suppose we could file this under good news?

Four Saturdays ago, I was part of a vehicular collision that left my radiator open-mouth kissing the engine of my 2008 Ford F-150. I will now transcribe this accident in haiku format:

Driving home mid-day.

Traffic caused a huge back-up.

Not for me. Impact.

I drove 45mph into the back of a Chevy Avalanche.

I have to say, what ensued as a result of this wreck is nothing short of Murphy’s Law (READ: my everyday luck, as I am the clumsiest, unluckiest guy on earth), and here’s why:

There was a third vehicle involved (a Lincoln Town and Country, to be exact).  Not because they were hit, but because they bore witness to the accident, so they felt obligated to pull over.

Why is this such a big deal?  Because as my air bag deployed, in a state of complete disarray, I look up to see this insanely hot blonde running to my rescue.   Immediately assuming that I am dead and this is just my subconscious living out possibly the most retarded fantasy ever, you can imagine my surprise when this turned out to be real life, and in panicked shrill, she screamed, “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?  CAN YOU WALK?  IF YOU CAN, GET OUT OF YOUR TRUCK, BECAUSE YOU ARE LEAKING FLUIDS!!!”

Easy, folks.  She was talking about my truck.  I might have just wrecked, but I still have control of my bowels.  SIDE NOTE:  Is it bad that the first thing I remember thinking post-impact was, “Jesus, this chick is hot, but she sounds like Christina Ebersole.”

Murphy – 1, Guestblogger – 0

Anyway, as I exited my now dying truck (which I bought brand new two years ago, by the way – tears flowed like honey, I tell you), I walked forward to make sure the Avalanche passengers were okay.

The good news:  Everyone was fine.

The bad news:  “Everyone” included a husband, a wife, and their two baby girls who were in the back seat.

Murphy – 2, Guestblogger – 0

As I said before, everyone was perfectly healthy.  But let’s go back to the hot blonde for a minute.  Care to guess how she played into this whole situation?

SHE WAS THE PASSENGER IN THE LINCOLN TOWN AND COUNTRY.

Let’s pause briefly to assess what has happened thus far:  I crash into the back of a Chevy Avalanche carrying two infants in the back seat.  As I stumble in and out of Purgatory, which bears a striking resemblance to the “Smack My Bitch Up” music video, I am audibly rescued by a girl who was riding shotgun in a minivan with her Mom.  And the icing on the cake?  This accident attracted the attention of three squad cruisers and two ambulances, blocking two lanes on 75 south and backing traffic up six miles.

Murphy – 4,663, Guestblogger – 0

Upon exiting my vehicle for the first time, I noticed some tightness in my right ankle.  As a precautionary measure, I had one of the paramedics check it out.  His diagnosis was nothing short of dumbfounding:

“You can go to the hospital if you want, but I’ll tell you right now that this isn’t serious.  Pre-impact, you essentially slammed your brakes so hard that you ruptured tendons in your foot.  We see this all the time.”

Wow.  Thanks, bro.

Murphy – 4,664, Guestblogger – 0

And if I’m lying I’m dying – this story gets worse.

Song that was playing pre-impact that has now been deemed the Bad Luck Song of The Year:  KP and Envy’s “Shorty Swing My Way”.  Arguably one of the best mid-90’s Hip Hop Jamz OF ALL TIMEZ.  No lie, this was one of my favorite songs in the world until I went Randy Couture on that Avalanche.  Now I can’t even stand the thought of that song.

Murphy – 4,665, Guestblogger – 0

At this point, you have to be wondering why this is filed under “good news”.  Well, In This Economy, credit card debt is prevalent to the point of absurdity.  Luckily, I had gained positive equity on my truck, so when my insurance agency appraised the damage, they valued my truck for more than it was worth when I bought it.

Let me repeat that.

THEY.VALUED.MY.TRUCK.FOR.MORE.THAN.IT.WAS.WORTH.WHEN.I.BOUGHT.IT.

That is the only silver lining to this story.  So with the money left over after I paid off my truck, I was also able to pay off said credit card debt and still make a nice down payment on my new vehicle.

Murphy – 4,665, Guestblogger – 1

Looooooove that money.  Thanks for having me.

I’m really not sure what this has to do with anything going on In This Economy. But I’ll try to find a tie-in before I’m done.

I’m usually against the objectification of women unless I’m watching Cinemax, visiting a strip club, lurking in front of Victoria’s Secret, volunteering at a women’s prison, or wearing mirrors on my shoes at a miniskirt convention.

So I don’t condone what the New York Jets did to this Mexican reporter. But check out how she dresses for an interview with Joy Behar:

On behalf of professional journalists everywhere, let me say, “Owwoooooga!!! [pant-pant-pant] Homina homina homina!!!”

Sure, men are despicable pigs, but sometimes harassment is the RIGHT THING TO DO. It’s no different from the reactions I get when I walk into an all-women’s gym wearing my standard reporter’s uniform: shirtless, bow tie and tear-away pants. Well, it’s a little different. The catcalls are more like screams of horror, and the wolf whistles sound suspiciously similar to gagging. But I think I made my point.

Oh! Now I know how this ties into the economy: It doesn’t.
Note to my bosses at ITE: This one’s on the house.

It’s so charming and endearing, the language of Starbucks. It’s like Pig Latin for the snobby and overly-caffeinated. Have you ever ordered a “small coffee,” only to be ridiculed like a schoolchild for neglecting to correctly refer to the megachain’s smallest size cup as a “tall?” Oh the shame!

Well, recently one citizen stood up for customers’ rights and took a stand at her local ‘bucks. And she was thrown the eff out. Claiming to be simply a stickler for the rules of grammar over the rules of Starbucks, Ms. Lynne Rosenthal, a PHD-holding, certified English professor from Manhattan, sauntered into an Upper West Side Starbucks one day and ordered a multigrain bagel. The barista responded to her order by asking, “Do you want butter or cheese?”

photo credit: New York Post

THE HORROR!

Ms. Rosenthal was outraged and repeated that she just wanted the multigrain bagel. What. An. Idiot. Didn’t she know that the Starbucks lexicon requires her tell the barista what she did not want also? That she must verbally request her item in this manner: “Multigrain bagel no butter no cheese?” Whether she did or did not know, she was not interested in following such rules. So in pure Soup Nazi fashion, the barista had her “forcibly removed” from the Starbucks by the cops. THE COPS. The effing pride of New York. Those guys.

Anyway, my “point” is that one might think, in this economy, that Starbucks might consider implementing the commonly-held philosophy of “the customer’s always right.” But no! Quite the opposite, in fact. The customer is usually wrong. They make absolutely excruciating little mistakes like putting the word “iced” at the END of the order rather than in second spot. And in this economy, the strung-out, over-worked, under-paid baristas are just waiting for an excuse to jump down their erroneous throats. And refusing to tell them what you don’t want with your order just might be the opening they’re looking for. So watch out bitches. Nobody wants a Venti Extra Hot Mocha with Whip to the face. Not even Ms. Rosenthal.

Somebody get that bitch her damn bagel. Jeez.

I say we all send Starbucks a little message. Let’s all tweet at them with this little gem: “I’d like a multigrain bagel, please. RT if you agree that @inthiseconomy, the customer is always right.”

If you’d like to tell Breadwinner what your favorite ridiculous, Starbucks beverage sounds like, hit her up on the Twitter.

The folks who brought us the free peach Frosty and those really annoying Spicy Chicken Nugget commercials have really pissed off one friend-of-the-blog, who from this day forward will be known as CheapKitty. This is her story.

All CheapKitty wanted to do was purchase her favorite item off of their supposedly Super Value Menu at her local Wendy’s. What you see below is her actual complaint to Wendy’s corporate regarding their decision to remove the regular chicken fingers from the Super Value Menu and replace them with the new spicy version. This would cost the spice-averse an extra $.30 to bring home the nuggets they crave (as if they would ever make it home!). In this economy, 30 cents is serious. And 30% of the way toward a second order of nuggets.

Stay tuned for Wendy’s reply, which according to the system, will be within 48 hours. Meanwhile, do you support CheapKitty’s point of view on the subject? Show your love (or call her a ginger bitch — she’ll love that) in the comments below.

I can now protect myself as long as all assailants are limbless albinos.

“I felt this incredible surge of power, like God must feel when he’s holding a gun.”
—Homer Simpson

Each year I struggle to come up with a new way to celebrate American Independence. In 2000, you might have seen me naked, painted scalp to toe in red, white and blue as the authorities escorted me out of Luby’s. In 2001, it was Cracker Barrel. 2002: Shoney’s. And 2002–2009: nothing but Luby’s.

This year, with so many Luby’s shuttered, I was feeling desperate. That’s when it hit me: What do Americans do when they feel desperate? They get a gun and shoot the fuck out of stuff.

So that’s what I did.

READY!

Every day to and fro(m) work I drive by the DFW Gun Range. I’m from Texas, so it’s not like I’ve never shot a gun. Growing up we used them to trim our toenails, and if you think that didn’t take good aim, you’re forcing me to tell you I just made that up.

It’s been 10 years since the last time I gripped such a rigid weapon and shot all over a target. And it’s been 20 years since the last time I shot a gun. So with July 4th on the horizon and the most recent Supreme Court ruling on guns, I decided to explore my constitutional right to bear arms.

I signed up and paid for an introductory class at the gun range knowing that ITE would pick up the expense (RIGHT???).

When I arrived, I saw several things that came as no surprise: guns, knives, flat-screen tuned into SPIKE TV. And I saw at least one thing that came as a mild surprise: a rack of “tactical covert” khaki pants. Sure. Why not?

They also subscribed to America’s 1st Freedom, the NRA magazine that couldn’t be more predictable. Covers featuring enemies of freedom like Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi, Al Gore; ads for weapons the average citizen could probably use to destroy the moon; and the requisite interview with Ted Nugent.

[ACTUAL QUOTE FROM TED NUGENT: "I'm not exaggerating... I can't walk 10 steps in America without someone saying, "Hey, Uncle Ted. God bless the NRA."]

The instructor (for privacy and out of respect, let’s call him “The Instructor”) found me in the lobby, and we went to the classroom. It turned out to be a one-on-one class, which makes sense because you don’t want to worry about a bunch of yahoos in a beginner’s gun class thinking they’re going to be the next Chow Yun-Fat. I, on the other hand, KNOW I’m going be the next Chow Yun-Fat. (Two guns, please!)

AIM!

We went over the basics of shooting: Always treat a gun as if it’s loaded; don’t point at anything you’re not willing to destroy; and… uhhh… well, there were a couple others that if you don’t follow, you’ll surely kill a generation of children, but I can’t remember what they were. Sorry, next generation of children.

After showing me the proper stance, grip and discipline required to properly and safely use a firearm, The Instructor led me to the range. Our four weapons of choice were all 9mm guns: Glock 17, Glock 19, HK USP, SIG SAUER P229 (which my dumb pansy brain heard as “Six-Hour P229″).

Speaking of being a pansy, guns are loud. Despite the ear muffs I wore once inside the range, I jumped every time a gun went off. The ear muffs weren’t muffing enough for my taste (if I could taste with my ears). So my hands were shaking as I loaded the clips and raised the guns to aim.

At one point, The Instructor said, “C’mon. We’re all big boys who’ve been around loud noises before. The last time I saw shaking like that was in California because of the San Andreas Fault.” This shot at my masculinity worked. I ran crying to the men’s room, called my mommy on my cell phone and came back confident and reassured. Just kidding. My mom is dead.

FIRE!

I never quite attained the desensitized coolness of Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now, but I got most of my jumpiness under control. Enough so to achieve some decent grouping in my shots.

The Instructor praised my technique, which was just me following his top-notch instructions because the last place I’m going to act like my usual jackass self is in a room full of loaded guns. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to act one’s age… [AHEM] Mel Gibson.

I really don’t know what else to day. I went in thinking I could get a funny article out of this class but quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen. This was a professional and safe experience, and I treated the whole thing with the reverence required in a place where mistakes aren’t and shouldn’t be tolerated. Besides, I don’t have anything against guns or the Second Amendment. I do believe that the NRA misinterprets what the Founding Fathers intended and that there should be extensive restrictions on gun ownership. And I don’t buy the theory that if everyone has a gun, there will be less gun violence. But that’s an argument for another time.

This is about celebrating America’s birth. Sure, shooting a sheet of paper might seem like a strange way to celebrate. But keep in mind that the whole time I was there, I was naked and painted red, white and blue.

THE END

Oh, wait! I just remembered something funny about guns!

I have a confession to make.

I’m a milk thief. That’s right, today I stole milk from my local 7-11… and four other times in the past couple weeks.

See, recently, I’ve really grown an affinity for 7-11′s coffee experience. It’s not just the brew options or the fact that I’ve grown a bit sick of Starbucks. I also like:

• The array of fresh pots (in the morning – can’t speak for evening freshness)
• The individual (real) sugar packets, so you know exactly how many sugars you are using
• The empowerment and ritual of self-service – there’s just something about pouring your own cup of fresh, hot coffee
• The slew of optional flavors in the form of creamers and syrups
• The range of cup options and designs (I particularly like the self-insulated ‘Cup with a Cause‘ cup)
• The well designed and functional WAKE UP protector sleeve thingies (should you choose not to buy the self-insulated ‘Cup for a Cause’ – asshole)
• And the price, c’mon

Yeah. I really, really like 7-11 coffee. But, even with all the awesome features I mentioned above, there is one major component missing to complete a truly great cup of coffee. That’s right, milk. 7-11 does NOT offer milk at their coffee bars.

So what did I do about it?

I’ll admit, the first trip I made to 7-11 for coffee a couple weeks back, I settled for the creamer.

Problem a.) If you are buying a very large cup of coffee you need about 7 creamers to make it work – if you are me

Problem b.) Creamer is not milk

So, the next visit to 7-11 for a delicious cup of coffee I took matters into my own hands and got a little vigilant. When I walked into the store I made a B-line to the drink cooler, grabbed a pint of milk and toted it over to the coffee bar. Then, I poured my coffee, opened the milk, poured in a splash, replaced the top and slid the rest of the milk over by the creamer caddy. You know, so others could also use some tasty milk if they wanted. Plus, In this economy, who wants to buy a whole pint of milk if they only need a splash?

This quickly became habit. I used the same technique 3 or 4 more times and it worked. Until it all came to a crashing halt today.

What? You got caught?

Yes. I got caught.

I went through my normal process (this time it was even more thrilling because there was a cop inside), got the milk, poured my coffee, poured the milk, left the milk for others to enjoy and walked to the register to pay. Just as I was paying for my hot, delicious, milked coffee the store manager walked up and told me that I had to pay for the milk. He also told me that he had seen me do the same thing 5 times. Dude was pissed. He also instructed me that I would need to buy my coffee elsewhere from now on. That’s right.

I was banned from my local 7-11 – just for being the neighborhood MilkenHood for the past couple weeks. Gah.

I made good and voluntarily (if that counts for anything) paid my restitution for today’s pint and the previous 4. But, I am still left with an empty feeling about this whole situation.

What needs to happen?

If 7-11 wants to compete with the major players in the coffee business they are going to have to step their game up and start offering milk at their coffee bars. As I’ve already stated, everything else is amazing!

7-11 needs FREE milk at their coffee bars. This isn’t just for the people. This offering will transcend the 7-11 coffee experience past the “convenient store coffee” genre and into the upper echelon of coffee shop experiences. I mean, you can’t get Skittles or Funyuns with your coffee at Starbucks can you? You can at 7-11.

Join the movement

So, please join the movement and help us to get FREE milk at 7-11 coffee bars. You can leave comments below showing your support or you can join the Facebook Page here.

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On the previous two episodes of ITE’s Globetrotting with SurlyZ*…

Without taking the time to look at the title of this post, we wonder what today’s episode has in store for us.

Cuddly AND delicious! Grilled kangaroo steak.

Cuisine

As I wrapped up my first trip to the Southern Hemisphere, I felt like I didn’t eat as much local cuisine as I should have. But that’s my fault for watching 10 episodes of The Simpsons each day. I had pizza, venison spring rolls, subpar/unidentifiable Chinese food, pizza again and sushi. There are a lot of sushi places in Melbourne. In fact, the city has what experts call a “fuckload” of sushi shops.

But before you go thinking Aussies are a bunch of sushi-eating, latte-sipping, Harvard-educated, hemp-wearing, gay-married abortionists who rarely, if ever, suck the eyeballs out of baby seals, there is a (am I using this word correctly?) “fuckload” of McDonald’s and Subway restaurants too. So the next time the Crocodile Hunter makes you feel like you should be more outdoorsy, tell him that all those Big Macs made him too slow to dodge a stingray’s tail. And tell him he’s dead.

Steak sandwiches are a staple in Melbourne. But I forgot to get one. I did, however, remember to eat a whole kangaroo alive. Or, rather, a modest portion of grilled kangaroo. It was a bit gamy, but tasted mostly cow-ish. I’m pretty sure it was pouch meat because it was garnished with newborn joeys.

Maybe I'm all turned around on this vegemite stuff.

What else? I guess you want to know about vegemite. Didn’t touch it. Wouldn’t even eat in the same room as that shit. According to my research, vegemite was invented as a practical joke on a tourists visiting down under. The Brits didn’t catch on because they have retarded taste buds. But the rest of us would rather eat human afterbirth. … I may be exaggerating. I didn’t try vegemite. Though I can’t argue with their marketing strategy.

Slang

Aussie slang is endearing and adorable. Brekky = breakfast. Bizzo = business. Dickless Tracy = policewoman. For real. Thus, I decided to buy a book of slang so I wouldn’t slow down any conversations I joined while I was in Melbourne.

Here are some other cute words and phrases I heard:
Bang
Crack a fat
Flog the log
Getting off at Redfern
Give the ferret a run
Knock off
Root
Sink the sausage

Upon looking them up, I discovered they mean things like sexual intercourse, erection, masturbation and coitus interruptus. So these horndog Australians ain’t so cute after all.

More surprising is the amount of slang they have for vomit, which actually becomes less surprising when you remember vegemite. A few examples:
Chunder
Drive the porcelain bus
Perk
Technicolour yawn
The big spit
Throw a map

Let’s use some of the slang we’ve learned so far:

She gave a technicolour yawn after she sobered up and saw that it was Dustin Diamond who had given the ferret a run inside her, but she thanked the lord he had gotten off at Redfern and flogged the log to completion, even though the thought of that caused her to drive the porcelain bus until she couldn’t perk another morsel of chunder.

That’s all I learned during my time in Australia. My apologies to ITE and ITE’s financial backers.

*Other potential titles for my travel blog posts:
Exploring the Non-Ancient Cities of Earth
Our Planet and Beyond, Minus “and Beyond”
Around the World in 80 Credit Cards
Roadtripping Balls with SurlyZ
Where in the World Is SurlyZ… ‘s Pants?

When the city has cows in trees, it's time to go to the country.

After a few days of getting settled and converting my human dollars to Australian dollars, I decided, “Fuck this. I’m outta here.” I needed to get out of the city. After all, I’m nothing if not a farm boy at heart. I grew up drinking cow milk, eating chicken nuggets, using lambskin prophylactics — as water balloons — and I have a farmer’s tan from years of staying fully clothed in tanning beds.

That’s how on my fourth day in Australia I ended up in a car, speeding to the edge of town and beyond with three lovely ladies. On any other day, this might have been a recipe for a Penthouse letter. But, alas, the women in the car were aroused neither by my repeated references to Penthouse nor the collection of back issues I brought along for the ride.

Four for the road

The cast of characters on this road trip included Aly the American, Miranda the Aussie driver and another chick who may be Aussie, may be Kiwi and is definitely not named Queenie. But I forgot her real name, so Queenie it is.

A TomTom GPS guided us into wine country, which I forgot to mention was the purpose of the excursion. The TomTom seemed to be working just fine when Miranda threw it out the window and backed over it again and again until it was returned to the Earth from whence it came. She then sped us down the scariest of narrow, curvy roads at breakneck speed, but at least we wouldn’t have time to scream before the inevitable head-on collision. Moments like that, plus sharks and a fear of flying, are why I taught my dog how to make funeral arrangements.

Me without a wine

Gelflings or Olsen twins

But we eventually made it to a winery. You know the movie The Dark Crystal with the evil, wrinkled Skeksis who wanted to drink the Gelflings’ life essence to regain their youth? No? Well, I was going to say that’s what I felt like when I took my first sip of wine after a harrowing car ride — my gray, wrinkled skin tightening and glowing with life — but now I don’t know how to convey my point to you.

Then it was on to the next winery. Except not really. Miranda stopped about 50 yards past the kangaroo roadkill (the only kangaroo I saw on my vacation, besides the one I ate) and informed us that she had a flat tire. Besides sharks, planes and women drivers, my next biggest fear is changing a tire. Not because I’m afraid I’ll get hurt (pain is an aphrodisiac — that’s why I only have seven toes, one kidney and god knows how many STDs), but because mechanical incompetence equals emasculation. And there was a stuck lug nut chuckling darkly, waiting to confiscate my manhood.

Why SurlyZ is not ManlyZ

We rolled another 10 kilometers or so and made it to the equivalent of an American town in the South where the sheriff pulls you over and busts your taillight so he can teach you a lesson about out-of-towners. As I rolled up my sleeves to reveal the rippling biceps common on a blog writer, I asked the ladies to go inside that there yonder convenience store and get me a bottle of water. It was the perfect ruse to give me a few minutes of audience-free work so they wouldn’t see the car fall off the jack or how my face came to look like a cartoon character who looked down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

But they didn’t take the bait. “There’s water in the car,” they said in unison. So I cursed their resourcefulness and returned to the task at hand. And I was doing great… until… I got to that scheming, scamming lug nut. It wouldn’t budge. But at least I wore down its corners so the lug wrench couldn’t get a grip. In a flash of temper, I busted out the windshield of that car and every car in the parking lot — in my mind. Then a true-blue auto mechanic appeared, and I didn’t even care that his heroics were probably going to impress the ladies and earn him that orgy I couldn’t seem to organize (orgynize?).

HOWEVER!!!! The Australian Cooter confirmed that the sinister lug nut was on too tight in the first place. I glanced at the women and saw them changing their minds about me. “We’re not changing our minds about you,” said Aly. Miranda and “Queenie” concurred all too quickly.

Starring Ben Jones as Cooter

Cooter said he’d probably have to saw off the bolt in order to remove the wheel. Thinking that we might be stranded overnight, I was about to give my speech about the best way to keep warm on a cold night when, eureka and hooray, the lug nut came loose on Cooter’s final attempt, reducing me to a eunuch in the eyes of all women within sexing distance.

Moving on… I finished changing the tire, and we got back on the road. I assumed that, with no more spare tires to, um, spare and one bullet dodged, we would be cutting our losses and heading home. But the girls thought we had one or two more wineries in us. Those wineries right over there. On the other side of that field littered with nails, broken glass, rusted cars and the sun-bleached bones of American tourists.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Just the thousand-cat attack. And the Great Wine Theft of 2010. Oh, and the car chase (as promised in Part 1). And an orgy… of memories.

Lesson learned

Q. What does any of this have to do with the economy?
A. Shut up.

Coming soon: Part 3 — Cuisine and Slang

When ITE decided to send me overseas to report on the international economy, I thought, “When did we get a travel budget?” But when they said I had to pay for it myself and be gone the last half of January, I knew they were just providing me with an alibi while they murdered my wife. So off I went.

Brief history

Australia was created by God as a prison colony for criminals with funny accents.

A national anthem was written (see below), and nothing else happened until I visited.

Landing

I arrived in Melbourne after a 15-hour flight stuck between two people and barely being able to move my legs and OH MY GOD, I WANT TO FUCKING DIE. PLEASE KILL ME, I cried. PLEASE KILL ME…

My first day was gorgeous and hot because it’s the middle of summer. That’s right. Down there, winter is summer, summer is winter, and women don’t gnash their teeth and gouge out their eyes when I walk in the room. Weird.

As an experienced world traveler, I did what every American citizen should do when setting foot on foreign soil: find a place to watch NFL football. I had to be at a casino by 8:30 a.m. Sunday and 5:30 a.m. Monday to catch the games, but I knew it would be totally worth it to watch the Cowboys destroy Old Man Favre and the Vikings. (POSTSCRIPT: The Cowboys owe me five hours of sleep.)

Yes, I spent 12 of my first 48 hours in Melbourne watching American football. When you find out how many hours of The Simpsons I watched, you’ll wonder why I even went to Australia. (30 hours. It was on all the time! Best trip ever.)

Things I like about Australia

Australian milk goat

1. Sales tax is already included in the price. So if something on a menu or price tag says $4.90, you pay $4.90. However, nothing on a menu or price tag says $4.90 because everything costs a lot. A skinny Jim Thompson crime noir novel? $25. A slice of pizza with goat cheese? $650 because you have to buy the whole goat, which turns out to be a southern brown bandicoot in a goat costume.

2. The cops don’t take shit. I heard multiple stories about police awesomeness, such as the man who was taken down and thrown in jail for the crime of yelling at an officer who ran a red light without using a siren and almost hit the man’s pregnant wife. And then there was the slightly drunk couple exchanging (explosive?) fluids with their mouths who were subsequently slammed to the ground and hauled in to the hoosegow. The moral of these stories? Keep your tongue in your pants. Or something like that.

3. All of the Americans there are named Zack. I met one from California while watching the Colts/Ravens game. Then I met another one from Dallas the next day during the Cowboys game. And though I normally don’t like to divulge such personal information, the Z in SurlyZ stands for Zack. The name “SurlyZ” is what we in the literary business call a “lie.”

Things I don’t like about Australia

Too many hot women wearing next to nothing.

Well… I’m sure there was something I didn’t like about Australia.

Coming soon

The stage is set for the next two chapters of my story. Consider this one the wooden dialogue and clumsy setup of “A New Hope,” which means the next part will be a kick-ass “Empire Strikes Back”-esque blog post, while the last part will be a “Jedi”-like letdown with stupid teddy bears dying in the forest and me giving in to the Dark Side.

Stay tuned. Or don’t. It’s no wuzzle off my wallaby. (That’s a fake Australian saying!)