FCUK Chat Roulette

Admittedly, I've been nervous to try out chat roulette, as I don't have much of a stomach for perverts.  (though isn't that what the internets is mostly composed of?)


chat roulette from Casey Neistat on Vimeo.

French Connection is hosting a competition asking men to set up a real date with a girl on the site.  I love the idea that this favorite but forgotten brand is jumping on the bandwagon so early.  Though would love to see the type of woman picked up over CR.  
Cheers to someone finding his true love in the 14%.

This is part of the larger "The Man" "The Woman" campaign, sited below.





Thanks to Contagious Mag for the heads up.

Four Short Crushes

(an oldie but a goodie)

Relationships require a lot of hard work and sexual compromise. It's best to weed out the doomed ones from the get go:

1. I'm sitting at my laptop in the coffee shop and hear your voice, it's honey smooth with a drawl, like you've stepped right out of a John Grisham novel. Your dark eyes meet mine and we start to chat.

A lawyer? Did you know my uncle graduated from Tulane Law? You, too? How funny, I can't believe I was so dead on.

You do look like a young lawyer... I bet you shop at Brooks Brothers. I'd love to wear your crisp and cool Brooks Brothers shirt while we drink coffee after hot morning sex. Or your tie after you get home from a long day of work.

We keep chatting and you teach me a game.

I don't care about this game.

I'm thinking about the sweet and dirty things you could say to me with that accent of yours.

I'm thinking about not minding that you prefer sweet and traditional 10-position sex.

I'm thinking about vacationing in Savannah, persuading you to get down under a tree in the early evening in Forsyth Park. You pressing my back into the bark.

I'm thinking about meeting your parents over sweet tea. We buy an apartment together and make sweet, sweet missionary love on the floor (we don't have any furniture yet) all night long. Maybe we'll get a Golden Retriever.

Conversation keeps meandering. So what were you doing here? Drafting an e-mail to break up with your long-distance girlfriend?

(length of crush: 25 minutes)

2. I see you from behind in Barnes and Noble.

You're built like an Adonis: tall, lean build, tanned olive skin with dark hair, broad shoulders.

We could wax literature over dinner then, oh!, you would take control in bed! Maybe a little too much control? Pull my hair, don't tear it out.So forceful! So strong! And yet, so intellectual!

I can't believe I'd see someone like you here! Walking right to the contemporary fiction sectio...oh, Muscle magazine.

(length of crush: 15 seconds)

3. I felt you before I saw you, like a breeze. You smell so amazingly clean!

You entered the elevator, just a floor above me! How could I never have noticed you before? Arty, older, and a bit scruffy... an art director perhaps? Maybe you're 30?

Your hand comes to within inches of my stomach to push the button for the next floor - your hand, your arms; they're tan, big and uncalloused.

My mind instantly wanders to us, writhing around in the sheets.

Wait no, in your office... your strong arms wrapped around my waist. Maybe there are grease pencils and mock ups that we've shoved to the floor in the throes of our passion. Maybe I've worn a slim fitting pencil skirt and silky, blousy button down. But let's keep an eye out for those grease pencils, I like this skirt.

You're reaching again now! Are you going to make a move? No. You reach beyond me. You've pressed the wrong floor? The wrong floor, again?

What the fuck, buddy, is this your first time on the elevator? This isn't a ride! Now I'm running late for a meeting. I think I hate you, idiot.

(length of crush: 45 seconds)

4. You've been smiling at me for awhile, guy at Castaways. You are J Crew charming and cute. I bet you'd be fun in bed.

You're buying us another round? How generous! You went to IU? These girls went to IU! I used to party there all the time!! Another hilarious joke, you're so hilarious! You keep picking me up! I love that!!

I don't usually meet people I like at bars - bar relationships usually only end up resulting in a drunken finger bang or, if you're lucky, an HJ. But you seem diff... Hey! Is your hand on my cousin's boob?!

(length of crush: on and off for 13 minutes)

Early Childhood Trauma

I spent 8 years at a dirty, dirty catholic school.

In 6th grade, those tender developmental stages of teenage years, my 18 fellow classmates and I were forced to volunteer at a local nursing home once a week.
Tuesdays would come and we'd be shuttled over to the nursing home to spend two hours square dancing with the elderly and incapable. The routine was familiar; a half hour of wheeling our partners and their colonoscopy bags in square dancing formations wrapped up with a half-hearted performance of the hokey pokey and chicken dance.

The caller, a 40-something pervert, would have us circle up our wheeled counterparts and create a circle in the middle of the group. He would stand inside the circle, behind all of us, and give direction to shake more or waggle more (obviously fantasizing about our young, uniformed, lithe and energetic bodies). When we left he always demanded a hug, most times packing heat.

This traumatizing and disturbing ritual created for me a terribly negative pavlovian response every time I hear polka music. One of the biggest reasons for turning down Oktoberfest this year.

A Good Eater: History

When I was little, I always ate my entire bowl of cereal... just in case I hurt the feelings of any pieces of left-behind cereal.

On Bread and Other Offensive Carbohydrates

As those who share my disgust and prejudice towards fat people may understand, watching someone lose total self-control while shoveling food in their face is almost as degrading as shoveling it in our own.

Living in the Midwest, plenty of thunderous, massive bodies accost our eyes daily; tightly packed into a pair of khaki shorts, back-fat-wings shimmying their way out of ruffled tops two sizes too hopeful. We see them in cafeterias, restaurants, on sidewalks and on television, imagining them in their motor homes or two-flats or luxury condos gorging themselves on the enemy of their insulin, their waistline, and their scales.

Perhaps the crux of food embarrassing to watch these people eat is bread: crumby toast, flaky pastries, white sandwich bread (mostly on principle), tough restaurant rolls… this list goes on and on.While the subject of toast and the horse-mouth wrap method used to eat it is oft discussed (kk) - the unflattering peel of the lips, thrust forward of the teeth and chin, the chomping of white, wheat or rye slathered in reconstituted cow mucus (to call this sickening or unappetizing is a gross understatement) - the fact of the matter is that offences enacted on other breads are often overlooked:The lips-on-toast method is often applied to eating danishes and other pastries. You see their face lit with orgiastic pleasure; shards of sugary flake spilling out of the corner of their open, grinning mouths, over their swollen stomachs, landing on ample, cellulite-ridden thighs, tonguing and mouthing their fingers to siphon the last filthy morsel. This buttery, flaky treat offering the only escape from an otherwise joyless existence.In physical act of eating, white bread is the least of the offenders, but about as satiating and nourishing as the paste these plebeians were eating in kindergarten. Additionally, it's been scientifically proven that people who regularly eat plain white bread are more likely to lead miserable, unprodutive lives (and less likely to go to college). That's just what I've heard... makes sense to me.

The last offender I'll speak on is the ubiquitous restaurant roll, the most public of eating spectacles. See a couple on a date at a nice restaurant, enjoying each other's company, when one of them loses it: They reach for the tough restaurant rolls, slop it in olive oil or slather it in butter, and, like the hulking beast they are, grit their teeth and tear with a violent need. Their true form revealed: their inner fatty exposed, just waiting to get into a sedentary relationship, the attraction instantly ended.

Pity, my friends, pity those who lack the self-control, the self-respect, the self-discipline to nurture their bodies with the foods of more dignified gods. Pity and judge them with the hope that one day we can all be spared the embarrassment.

Jet Set

I caved and bought an all-you-can jet pass for September.

Jokes.com
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Supertime

Amazing video.


The director also handled a short film, Kassinn, that possibly has the most evocative summary I've ever read: "Relationships are tough in a nutshell. And even harder in an Ukrainian box"

Dear Vincent Price,

Take good care of him.

Below is a repost of Andrew Sullivan's thoughts on our recently departed pop hero. I couldn't agree with his sentiments more.

RIP Michael.

There are two things to say about him. He was a musical genius; and he was an abused child. By abuse, I do not mean sexual abuse; I mean he was used brutally and callously for money, and clearly imprisoned by a tyrannical father. He had no real childhood and spent much of his later life struggling to get one.
He was spiritually and psychologically raped at a very early age - and never recovered. Watching him change his race, his age, and almost his gender, you saw a tortured soul seeking what the rest of us take for granted: a normal life.

But he had no compass to find one; no real friends to support and advise him; and money and fame imprisoned him in the delusions of narcissism and self-indulgence. Of course, he bears
responsibility for his bizarre life. But the damage done to him by his own family and then by all those motivated more by money and power than by faith and love was irreparable in the end. He died a while ago. He remained for so long a walking human shell.

I loved his music. His young voice was almost a miracle, his poise in retrospect eery, his
joy, tempered by pain, often unbearably uplifting. He made the greatest music video of all time;
and he made some of the greatest records of all time. He was everything our culture worships; and yet he was obviously desperately unhappy, tortured, afraid and alone.

I grieve for him; but I also grieve for the culture that created and destroyed him. That culture is ours' and it is a lethal and brutal one: with fame and celebrity as its core values, with money as
its sole motive, it chewed this child up and spat him out.

I hope he has the peace now he never had in his life. And I pray that such genius will not be so
abused again.

- Andrew Sullivan

Hey Cowboy...

Steak Carpaccio makes me want to ride someone (that I care about) reverse cowgirl.

To me, a meal of raw meat is one of the few things that make me want to shout expletives at the top of my lungs. That primal feeling you get when you tear off a bite; marbleized fats melting and flavor developing on your tongue.

I was a vegetarian for 6 years, 2 of which I spent as a strict vegan. It was a move I made as a teenager in an attempt to be even more difficult to my parents and later developed into a half-hearted “animal rights” platform, thanks to an activist boyfriend.

It was in my next relationship where I rediscovered a passion for food. This boyfriend appreciated fine ingredients and refined flavors like none of my typical meat-and-potatoes friends. It was while watching him prepare a dish of steak tartare that I caved. Tartare is the meatiest of meat dishes: a hash of minced steak, egg, Worchester sauce and onion served raw on crackers. My introduction back to the world of carnivores was with raw beef and I can say with absolute certainty, that with that bite of knowledge, my relationship with food changed forever.

Years later, at a small, gourmet grocery store in Detroit I came across an amazing deal on Kobe beef. A meat that usually is way out of my tiny, tiny advertising budget was now a smarter move than my typical investment in two packs of Oscar Meyer franks. I asked the man behind the counter, “Is there something wrong with it?” to which he earnestly answered, “No, we just want people to try it”

I was sold. Bought two pounds of richly, thoroughly marbleized, premium Kobe beef for an unheard of $8. Headed home to Chicago to figure out what I could do with it.

I figured that, with such a fine piece of meat, I’d want to do something really straightforward - that would allow it to stand on its own. No heavy cooking, seasoning, etc.

I decided on making steak Carpaccio, which I had never prepared before (but conveniently caught Alton Brown’s advice on Food Network about it and felt mildly prepared). Luckily, it was incredibly simple and remarkably delicious.

As I mentioned, the meat should speak for itself. Which means use quality ingredients - this is no time to break out table salt and pre-ground pepper.
I served it over a bed of mixed greens with a lemon vinaigrette.

You’ll need your sharpest knife and a sober hand. It helps to freeze the meat for a few minutes to firm up the texture. Cut paper thin slices of beef and pound it with a mallet (or other heavy object) to flatten even further.

Drizzle a bit of fine olive oil salt and pepper the thinly sliced meat.

Squeeze the juice of two ripe lemons into equal parts olive oil, add salt and pepper. Whisk vigorously.

Toss rinsed mixed greens in the dressing.

Serve on the bed of mixed greens with a few shavings of pecorino romano to make it gorgeous.

I served my Carpaccio with roasted fingerling potatoes with rosemary and olive oil and a cheap bottle of red wine (please see: advertising budget). The experience was nothing short of scintillating. Just ask my lucky cowboy.

How Crayons are Made