Author Archives: Anthony

London Olympic Games 2012

Instead of the usual coverage of the Olympic games, you know, documenting the humanity of rigorously trained inhuman athletes — and the humans that got them there — I’d like to take on a different approach. Maybe Zach and I will liveblog the liveblogging of an event. Unitl then, here’s some cool artwork from Banksy celebrating the Olympic games in his own hometown.

The pole vaulting completion takes on new stakes




The javelin now has alternate consequences


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A Man’s Guide to Texting, Volume I: The Opener

By Anthony (with a few interjections by Zach)

So it’s Friday night and you have nothing to do. Maybe you’re desperate. Maybe you’re just bored. Your greatest tool on any night like this is usually in your pocket. Your cell phone.

In your hands, though, it’s also a dagger, and you have a propensity to use it for self-infliction. Were this Romeo and Juliet, that image might be romantic. Instead, it’s the year 2012, romance is dead, you’re looking for a hookup and the only poison you’ll be consuming is intentional. Your tool / dagger isn’t between your legs. Well, maybe it is, but that’s a totally different post. It’s your cell phone, with an unlimited text messaging plan, of course.

Go ahead, text that rando from the bar last weekend. Or maybe your old hookup from college who posted on Facebook that she’d be around this weekend, even though it wasn’t even remotely directed at you. You can even try that one girl you met who also happens to live across the hall but obviously has better plans that probably involve a yacht, Kanye, or a helicopter. Let’s face it, nine times out of ten beautiful girls have way better things to do than shoot pool with you down at Joe’s Pub for Fine Hops and Spirits. But it’s worth it to try and lure em’ anyways. Here’s a couple notes to live by when attempting a Trojan-style siege of some female nether regions.

Note from Zach: Having witnessed Anthony’s texting game firsthand, I thought it’d be only fair to offer some supplementary advice for any of our impressionable young male readers, so as to not leave them sweaty-palming their mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalog upon their lonely return home. 

Nothing matters. The most important thing is to remember is that not trying won’t get you anywhere and most guys out there aren’t trying nearly hard enough. So go ahead young pilgrim, text away. Score something for the little guy. Or the big guy. Or whatever it is you call yourself when you step on the scale in the morning. Lesson one is simple — just do it.

Zach’s take: Absolutely correct in this instance – there’s nothing young Griselda looks forward to more than a wax-sealed manuscript from her handsome Smedley. The only amendment I’d make to Anthony’s texting constitution (thus far) is to make sure you’re spreading your seed far and wide. Figuratively. The first time I met my girlfriend, even as I was talking to her I was texting a baker’s dozen other lasses, ranging from sorority queens to a chick I met at the local dump. Spread those tentacles while you can, gents. Before long these nubile specimens will be pregnant or carted off to a nunnery.

How do I make the first text pop? Remember, the first text is always the most important. It’s your opener. You never get a second chance to send the first text again. I always try simple stuff, but nothing too basic like, “Hey.” That’ll get ya nothing but a “hey” back and a lonely night playing Call of Duty and trying to find porn on Netflix, which, FYI, is nearly impossible. Instead, try something like, “Hi there.” It works well because it’s simple, casual AND friendly all at the same time. It’s not intimidating or standoffish and it’s not like you’re trying to be ‘too cool’ either. It really hits the trifecta. But this is important: don’t pigeonhole yourself here. While the classics work well, you need to be prepared with a carefully rehearsed arsenal to greet any potential babe (or mystery girl if you prefer.) You never know where your texts are headed, or at least never precisely. Once they’re out, they’re out.

Zach’s take: “Hi there” works; it’s a bit more playful than the Texan “Howdy” or faux-urban “Yo.” But it’s on the unoriginal side. I usually skip the greetings and just go straight to “Wanna frolick?” or “Mating would be fun.” But I understand that these aren’t always solid first-time opening lines.

Sometimes you’ve got to open with something exotic like, “Hola amiga.” This shows that you’re obviously brilliant because you possess deep working knowledge of the Spanish language. It also throws em off. Sometimes, in mid-summer, girls don’t know if you’re Spanish or not because you’ve been at the beach every weekend drinking Coronas with your boys while playing shirtless Frisbee. This kind of stuff keeps ’em guessing, interested and, most importantly, coming back for another text message.

Zach’s take: C’mon Anthony. They know you don’t speak Spanish.

Try starting with simplicity and class by using a compliment to lighten the mood and get her ready for some serious finger banging … on her flip out keyboard! Your mom might tell you to start by saying something about her shoes, like, “Hey, I really liked those shoes you had on at the mall today. Were those Hush Puppies or Skechers?” Screw that, you’re not trying to pick up your mom. Turn that shit on its head by still giving a nod to first vagina you ever penetrated (in reverse fashion.) Again, the tempo here is surprise so I recommend something edgy. You have a beautiful name. It was my mother’s name, too.” You can lie here, it’s okay. The likelihood of this runaway ever meeting your mother are about as good as your mother ever acknowledging your existence at her weekly bridge games.  (Bonus tip: if you’re shooting to leap the age demographic, tell them it was Granny’s name. Trust me)

Zach’s take: Yikes on that vagina penetration line. And I daresay Freud would have issues with the entire preceding paragraph. But the real issue here, ignoring the irony of preaching about class and using the words “finger banging” in the same paragraph, is that girls don’t necessarily like classy dudes. Look at you: you’re successful with women, and you hang out at Brighton Beach on weekends sipping spritzers of grape juice and codeine you selected out of a guy’s shopping cart in an alley. Girls like a little grit. 

Or go with something super affectionate if it’s a long shot and you’ve got nothing to lose. “Hey there beautiful angel,” or “Hi [name] baby,” are both good examples of making the first text a pleasant surprise. The only thing to remember here: go for broke but keep it classy and funny. If they get the wrong idea, you’re toast. This is best left for the most self-confident. You want whoever is at the other end of the invisible / digital / magic post office to understand what you’re saying. Which is: I like you and am attracted to you enough to make a move like this, but you’re not the only person who I’m texting right now.

Zach’s take: I wouldn’t go the angelic route, and I always thought it was creepy that guys call girls “baby.” But yeah, some flattery doesn’t hurt. I often send my girlfriend texts calling her things like “My saucy little pork dumpling” or “you freaky, nasty, God-estranged mynx.” Usually elicits a positive reaction. Get creative here, men. If there’s one thing girls enjoy, it’s being compared to Chinese appetizers.

Lastly, pitch a Hail Mary. Tell ’em the basics. Remember in fifth grade when you started “analyzing” chapter books? You’d need to do a book report on the ol’ five-finger-overview. Well now you can use those five fingers for something else (if you know what I mean) and  just give them the Who, What, Where, When and HowJust make sure your address is baller, like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, that your name is ambiguously famous (say, Sir Anthony West), and that you have a good excuse ready for why the limo didn’t show up outside her apartment.

Zach’s take: Couldn’t agree more. Details are important. Most of my texts to girls just say things like “Your place. Bacon bits,” or “that underpass in Prospect Park. Bath salts.” An informative invitation with alluring undertones: that’s what every text you send to a girl should be. 

Okay, gents, with these tested, tried-and-true one line magic makers, you can’t go wrong. You’re ready to start making some first moves and dipping your toes in the water. Just remember, this texting game is a wild ride and as dangerous as it exciting. Be sure to catch the next installment, Volume II: Emoticons and You, When to Use Em and When to Lose Em.

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Theorems by Gator, Volume II

By Anthony,

I’m following Zach’s trend here. Or highjacking it, whatever you prefer to call it. One man’s treasure is another’s trash, right? Here’s a couple random notes to keep you hungry readers satiated until the next big thing.


WordPress offered this quote to me when I published my last post:

“I am a drinker with writing problems.”
-Brendan Behan

They always drop in a comment when I make a post. Perhaps it’s supposed to be inspirational. This one stood out to me. Take it as you will.


I was trying to change the font colors on our humble site here when, to my utter dismay, I found that WordPress charges you $30.00 A YEAR for the option of “customizing.” While there are a number of tools that are unlocked with this rather expensive key, the ability to change font colors is also locked in. This is a small gripe, but one worth expressing. Why does a freeware blog site, touting its customization options, not allow us such a basic right? I’m pretty sure I’m protected by the third amendment here. Or maybe it’s the fourth; I’m not sure. But I know it had something to do with online sites and font colors — for sure.


I’ve noticed recently that our site views are climbing, sometimes rapidly, and also that one of our more seldom writers (I won’t mention names but it starts with an “R” and ends with an “uairi”) is the most viewed contributor. With the available tools, I can see which post is most viewed. Unsurprisingly, it’s the one about marrying Kate Upton. Who knew that hot chicks drove internet traffic? Oh wait, everyone in the model / acting / porn industry. Pretty much the damn everything industry. Makes total sense. So now I’m going to hijack Ruairi’s trend, too.


I know I’m a little late, but I just wanted to wish everyone a  Happy Fourth of July. What’s a better way to send my best than with a beautiful lady in an America bikini? I can’t think of any. Enjoy my current love interest: Ashley Sky.

If you're reading this, you're missing a really great .gif. Sorry charlie

Ashley Sky for America

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I Ran a Newsroom Once

By Anthony

For a brief time, I had a back office with shutters that rattled if the door was ever slammed shut and a desk where I could pound my fist if I were ever angry. But none of these things ever happened. I was never as much of a blowhard as the anchorman leading the new show about news (He was formerly  a dog groomer with intellectual shortcomings and later a cop who Keanu Reeves just couldn’t save, remember?)

More like “The Boozeroom”

I’m speaking about Jeff Daniels, the actor and principle character in Aaron Sorkin’s new show, Newsroom on HBO. You’ll know Sorkin  from the West Wing and more recently The Social Network as well as several other successful and well-written movies and shows. He’s a prolific screenwriter with several accolades to his name but I’ll let you look him up on your own.

This is about the Newsroom and all the dramatic yelling and big words peppered in to make the commentary seem witty and intelligent even as it accuses us, the viewer, of being dull and ignorant.

Jeff Daniels, or Will McAvoy (his character) or Sorkin (the writer) begins the show by telling us that America is not the greatest nation in the world anymore. However, after their inspiring diatribe (Is that an oxymoron?), they offer that it can be again. The program forges onward to beat us over the head with pragmatic calls to morality and good old-fashioned calls to the American ego.

The dialogue favors quick wit, literary and political references, and point vs. counterpoint fencing-style dramatics. Conversations essentially become chess matches. All this is set over an impossible amount of inner office romance. We’ve seen enough of that already and it was only one episode.

The show can be exciting, particularly when one is swept up in the first big news story that the crack news team slowly uncovers. You’ll feel empowered because if you weren’t occupied clubbing baby seals in Alaska, you already witnessed the event firsthand. Think recent man-made natural disasters. The show apparently takes place in the recent past, covering all sorts of large news events that actually happened.

McAvoy, in one of his verbal sword fights, actually accuses the American populace of being uninformed. Perhaps the show tackles these “major” events to ensure that we didn’t miss anything the first time. I hear calls to returning journalism to its once formal glory, too. Names like Cronkite, Woodward and Bernstein, who once delivered great justices, are now impossible aspirations for McAvoy. And we’re supposed to believe all this while brooding and budding romances fuel fencing matches between producers.  This has all the makings of mixing my senior honors project in journalism (now wasting away in my memory) with a night at the local watering hole. My professors would shake their heads.

The New Yorker review put it aptly when it described Sorkin’s work:  “His shows are the type that people who never watch TV are always claiming are better than anything else on TV.”

The intelligent banter is artificial and the context is wrong. The stands these characters make are too high and too mighty, and the subtext is also probably too old. But maybe, just maybe at the very least, it will offer us ignorant Americans some new insights on the major events this time around. Or maybe they’ll just beat us over the head some more and feed us a constant stream of sexual tension layered with wordy speeches and slamming office doors.

Look for me comparing my newsroom with Sorkin’s — they’re both similarly fictionalized.

More as the story develops.

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A Mr. Rogers Remix

By Anthony

I actually really enjoy this video. It’s a cool remix and nostalgia inducing enough to make one get back into Season 5 of Sesame Street. Plus it’s the best use of autotune I’ve heard since before T Pain started crooning on boats.

Enjoy at your own leisure.

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Gator’s Unofficial Season Two Premier

By Anthony

Spurred to action, kind of like Rob Stark* when his father’s head was forcibly removed from his shoulders, I ride back into the interwebs wielding my almighty pen and preaching stories about things that I do drunk, observations that I’ve had the pleasure of observing and run-on sentences that I’ve had the pleasure of concocting. I bring to you now the first official Season Two Premier of Gator’s No Shit Playing.**

It’s tough to start a post with an asterisk at the end of the first sentence. It’s a bad sign when one must declare something with one of those mysterious grammar functions you only see in textbooks and prescription drug ads.

But anyway, like so many posts here on Gator, I’ve begun by digressing. Has anyone else noticed a common theme, in at least my own ramblings, that it’s easier to start somewhere completely different and then abruptly shift back into the intended post with an eye jarring fragment like: “but I digress.”

Just a thought, but I digress.

Seriously though, if you’re keeping score at home and holding us to the promises we make in our posts, you’re likely going to be let down 9 times out of then. Which are at least better odds then a lion fighting a tuna in the mid-Atlantic. However, I’m happy to report on one small victory today. I’d like to say this is the reason for radio silence, but that’s not true. Our writers went on strike when they realized we were serious when we told them they would be paid in wheat grass seeds. What? I thought everyone knew holistic anything seeds were an accepted form of currency in Williamsburg and Bushwick these days? Didn’t you?

Now if you’ll harken back to the olden days, when Gator was just a young startup, full of spit and vigor, hustling on the street corner of the internet known as – and not the multibillion dollar IPO it is today – then you’ll remember four odd months ago when I mentioned the 500lb motorcycle I had in my apartment.

It wasn’t very hard to get it in there and even easier getting it out, especially in pieces. But we’ve taken all those pieces to a shop – along with Cindy’s Christmas tree to try and get that goddam light to finally light up. A little bit of elbow grease, some sandpaper, several hundred kilowatts of grinding metal and least a thousand or so PSI of sandblasting has turned a corroded, rusted old hull of a former hulk into something not quite so hideous.

To bring back the luster of a fresh start. To reuse, recycle, rebuild. To give credibility you can’t buy with all the flax seeds in Green Point. I love the effect of a surface half finished. Here’s the latest:

*Yeah, I’ve been watching a lot of Game of Thrones. It’s brilliant.
**While this is not the official Season Two Premiere, Zach beat me by a day or two, I already had the working graph and didn’t want to change it. Too bad. Temporal intelligence is an afterthought here at Gator. Obviously Gator don’t play that.

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What I’ve Been Doing While Not Posting

By Anthony

Well if you haven’t noticed, I’m just going to come right out and say it: I’ve been posting with the regularity of a grass-fed hippie on calcium pills. For my triumphant return, I thought I’d fill you, the avid reader, in on all the glorious things that I’ve been doing to occupy my time away from the keyboard on which I should be mashing out comedic genius.

And speaking of Occupy, that brings me to my first time suck. Occupy Wall Street is back, if you didn’t know. They are planning a ‘general strike’ May 1st and to plan for it they’ve tagged just about every square inch of Buschwick and Williamsburg with the Sharpies their moms got them for Christmas last year.

But ugly graffiti aside, I thought it was time I jumped on the bandwagon. Who knows, maybe this time we’ll leave the annoying drums behind and actually manage a competent and engaging protest.

Until then, as the newest member, I get stuck with some gross tasks — like washing all the recycled feminine products. By using hemp, and reusing it, (again and again)  we show the corporate dogs at Tampax that we don’t need them or their fancy wing features and bright colors.

I’m also the resident vulture shoo’er. Since it smells so rank in the grounds, sometimes the older members pass away with out anyone noticing. Until the vultures come, at least, and that’s where I come in. Both thankless jobs with long hours.

I’ve also picked up a part time job at the Artisanal Pencil Sharpening Factory as an “Eraser Breaker-In-er.” Pay is lousy but the networking is great. Just in case I ever want to become a head sharpener.

Getting to work takes significantly longer now, too. The L “bane-of-my-existence” train has killed more people this year than the Hundred Years’ War. I now avoid it entirely and walk to work. Which is easier some mornings than others. Like when I wake up in a Chinatown alley after drinking all night.

I’ve also been practicing my women’s self-defense (though not in the way that you’re assuming) after being punched in the face by a girl on St. Patrick’s Day. More on that another time, maybe.

Lastly, living in Brooklyn has instilled in me an appreciation of absolutely nothing. Basically, if it exists then I want nothing to do with it. So that means I do nothing worthwhile, really.

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Another Bullshit Night In Jerz*

By Anthony

For full disclosure, I wasn’t actually in Jersey when this happened, but my debit card was. I got a phone call from Key Bank, I was on the subway so I missed it and they left me voice mail. I checked it when I got out and some pleasant sounding lady had called to say that the bank had detected activity outside of my local area. I hadn’t left my “local area” in a while so I called back immediately. After the usual twenty plus minutes of pain-in-the-ass-transfers and after assuring them countless times that I was, in fact, who I was claiming to be (Michael Jordan, of course) they finally transferred me to the fraudulent activity services — where I had to relay my information once again as the once great basketball player of the Chicago Bulls.

After all of this, they finally informed me that someone had used my card to attempt a purchase at a Wal-Mart in New Jersey for $250.00. I asked them nicely to cancel the transaction. Everyone knows I wouldn’t be caught dead in either of those places, Wal-Mart or Jersey, let alone the two at the same time.

The part about Michael may or may not be true, but the crux of the proverbial biscuit is that some jerk-off stole my card number from somewhere! What troubles me most is that I had the actual card with me. Somehow they recorded my number AND the security code in order to go on — what I imagine to be — some online shopping bender for Bounty Paper Towel Rolls, Fancy Feast Cat Food, Seiko Watches and Miley Cyrus branded sweatshirts.

The bank refused to tell me what was purchased or how the card was used.

To make matters interesting, the very next day I see the cover of the very prestigious local newspaper AM News. It declares loudly over some Photoshop graphic resembling what I can do in Microsoft paint that Identity theft is on the rise in New York state. The article went on to mention that we are at the sixth spot in top list of states for identity theft. Behind the likes of Florida and Arizona because everyone knows geriatrics and immigrants are the top targets and most sought after identities. Wheels chairs are really in this year.

I did a little research — by that I mean I skimmed a few headlines in the New York Times. I found an article about inexpensive ways to protect yourself against this kind of fraud. I didn’t read the article (here) but I did notice one graph. Alina Tugend, the author who I Googled and wanted to be hot** but wasn’t, wrote about how the criminals who stole her identity at least had some class and went to Nordstrom’s. Not coincidentally also in Jersey.

“This recently happened to us. We were notified of suspicious activity on the card, confirmed we hadn’t recently charged anything in Nordstrom’s in New Jersey (somewhat classy criminals)…”

I think the moral of the story here is simple: New Jersey is a hot bed of identity thieves preying on the innocent New Yorker who just wants to get drunk in Hoboken on Irish Themed Holidays. Realistically, these criminals are probably the worst kind. Imagine how sinister a person must be to walk in to Wal-Mart! One does not simply walk into Wal-Mart.

*I stole this tittle from the book Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. I didn’t read the book but I was mad that the movie version due out soon is called Being Flynn. What a stupid name. The movie will suck. 100%

**I should have known I wouldn’t have found her hot. Her last name is not Lee or Shu or some other illegible amalgamation of vowels and constants common in far eastern nations.

In Case You Missed It

By Anthony

Ol’ Newt is at it again with another great soundbite. This one comes to us from a business luncheon. He tasks the Afghan people with learning “how to live your own miserable lives.” Responding to questions about violence in Afghanistan, Gringrich seemingly threw up his hands and made clear his policy.

My problem here is with his arrogance and his ignorance. What kind of statement is that? How can our presidential candidate, the man running for leader of the free world, view an entire nation with such disdain? This is not a point of view America, or anyone, should maintain. People ask the old, stupid question — “why do they hate us?” It’s an unanswerable question for several reasons, but that’s besides the point. The point is that quotes and views like these don’t help.

His advice: “You know, you’re going to have to figure out how to live your own miserable life… Because you clearly don’t want to learn from me how to be unmiserable.”

Source: Wall Street Journal

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Here’s a Good One

By Anthony

Here at Gator we are dedicated to providing you with the very best. A full grown male Gator weighs upwards of 300lbs and is one of the best hunters in the water. The gator you’re reading would probably weigh about 100lbs and scavenge the dead fish that float on the surface.  You see we don’t actually have any funny, witty, creative or even intelligent content*, but we sure can find it on the Internet!

Enjoy this one:

*I’m betting that self deprecating humor makes re-publishing content okay.

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