Forgive my ramblings, I had to write an essay.

So how's this for irony: I am in the process of applying to graduate school - I seek my Master's Degree in Journalism - and I can't seem to write my required essay. It's now day 4 in Barnes and Noble, ear plugs plugged, notes taken, study drugs abused, and I just can't seem to spit out this essay. I figured blogging about it might get the juices flowing.

It's an interesting topic, actually. In the new media landscape, anyone can be a journalist. Access to the internet has provided limitless somebody's and nobody's the opportunity to publish their own material, regardless of its accuracy, truth, bias or affect on those who might come across it in their web surfing. The citizen, formerly the audience, is now the journalist. Where does this leave the great professionals of the field? Do they maintain any sort of advantage or authority over those infinite bloggers I so eagerly read each day? And, perhaps worst of all, where the hell does this leave me?

Over dinner a few months ago, I proudly announced to my family that after all of my working, career counciling, soul searching, and yes, blogging, I was going to get my Master's in Journalism. I am going to be part Oprah, part Diane Sawyer, a bit Lisa Ling, and hopefully even some Bawbwa. But I am going to be venturing into a world these groundbreaking female professional journalists are only just entering - that run by the citizen journalist. It's more than just the at-home bloggers or YouTube aficionados I'm contending with. It's the revamp - no, revolution - in media as we know it. Newspapers are going extinct, radio is being replaced by Podcast, Twitter is now considered a reasonable, even respected form of communication (thank you, @BarackObama) and my four-year-old cousin is taking hebrew lessons through an online classroom. Becoming a journalist is no more about my research and writing skills than it is about my adaptability to our rapidly digitalizing world. So am I equipped?

My father, the least tech-savvy man in the Northeast, took a break from his porkchop to respond to my declaration. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, sweetie," began Big Baldie, "but what's the point in that? You don't really need a degree to do that... right?"

My inner teenager raging, I had to face the truth. My father was right. I don't need a degree to be a journalist, or the $50,000 price tag that accompanies my diploma. But I see a side of things Big Baldie does not - the need to save the professional journalist.

Now, let me be clear. If I had to choose between citizen or professional journalism, I simply could not. Citizen journalism is true-blue American, by the people and for the people, and can often do what professionals cannot. Without the influence of the producing news corporation, political affiliation or financial incentives, citizen journalists are free to research and inform on any topic, anywhere, and can access sources professionals may be off limits to, even unaware of. Within seconds these citizen journalists can upload pictures, sound bytes or video and update their followers on stories professionals have yet to touch. Mark Glaser, professional journalist and new media expert, explains that "One of the main concepts behind citizen journalism is that main stream media reporters and producers are not the exclusive center of knowledge on a subject -- the audience knows more collectively than the reporter alone." Glaser continues, "Because of the wide dispersion of so many excellent tools... the average citizen can now make news and distribute it globally, an act that was once the province of established journalists..."

In April, Apple's worst nightmare came true when it's newest iPhone, the as-yet unrealeased iPhone 4, wound up in the hands of writers at Gizmodo, a technology blog that covers consumer electronics. While rumors flew that Apple planted the iPhone and intentionally caused the leak, Gizmodo posted its story, dissecting every millimeter of the product for well over 12 million viewers to see - not to mention the infinite numbers of readers once the story was picked up by other sites. No mere tech nerds with a penchant for writing, the staff at Gizmodo, supported by its Gawker Media family, knew the power they held with such a find.

Notorious for its secrecy surrounding its products, Apple is strategic when it comes to what it reveals - and doesn't. Gizmodo says that "There is some suspicion that Apple has fed stories to media outlets in the past, like when the Wall Street Journal floated the story about the iPad's cost being "at about $1000..." That made some sense, as it set the stage for the real price, which seemed "surprisingly" low." Gizmodo implies Apple's control over its coverage is thanks not only to its top notch PR but also its relationship with key members of the media - those professional journalists whose reports may waver because of connections to Apple. Gizmodo, a citizen source, maintains its advantage over professional sources because of its nonexistent ties to Apple:

By keeping their [Apple's] communication lines completely closed, they have leverage over those to whom they give access... it's impossible to argue that "access journalism" has anything but a deleterious effect on the objectivity of journalists. Journalists will often freak out if you point this out because you are implying they are ethically or psychologically compromised. Tough shit.

Gizmodo raises a valid point; a professional news source, such as the Wall Street Journal, may have ties with Apple that can limit or distort the reporting on a topic. The citizen journalists at Gizmodo had total control over the iPhone 4 story, and all but laughed in the face of those who thought otherwise.

If citizen journalism produces such all-access, un-biased stories, then where does this leave professional journalism? In the face of ever expanding technology and a faltering economy, print publications face an imminent death. According to NewspaperDeathWatch. com, newspaper advertising revenue has been in steady decline since 2007, leading major publications to fire staff members and close its doors. This doesn't mean the end of professional journalism - it signifies the rebirth of an industry. As long as journalists can adapt to new media strategies, there is always room for professional reporting.

Professional journalists are defined by a code of ethics to which citizen journalists simply cannot compete. The study of journalism reaches beyond fact finding, writing or speech making; becoming a professional journalist entails the understanding and total acceptance of moral obligations to the citizens for whom we work. As the line between reporting and editorializing becomes blurred, it is the duty of the professional journalist to maintain a subjective view in investigating and reporting with the highest degree of truth and accuracy as possible.

I don't pretend that all professional journalists live by such a code or can always maintain such standards in reporting - they're only human. As a former publicist, I can sympathize with the desire - and seeming necessity - to spin a story to fit a certain angle, appeal to a particular audience, or please a source. But as a current applicant to a school of Journalism, I seek the education and practice that distinguishes professionals from the citizens.

One is no better than the other. Holding a diploma guarantees nothing; access to the internet means anyone can publish. But for journalism to flourish in the new media landscape, professional and citizen journalists must maintain a relationship, albeit a controversial one. Citizen journalists may have access to certain information, events or issues that professionals are not privy to, and vice versa, and so it is essential that one keeps the other in check. While a professional may have editors, colleagues or a signed code of ethics to adhere to, citizen journalists are their own audience, and may be better in tune with the opinions - and voice - of the people.

Everyone is biased to some degree; it is part of the human condition. News, therefore, cannot be without influence by its producer. This is where the professional journalist holds court above the citizen. Citizens may report for millions of reasons on millions of topics, and can often be accurate in doing so. But relevance to their audience and the importance of such accuracy is lost because they are held to virtually no standards of reporting. Citizen journalists can publish false reports at the bat of an eye, while professional journalists have forces to combat at the publication of false reports. A professional's livelihood, career, passion and reputation are at stake with their journalistic endeavors, while for many citizen journalists publishing is a merely a way to pass time at their "real" jobs.

Behind the sensationalism and entertainment, behind the breaking news and hot topics, behind the events, personalities and issues that flood all of our lives, there is the truth. Authenticity, honesty and integrity must be at the core of professional journalism. More news is produced each day than the last, and it is up to the audience to practice discretion over its origin. There are those who hold journalism to such standards, and will keep the practice a respected one. Without those people, there would only be citizens.

A Poem by Walt Whitman

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning—I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?	5
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade—this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?

My Penis is Racist, here's a cigarette!

My penis is racist. But before you get all high-horse and righteous on me, let me 'splain:

I am not attracted to black men.  I'm just not.  God knows I've tried, cause let's face it, Allen Iverson is effin smokin'! But when it comes to my wandering eyes at da club, most of the time, I automatically dismiss black guys.  Does that make me a racist? Perhaps.  Probably. Yes, I think so.  This self-labeled racism only exacerbates my already seething white-urban-guilt, which living in Philadelphia, a city that is nearly predominantly black, kinda limits my options for mates.  Now let me be clear: just because I am not attracted to black guys sexually, does not mean I'm not attracted to them personally or intellectually.  I take great pride in and love the overwhelming diversity among my social circle, I just don't wanna bone the black dudes.  Simple.

So, being a middle-class white guy, how do I reconcile my sexual disinterest in more than 45% of my city's population with my desire need to be a socially accepting liberal (aka: one of the good whiteys)? Well, my little effed-up brain decides to dole out the ciggies like condoms at the AIDS Walk.  

But only if the asker is black.  If you're a white dude asking me for a cigarette, you'd have better luck getting a yamulke at a christian book store.  Now, we are all familiar with the joy that comes to me when I'm offered small bits of change to "buy" a cigarette off me, but the main reason why I NEVER take the money is because I am compensating for my racist sexual distaste.  Yeah, that's how I roll. If you're black and want a cigarette, just find me, I'll probably even give you "one for the road" too, just to quell my white-devil guilt. 



Now, to those of you who may be saying, "what the fuck, Samsom?  You're just a racist dick!" 
I say, "No, kindly reader, I'm not a racist dick. I just have one."   

Thanksgiving is the best ever!

This Thursday is THANKSGIVING, my hands-down fav holiday. By far. Pretty much all holidays centered around food and eating are totally boss. 

Thanksgiving, as it turns out, is also a time to be thankful.  A time to reflect on all the things in our lives we have to be thankful for.  And since I'm going to be totally ignoring y'all while I get my fat on this T-giving, I'm going to give you an early Thanksgiving post of all the things I'm thankful for (in no particular order):


- cars, or rather motor vehicles in general, cause I'm one lazy m-effer
- double-tall-mocha's from Starbucks, my fuel
- people who offer to buy individual cigarettes from me
- my dog
- barack obama (sort-of)
- my iPhone, except when i try to use it as an actual phone
- men
- the paraplegic street karaoke performer outside my office, the blind man that pees every tuesday at 3pm on 12th street, and the Shitter, who, well, shits in the sewer grate at 12th and chestnut.  In the middle of the day. In front of everyone. And has absolutely no problem producing
- Dunkin Donuts
- what few Wawa's are left in Center City
- Levi Johnston
- Otis Redding
- television
- INTERVENTION (yes it deserves its own category!)
- my friends :-)
- my family :-))
- a sunny disposition
- Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow


And much, much more.

Sometimes you're Janice, sometimes you're the fat kid....

Not a great weekend.  Don't feel like writing a full post.  So, instead, enjoy this:


Sometimes you're Janice, sometimes you're the fat kid.

Things That Make Us Happy Fridays

So I realize it's been quite a while since I blogged, but shit's been goin' down at work and I've been UBER-busy. I've been talking-to/hanging-out/courting the Lizard for a few weeks now, and like most all things in my life, I have absolutely no idea how things are going. When I know, I'll let you know.

Anyway, to ease back in to regular blogging, we're introducing another weekly segment called "Things That Make Us Happy Fridays" where we will expound on the small things in life that make us smile.

For this week's installment, one thing that makes me happy is when a fellow smoker will offer some random amount of change to "buy" a cigarette from me.

Yep, that's right loyal reader, I'm a smoker. I've been sucking down the cancer sticks since 11th grade, when I became convinced that it'd make me cool. And boy did it not make me cool. I mean, what can be cooler than smelling like decaying flesh and wheezing your way up just a single flight of stairs. Not much, that's what!

But like the saying goes, I am what I am. At least right now. I've tried to quit a few times (even made it FOUR MONTHS once), but always came crawling back to my precious stogies like a battered wife to her pot-bellied, angry hubby, always promising, "this time, things will be different."

And of course, they never are. Anyway, I digress. Accepting the terrible fact that I am a habitual cigarette smoker, I do enjoy it when standing outside my office building taking one of my 5 smoke breaks throughout the day when the not-so-occasional ciggie-mooch comes up and out of pure capitalist rationale asks to "buy" a cigarette from me.

Let me be clear: there have been many a time when I have needed a cig only to be devoid of a pack on hand and simply asked the closest smoker around to "bum" one. I have NEVER offered to "buy" one, let alone give anything more than a simple "thank you" in exchange for my shortened lifespan. But I loooove it when people ask to buy one from me. OF COURSE, I always refuse and just give it to them for free, like any good member of the smoking brotherhood should do, it's really just the thought that counts.

Just like Christmas.

What's Up With... Wednesdays: What's Up With BRAVO?

Here at SOTSB we're introducing a new weekly segment called "What's Up With... Wednesdays" where blogmate Alison and I will use the day's blog to ask the all too important question "what's up with..[insert ridiculous person/place/thing here]?" For example, WUWW could be "what's up with Nick Cage?", "what's up with baseball?", " or "what's up with blowjobs?". Get it? Not that hard.

However, since I've been feeling like butt the past few days and quite possibly have come down with a raging case of Swine Flu the day before I was supposed to take a much needed VayKay/get out of Philly/Get over the Turtle trip to D.C. to see college roomie Stevo, this week's segment might be a bit shorter than usual. BUT, don't worry, once I'm feeling better and chipper as usual, y'all will get your full daily dose of WUWW.

So, for this week's WUWW I bring you, "What's up with BRAVO?"

Don't get me wrong, I love me some Top Chef and Real Housewives and Kathy Griffin and Million Dollar Listing, but the other day while checking the schedule for Bravo I came across their About Us page and was ASTOUNDED to read this:

With more breakout stars and critically acclaimed original series than any other network on cable, Bravo's original programming — from hot cuisine to haute couture — delivers the best in food, fashion, beauty, design and pop culture to the most engaged, upscale and educated audience in cable.

Really, Bravo? "the most engaged, upscale and educated audience in cable"? I mean, maybe viewership statistics support this, but is that really something I'd want to know? I mean the most educated audience on television is watching the trash that is the Real Housewives of Atlanta? or the douchiness that is Million Dollar Listing? Is that really what the most ENGAGED and UPSCALE audience in television is watching? And if it is, what does that say about us?

I mean I LOVE all those shows, but is Obama watching these? Is Andersen Cooper? Are the most engaged, upscale, and educated people in this country really tuning into Bravo? I hope not. Or maybe I do. Kathy Griffin is pretty fuckin' hilarious.

oh, just another post about sex.

As hard as I tried to come up with something creative, interesting and (even a little) original to blog about, I am stuck on the one and only topic that seems to be on everyone's mind, all the time: sex. Now, before I come off as some sort of sex obsessive, let me explain.

I am bombarded by it all the time. No, no, not men simply throwing themselves at me and pleading for it (which obviously is a UGE problem for me), but it's just about all I talk about, read about, and yes, (how embarassing) think about. But it's not just sex - that's what it boils down to - but sexual relationships in general. Why are they so complicated? And so frustrating? And worst of all, so fucking addicitive?

A couple friends and I went out to dinner last night, and entered our latest round of I-hate-guys-but-love-them-oh-so-much after a day of consulting and complaining with my co-workers about their love dilemmas. L is seeing some great guy she's been into for 6 months, and now that he's pursuing her, she feels "overwhelmed" by it all and needs to work on her "own timeline." M continues to hook up with a loser, who we'll refer to as Pukey, even though he's stood her up, disappears for weeks at a time, and definitely has a drinking problem and/or personality disorder (my diagnosis, but a valid one). As much as I see M's flaw in continuing to see Pukey, I cringe to admit - I used to do the same exact thing.

My friend from college, Rebs, now living in Israel (she followed her boyfriend there, broke up with him, and now is onto the next) passed along her newest "time waster" for me to indulge in: New York Mag's Sex Diaries, which I've spent the past 3 hours reading. If you haven't done it yet - DO IT. While spending 3 hours reading about the tawdry details of strangers sex lives may seem another factor in my fascination with sex, it also confirmed for me what I've been saying all along: everyone is obsessed with it.

But it wasn't always this way. It's our technological status that's made us this way. I don't claim that past generations weren't equally fascinated by sex, it's just that... they were less accessible to it. As my friends confirmed for me last night, their "relationships" with the guys they're seeing would be non-existent without text messages or email. Bye bye booty call. And I'm not playing innocent here, either; I've definitely sent the 2AMer one too many times, only to erase it the next morning as if the blatant sexual invite never happened (that gets erased on the receiver's phone, too, right?) What about the days of liking someone, and making plans, and dating, and saying goodnight and meaning it? Somehow I imagine everyone I know (myself included) would have far less trouble if everything went back to the days of landlines and you went home with someone directly after seeing them.

And then the oh-so-innocent-but-so-annoying contact. I have yet another first date to go on tonight (will I EVER like someone?) and this dude will not stop texting me. Last guy I liked, similar to Pukey, could never contact me enough. This guy texts me one more time, and I'm gonna have to cancel. The texts of desperation do not a desirable date make.

I'm not sure where all this leaves us - don't ever send another drunk text (impossible) or ignore those annoying texts (who's not passing up a free dinner? THIS GIRL). In the wise words of my particularly man-hating friend: do whatever the fuck you want, because in the end, you're fucked either way.

Why am I sexually attracted to reptiles?

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We are not making fun of the disabled

Just wanted to make that clear. Which brings up why we titled our blog "Stuck on the Short Bus" in the first place. That's where Al and I met. On the short bus to the school we went to together since like 6th grade.

And just to make another point clear, neither I nor Alison are retar-, I mean disabled. Unless you count being Gay or Jewish. Which you totally could. Just sayin'.

Anyway, SOTSB will bring you the absolutely hilarious adventures of two 20-somethings as we meander through our own miserable, pathetic existences in search of godknowswhat. Mmmmmk?

too lazy for a documentary... so we blog.

On the quest to further our creative development (and share a little piece of ourselves with the rest of the world), Mason and I hit a few roadblocks. Careers, school, a "break up," if you will, when I left Philly for the Big Apple. We attempted to make a documentary, which lasted for about 12 minutes when I became camera shy and we realized we couldn't get the cool "outsider" perspective we were going for (since we were the only 2 shooting. ever.)

Our biggest issue: laziness. Plain and simple. Me and Mase can't focus on any one project for too long, and even if we could, we'd be too damn lazy to follow it through.

So here we are. We both sit in front of our computers all day, so we have no excuses left. The juices are flowing, no physical effort necessary, and... we're hilarious. If we give up on this one, we really are the big dumb animals we've so long suspected we might be.