Month: January 2019


A few weeks ago I wrote about how, years after getting sober, I finally started trying to get fit. That newsletter prompted a big pile of emails, including several from readers who shared my desire not to die of heart disease but not (they said) my enthusiasm for the gym.

Anyone who knew me in my drinking days is already laughing.

This past Monday, Sarah and I shuffled down a narrow hallway, behind a dozen other shoeless souls, to have ourselves weighed and measured. We have signed up for a “Transformation Challenge” an eight week long ordeal, organized by our local “Orange Theory Fitness” gym, during which we are expected to participate in a minimum of 24 hour-long classes (three per week) involving weights, rowing machines, treadmills and the like.

At the end of the challenge we’ll be re-weighed and re-measured to reveal how much weight we’ve lost and how much muscle we’ve gained. Apparently the most impressive loser/gainer gets a cash prize.

Of course, I’m not doing it for the money, and not only because I have less than zero chance of winning (last year’s national winner dropped 28 pounds). Rather I’m doing it because… well, because I can’t help myself.…



In 2011, barely two years after I quit drinking, I abruptly quit my job at TechCrunch and moved to Vegas to start NSFWCORP.

Vegas. A town that floats on a sea of vodka-Redbull; where daytime drunkenness is almost mandatory, and cocktails are served in six foot long plastic penises. Can you imagine a worse place for a former alcoholic to live?

In fact, moving to Vegas was (I suspect) a large part of what helped keep me sober in those first couple of years.

Getting wasted in Vegas is a singularly unpleasant experience. The drinks are comically expensive, but also weak enough to facilitate all day consumption while still remaining vertical – after all, comatose people can’t spend money.  I lived downtown, in the Ogden building, and there was literally nothing about seeing a gang of bros waddling down Fremont St, dressed ‘ironically’ and identically as Zach Galifianakis in the Hangover and clutching plastic WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS alcophalluses, that made me think ‘Man, I wish I could still do that.’

 In San Francisco, New York or – god help me – London, drinking is cool. Wine tasting in Napa, sipping a full-bodied red over dinner in Manhattan, downing a pint or six after work outside a West End pub in summertime. …



“What do you get from a glut of TV
A pain in the neck and an IQ of three
Why don’t you try simply reading a book
Or could you just not bear to look
You’ll get no
       You’ll get no
            You’ll get no
                 You’ll get no…”

– Oompa Loompas

I just landed from a week-long vacation in Mexico and my brain isn’t quite fit for writing (or thinking) in complete sentences. Sorry.

Sarah booked the trip for my birthday – seven whole days in a ridiculous penthouse Airbnb in the hills of Sayulita with absolutely no itinerary. Just a week of wandering and lounging and reading and playing cards and eating and drinking and, yunno, couple stuff. Strictly no work. No emails.

Absent the usual distractions, the vacation gave us both a lot of time to think and to make plans and set resolutions for 2019.

And so it was, about halfway through the trip, I found myself thinking about the news. Specifically the news cycle. The news tornado that’s heading right for us. The news clusterfuck that’s only going to get clusterier and fuckier as we roll into the new year.

We all know what’s coming.…


(c) Copyright Paul Bradley Carr 2002-2021.