Today I wrote a script about farts.
Well, sorta.
Today at work I wrote a script about a pair of panties that stifles the stench of those smelly SBDs.
Okay, fine. It wasn't for a real client. Rather, it was for our monthly lunch time competitions that commences amongst the sales, production and operations teams (As a scriptwriter/soon-to-be-messaging-director, I'm part of the production team). I guess you could call it a company-building exercise, not to mention a reason to begin Friday drinking two hours earlier.
Here's the e-mail we got from our president:
"Hey All,
Ok...Here we go. Today's department competition will require agility, speed, focus and luck. Here are your instructions:
1. Please take a quick look at this website. http://www.gasbgon.com
2. Pay attention ONLY to the "Undergarments" product. Imagine that this is all the company sells.
Your group assignment is as follows:
1. You will need to come up with a new name for the "undergarments product/company"
2. You will need to come up with a quick "tag line" or "slogan"
3. You will need to come up with a 30 second RADIO commercial
4. You can have a solo narrator for the commercial or have several narrators.
12:00 pm -- Lunch starts
1:15 pm -- You will be presenting your new name, slogan and 30 second radio commercial to the rest of the groups.
Points will be award for making us laugh and for coming up with a name, slogan and commercial that sells.
The trophy will be award to the winning department.
Good luck, work as a team and...may the right department win!
And don't forget this fact...the average person passes gas 14 times per day. That stinks!"
Well, here's what the production team came up with:
Under-Wraps 30 Second Spot
[Male Narrator] Excuses. They're like farts. Everyone has them...and they all STINK. But when you're around others, there's NO EXCUSE for making a stink.
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Ewwwwwww!
[Male] It must have been the ferret!
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Male] Duuuuuuuude.
[Male] Barking spider, man.
[Whooppee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Honey! Not under the sheets!
[Male] You wanted Mexican food!
[Male Narrator] Introducing Under-Wraps: Made with carbon-filtered, odor-masking technology that filters AND eliminates that UNSAVORY STENCH.
Stop making excuses. Keep [Whoopee Cushion Noise] under wraps.
To avoid those boomers in your bloomers look for Under-Wraps at fine retail stores everywhere.
Obviously, my team won. And rightfully so; I mean, we ARE the sensitive artists after all.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Confession of a One-time Smoker
I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Perfect Playlist
For a bit of shameless self promotion...
Wait...isn't that what a blog is anyway? Whatever.
How about...for a bit of extended shameless self promotion.
I have YET to share that I was on the radio last week with my friend Tony who I work with at AngelVision for 94.7's Widmer's Perfect Playlist.
For those of you NOT from Portland, let me explain: Every weekday at 5 p.m. -- quitting time if you work anywhere else OTHER than AngelVision (Okay I can't complain too much, I typically do leave at 5 every day...but I've always got my laptop bag draping over my shoulder next to my hippie bag which, might I add, I am soooo in the need for a new one) -- Gustav from 94.7 hosts a five song playlist made up by, well, anyone. All you have to do is submit a playlist along with an explanation for your songs and, of course, information about yourself to Gustav via email and hope and pray that your list is awesome enough to get chosen.
Here's what Tony and I submitted earlier this month:
Tony and Amie's Widmer's Perfect Playlist
Theme: A Day at AngelVision
Tony and I work together at a marketing company in Tigard called AngelVision Technologies. AT AV we make impact movies -- 3 to 3 1/2 minute movies that serve as marketing tools for companies to use in 20 different way (We've got to put the company plug in somewhere, right?). My role at AV is as a scriptwriter while Tony is a flash developer. Basically, I write the script for the movie while Tony puts my words and cues and directions into action (But making them way cooler than I could ever imagine). In essence, it's a relationship built to last; I tell Tony what to do and he complies, ten-fold (Isn't that what any girl wants?). I kid, of course...though our two minds have been known to create some of the craftiest, though easily most twisted plots and ideas.
It's a good thing they rarely ever come to fruition (Though our band 80s Montage Limbo would, by far, be the best obscure band...maybe ever).
What really brought Tony and I together, aside from our shared love for sushi, zombies and creating obscure band names, is indeed, music. While Tony's more hardcore than I am on his Pandora (The guy eats through his free 40 hours before the fifth of the month) and despite our shared differences in favorite artists (His = Radiohead, Mine = Jack Johnson), we share enough common bonds to interrupt each other enough during the day over instant messenger to gush about whatever song is streaming through our ear buds (Or, if you're like Tony, giant headphones).
Our perfect playlist is a recreation of our typical day at AngelVision -- starting out dead tired in the morning after a long day AND night of writing and flash development, only to trudge on with more work so we can feel totally gangsta after FINALLY finishing a project...before being stuck in traffic after day's end to finally make it home.
Here's our list of glory:
1. Sleepyhead, Passion Pit (Need we say more? Love the band and the song is perfect to kick the day off with...heck, it's my ringtone and alarm)
2. Work, Hockey (This song hits a couple of points: During our first conversation, Tony asked if I liked hockey, based off a Windows Live status I had up that said, "Wake up with Hockey." Of course, I responded, gushing about the Portland band Hockey...only to find out that he was, in fact, talking ice and pads and sticks and pucks. We also have a special place in our hearts for Canada.)
3. Paper Planes, MIA (There's nothing like celebrating the completion of a project, especially ones for difficult clients, than playing Paper Planes and letting our suburban white kid exterior disappear as we thug around like...well, you know..thugs)
4. No Cars Go, Arcade Fire (Tony's REAL favorite band is Arcade Fire which I, too, am totally down with. They're just...so...good)
5. Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Every time one of use hears this song on Pandora we ping each other with new lyrics...sort of like a bragging right. Of course, sometimes I cheat and pull it up on YouTube just so I can hear it. It's funky and folky and Jade's voice and the whistling are simply to die for).
And our alternative: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Flaming Lips (This song, of course, is a great alternate to Paper Planes because something, throughout the workday, we have to battle crazy clients who well, try to eat us...and stuff).
At any rate, we received an email back a little over a week after submitting our Perfect Playlist and, within five days were ON THE RADIO.
I don't think I had ever been so nervous in my whole entire life. Okay, that's obviously hyperbolic but I was surprised by how awkward sweaty I got over being on the radio. It was like the feeling you get when going on a first date...multiplied by 10, and on crack. Like really good freak out crack (Of course, not that I would actually know).
The experience actually turned out to be a blast...not that I had an any inkling that my radio debut would turn out otherwise. But still, I'm a nervous wreck prior to any kind of recording where I know SOMEONE is going to be hearing my voice. Nevertheless, despite some shakiness at the beginning (I stuttered a bit when explaining how I got into Hockey) on my part, Tony and I managed to pull off a smooth and seamless radio show. We even had a guy call in half way through Edward Sharpe and demand...okay fine, suggest...that Tony and I get an hour to run music every day because we were, indeed, "Just that awesome."
While we were hoping for some birthday luck on pocketing Arcade Fire concert tickets (It was Tony's birthday the day we went on the air), we ended up with, like everyone else that week, tickets to see Sublime in November. On a Tuesday. Without their real lead singer. We've already vowed to make complete asses of ourselves, demanding old school, REAL Sublime songs.
Go big or go home, right?
Wait...isn't that what a blog is anyway? Whatever.
How about...for a bit of extended shameless self promotion.
I have YET to share that I was on the radio last week with my friend Tony who I work with at AngelVision for 94.7's Widmer's Perfect Playlist.
For those of you NOT from Portland, let me explain: Every weekday at 5 p.m. -- quitting time if you work anywhere else OTHER than AngelVision (Okay I can't complain too much, I typically do leave at 5 every day...but I've always got my laptop bag draping over my shoulder next to my hippie bag which, might I add, I am soooo in the need for a new one) -- Gustav from 94.7 hosts a five song playlist made up by, well, anyone. All you have to do is submit a playlist along with an explanation for your songs and, of course, information about yourself to Gustav via email and hope and pray that your list is awesome enough to get chosen.
Here's what Tony and I submitted earlier this month:
Tony and Amie's Widmer's Perfect Playlist
Theme: A Day at AngelVision
Tony and I work together at a marketing company in Tigard called AngelVision Technologies. AT AV we make impact movies -- 3 to 3 1/2 minute movies that serve as marketing tools for companies to use in 20 different way (We've got to put the company plug in somewhere, right?). My role at AV is as a scriptwriter while Tony is a flash developer. Basically, I write the script for the movie while Tony puts my words and cues and directions into action (But making them way cooler than I could ever imagine). In essence, it's a relationship built to last; I tell Tony what to do and he complies, ten-fold (Isn't that what any girl wants?). I kid, of course...though our two minds have been known to create some of the craftiest, though easily most twisted plots and ideas.
It's a good thing they rarely ever come to fruition (Though our band 80s Montage Limbo would, by far, be the best obscure band...maybe ever).
What really brought Tony and I together, aside from our shared love for sushi, zombies and creating obscure band names, is indeed, music. While Tony's more hardcore than I am on his Pandora (The guy eats through his free 40 hours before the fifth of the month) and despite our shared differences in favorite artists (His = Radiohead, Mine = Jack Johnson), we share enough common bonds to interrupt each other enough during the day over instant messenger to gush about whatever song is streaming through our ear buds (Or, if you're like Tony, giant headphones).
Our perfect playlist is a recreation of our typical day at AngelVision -- starting out dead tired in the morning after a long day AND night of writing and flash development, only to trudge on with more work so we can feel totally gangsta after FINALLY finishing a project...before being stuck in traffic after day's end to finally make it home.
Here's our list of glory:
1. Sleepyhead, Passion Pit (Need we say more? Love the band and the song is perfect to kick the day off with...heck, it's my ringtone and alarm)
2. Work, Hockey (This song hits a couple of points: During our first conversation, Tony asked if I liked hockey, based off a Windows Live status I had up that said, "Wake up with Hockey." Of course, I responded, gushing about the Portland band Hockey...only to find out that he was, in fact, talking ice and pads and sticks and pucks. We also have a special place in our hearts for Canada.)
3. Paper Planes, MIA (There's nothing like celebrating the completion of a project, especially ones for difficult clients, than playing Paper Planes and letting our suburban white kid exterior disappear as we thug around like...well, you know..thugs)
4. No Cars Go, Arcade Fire (Tony's REAL favorite band is Arcade Fire which I, too, am totally down with. They're just...so...good)
5. Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Every time one of use hears this song on Pandora we ping each other with new lyrics...sort of like a bragging right. Of course, sometimes I cheat and pull it up on YouTube just so I can hear it. It's funky and folky and Jade's voice and the whistling are simply to die for).
And our alternative: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Flaming Lips (This song, of course, is a great alternate to Paper Planes because something, throughout the workday, we have to battle crazy clients who well, try to eat us...and stuff).
At any rate, we received an email back a little over a week after submitting our Perfect Playlist and, within five days were ON THE RADIO.
I don't think I had ever been so nervous in my whole entire life. Okay, that's obviously hyperbolic but I was surprised by how awkward sweaty I got over being on the radio. It was like the feeling you get when going on a first date...multiplied by 10, and on crack. Like really good freak out crack (Of course, not that I would actually know).
The experience actually turned out to be a blast...not that I had an any inkling that my radio debut would turn out otherwise. But still, I'm a nervous wreck prior to any kind of recording where I know SOMEONE is going to be hearing my voice. Nevertheless, despite some shakiness at the beginning (I stuttered a bit when explaining how I got into Hockey) on my part, Tony and I managed to pull off a smooth and seamless radio show. We even had a guy call in half way through Edward Sharpe and demand...okay fine, suggest...that Tony and I get an hour to run music every day because we were, indeed, "Just that awesome."
While we were hoping for some birthday luck on pocketing Arcade Fire concert tickets (It was Tony's birthday the day we went on the air), we ended up with, like everyone else that week, tickets to see Sublime in November. On a Tuesday. Without their real lead singer. We've already vowed to make complete asses of ourselves, demanding old school, REAL Sublime songs.
Go big or go home, right?
Monday, September 20, 2010
More creativity
I've got a lot of extra time these days...okay...that's a lie; my 70-hour work weeks are not giving me a lot of free time these days (A little distraction goes a long ways)...but nevertheless, I'm finding that I'm gravitating toward more creative writing. I'm not sure where it's coming from or why, now, all of a sudden I think that I might, maybe, perchance be a creative but for some reason, my mind is thinking more lyrically these days.
That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.
Yes. Judge away.
Berry Kiss
A taste like Once...
Never...before. I came across a
Perfectly Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life. I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful, Juicy,
And then -- Tart and
Almost Puckery --
With a pop, Like a berry,
It stained my Ripe
Red lips. With passion.
So yes. There it is. Gah.
That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.
Yes. Judge away.
Berry Kiss
A taste like Once...
Never...before. I came across a
Perfectly Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life. I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful, Juicy,
And then -- Tart and
Almost Puckery --
With a pop, Like a berry,
It stained my Ripe
Red lips. With passion.
So yes. There it is. Gah.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Aunthood
So holy cow I'm an Aunt. That's right; my brother and his wife Amber gave birth --
Wait.
Scratch that. Try again.
My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.
That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.
Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.
As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.
It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.
Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.
See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.
Congrats again to my brother and Amber.
Wait.
Scratch that. Try again.
My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.
That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.
Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.
As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.
It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.
Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.
See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.
Congrats again to my brother and Amber.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Creativity
Remember last week when I was all...hey...look I'm way too much of a pansy to really prove how creative I am?
Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.
Fuck all that. Here it goes:
The Beat
And now for my solo.
Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.
For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.
Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.
Silence.
Cue spotlight.
Our measured steps are stopped.
But my solo still walks on.
Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.
I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.
Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.
Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.
I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.
The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.
Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?
Yes I am.
Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].
PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?
Fin.
Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.
Fuck all that. Here it goes:
The Beat
And now for my solo.
Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.
For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.
Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.
Silence.
Cue spotlight.
Our measured steps are stopped.
But my solo still walks on.
Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.
I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.
Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.
Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.
I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.
The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.
Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?
Yes I am.
Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].
PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?
Fin.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
(Non) Creativity?
In the office I share with the other writer at my job I face a haphazardly hung white board. We use the white board for...well...whatever writers and other creatives use white boards for: jokes, drawings and quotations. In the upper right corner is one of a dozen or so condoms that were left in my desk drawer when we moved offices four weeks ago. The wrapper is a girly bubble gum pink and, with enough tape, stuck nicely to the board. Underneath, in matching girly bubble gum pink white board marker, I've written (in girly bubble gum-ish) cursive, "For inspiration."
But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.
I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."
We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.
I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity. That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."
You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.
This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.
Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."
I shouldn't complain, really.
But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?
Save for Tony, I didn't think so.
I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.
Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.
Damn Canucks. They should know that too.
But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.
I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."
We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.
I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity. That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."
You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.
This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.
Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."
I shouldn't complain, really.
But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?
Save for Tony, I didn't think so.
I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.
Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.
Damn Canucks. They should know that too.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Web
No. I'm not talking about the internet.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
'Shups
'Shups, as the apostrophe implies, is short for push ups.
And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.
I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.
Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.
Anyway. Back to reality...
I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.
40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.
Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.
Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.
I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.
We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).
Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.
Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.
Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?
And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.
I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.
Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.
Anyway. Back to reality...
I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.
40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.
Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.
Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.
I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.
We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).
Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.
Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.
Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Mommy Wow! I'm a big kid now?
Yep. I'm a big kid. An official adult and stuff.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
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