Alternate Designation: Are You Telling Me That This Sucker Is Nuclear?
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The last fifteen work days, I kept finding myself cubicle-bound and staring at my hands. Agitated and about four “Fuck-Me’s” away from some silly meltdown where I pretend my monitor is a punching bag. Where my stomach reminds me of every damaged enzyme of collegiate glory. Where I become a ragged Elmo doll, vibrating, giggling, and stating that this hell of a career tickles me in some kind of lustrous S&M way.
The fairy tale used to go that when I got on the train after work, I’d fall asleep and wake up on the other side of my life. The land where the concept of hope was a boy band, and I was a teenage fan screaming for a piece. Home—the land where the previous paragraph was nothing but distant radar blips. But as I approach the ripe old age of 30, my creative dreams have become a little heavier to carry after work. Some days, I cannot make that transition a productive one.
The cubicle burn is not being healed by the home ointment. So it’s time I stop along the road in-between.
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With a novel in the can and a fully operational battle station website, I got a bit more promise than someone ten years my senior with neither. But having promise is superficial, it’s like having the world’s most magnificent phallus and being unable to display it on film. And damn it, that’s the last thing I want to have. Wait a second… ah, forget that one.
All promise aside, I’ve become very aware of the harsh contrast between a stressing workplace and a relaxing home life. If you have too much of both, your creativity suffers. Only someplace arbitrary can cure this. Someplace that has the best of both worlds. Such a place would be a happy hour for the creative psychotic. But how do you find something that does not exist? Easy. You make it from scratch.
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I used to write at a Starbucks every night after work. Even if I had no life at the time, I got a lot accomplished. It worked because I was disconnected enough from work, yet not distracted by all of my vices at home. But this was not a permanent fix by any means.
From there, I’ve come up with a concept that I will now release into the wild forest of the web. I hope that it might accidentally get linked somewhere, and my words will burrow into the brain of an entrepreneur. I will tell them: Go ahead, brother or sister, take my concept. I lay down my rights so that you can show the world your business acumen. Make it bigger than Lennon or Jesus. But that’s up to you, of course.
I call the concept Heavy Water. Much in the way that the actual fluid is used in nuclear reactors to slow down neutrons so that they can react with uranium, Heavy Water would be a potential launching pad for creativity. A room of low-rent workstations of varying sizes and set-ups. Desks and Internet access for bloggers, reporters, or web gurus. A wall or easel for painters and sketchers, with still lives optional. A soundproof booth, amp, mic and digital recorder access for musicians.
All in all, Heavy Water would be a quintessential American concept: the atmosphere of a creative studio done fast food style. Open to the public, but only paying customers can enter. $6 gets you a complimentary shot of espresso, a glass of ice water, and a workstation for an hour. $1 per additional hour. Other drinks available, including beer and wine.
Here’s my advertising pitch: Is work a soul draining routine that you inflict upon yourself day after day? Is home a beacon of distraction and responsibility that you would love to avoid for just a couple more hours? Then if you’re like me, I think you’d agree there needs to be a place where only creativity knows your name. That place is Heavy Water. *cue theme song*
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Off it goes. If only my life were a movie. Perhaps then, on the way to the train tomorrow, I’d run across a new store. The neon sign blinking my concept, a man with a sandwich sign and grand opening coupons that encourages me to go inside. But it’s only an if.
Such an endeavor is beyond my expertise or desire to bring to life. I simply want to be a patron. A customer who is willing to pay to have my road stop. So again, like an 800 number on the radio, please steal my idea. Make money. Start franchises. Make Fortune magazine write a feature article on you.
All I ask for are some sound byte props and my own air-conditioned workstation where I can write, draw, paint, and come up with new concepts. Just give me a call, whoever you are. We’ll toast espresso shots. All without the burden of wanting to punch monitors.