If ever there were a five day vacation that defined extreme highs and lows, we just lived it at Lollapalooza 2008 in Grant Park, Chicago. In the end, we came out ahead, because we are back home with our positive memories.

That being said, there was a lot of frustration in dealing with the crowds, the heat, the waiting, and all of the various forms of traveling it took just to get there. At times, it almost seemed like the whole trip could have been a huge mistake.

Yet when the evening headliners took the stage and played their sets, not only did I get my money’s worth, I got something greater than that. You see, all around us were several thousand teenagers and twentysomethings drinking crappy beers and smoking handrolled joints— all trying to mimic me, basking in the sensation in my head known as being naturally high. It was untouchable, my natural high was a sphere of solid metal charged with the electricity of a thunderstorm. It was something I had not felt in some time.

Sharing the natural high (since she was directly in front of me at every show) was the lovely Ms. S.Rod. Without her, the trip would have been incredibly lonely and not even a shred as fun. When asked for a comment about Lolla ’08, she said simply, “It was fricking awesome.” Read more…

Everyone has a band or singer-songwriter who spans a generation with them; the artist whose career runs through peaks and valleys along with your life. For me, that artist has been Nine Inch Nails.

I discovered the music of NIN as a sophomore in high school in 1991. A girl I was dating gave me a cassette copy of their first album Pretty Hate Machine, and I was immediately hooked. After 1992′s Broken was released, I have followed bandleader and production guru Trent Reznor’s career closely ever since. Sure, there have been a couple speed bumps along the way (i.e. songs like “The Perfect Drug” or “Deep”), but NIN’s hard edged soundscape has always appealed to me.

Outside of the multi-layered textures, pulsing synths, and arrogant guitar power chords that Reznor has woven through his work, I’ve also enjoyed his frequently aggressive and angst ridden lyrics and breathy vocal delivery. So when Reznor released Ghosts I-IV, an album comprised of 36 untitled instrumentals, I was not sure what to make of it at first. I knew I had enjoyed many previous NIN instrumentals like “The Mark Has Been Made” and “La Mer” from The Fragile, or “A Warm Place” from The Downward Spiral— but nearly two hours without a single vocal? It seemed like a recipe for disaster when mixed with an experimental release format via the web only.
Read more…

An editorial by S.Rod

Every morning Mark and I wake up to the news on our clock radio. At 6:45am, it pops on and in fifteen minutes or so, I actually start listening. Today while brushing my teeth, I hear the story, “Is Santa a bad influence on children?” Immediately the clever headline piqued my interest. Damn, I’m trying to get ready here, but I stopped to listen anyway.

Basically, the acting U.S. Surgeon General feels that similar to athletes who work with children to promote healthy lifestyles, Santa should be no different in terms of athleticism. Did I hear that right? Santa is too FAT! WHAT? That is just silly!

Santa has already lost his pipe (an old man with a pipe, I’m sure every kid wants to emulate that!), he can’t have kids sit on his knee anymore (this one isn’t so bad), and he can’t say Merry Christmas (if you are going to see Santa in the first place, why would this be a problem?) or Ho Ho Ho (Santa does know if you have been naughty!) because it could offend people.

Now, they want to take away his “bowl full of jelly”. What is wrong with this world? The PC element is out of control. Come on, are kids paying attention to Santa’s tummy? I mean really, Santa is a once a year thing, and the kids just want the presents.

Begin Rant:

If the Surgeon General wants to decrease childhood obesity and promote healthy living then he should start with educating their parents. It’s the parents who are stuffing their kids full of prepackaged and fast food, they are letting them play video games for umpteen hours a day without any physical activity. Do kids even play outside anymore?

Everyone has gotten so lazy. Why can’t we take responsibility anymore? Why does it have to be the person on the TV’s fault, or the international icon for Christmas?

Another problem is that healthy meals, in addition to taking effort to make, are expensive in comparison to fast food. I was just thinking about the cost factor the other day while eating lunch. I had gotten a salad that cost me about $7 on Monday and yesterday I bought a double cheeseburger and large fries for $3. So, if I always eat cheeseburgers and fries I could eat lunch for at least 3 days on just $10. Isn’t that crazy!? We should try to find solutions for things like this, and not worry about Santa’s waistline.

End Rant…

2005 was my first year as a web entrepeneur (Yes, that’s what those folder tabs up above represent, so feel free to click them ). Thus, it also marked the first time I’d have to represent such on my tax return. Most years, my taxes are finished in 10 minutes, but this year began as something altogether new and scary.

You see, I did some reading and learned that outside of the people who do bad math on their return, a great percentage of IRS tax audits fall down on independent artists, musicians and entertainers. As a result, I did the fearful ‘gulp’ noise after Tom stuffs Jerry in the top of a shaken seltzer water bottle.

Then I took a good look at my situation. I saved all of my 2005 receipts, either physicially or in e-mails. I had all of my needed W-2′s and 1099′s. Additionally, I learned that as a self-proprietor, I didn’t have to itemize; I just had to fill in all of my business expenses in a form called a Schedule C. As long as I didn’t count any expenses that I don’t have receipts for, I had nothing to worry about.

So, using the TurboTax program and guides, it was actually quite simple in the end (minus a few questions I simply had never encountered before). Sure, I had to do a little math on my end, but the big worry of being a targeted artist was quite silly. If the IRS comes knocking, I have my paperwork ready to be x-rayed.

I think it just boiled down to the fact that I knew I was due a healthy refund from the government. Part of it is my own devise though. Every year, I get an extra fee taken out of my paycheck. One year, a tax preparer told me, “You know, you don’t have to have this taken out of your paycheck every month.” But I knew the bigger picture. You see, if I get an extra $40 a paycheck, I’m likely to spend that on the monthly bills. However, if I get an extra $960 dollars back at tax time, I deposit it into my money market account to help me buy a home one day.

The other reason I had a high refund, and I’m not afraid to admit it, was because my business has yet to make up the intial investment of getting off the ground. While I’m not happy about this, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of the tax benefits if that’s how the government wants to run the show. But I’m not here to get pity cash for 3 years (until these endeavors are legally declared ‘hobbies’). I want to make something of my creativity, and not sit in a cubicle until I’m grey-haired and wrinkly.

Therefore, I’m making it a goal to break even in 2006, and turn a profit for 2007. I owe my art and my life that much. If that means I have to pay Uncle Sam back in 2008, then so be it. Nothing matters more than living the dream. Peace.

You wonder if anyone is listening, don’t you? That when your words reach the page, when the pixels of monitors all over the world display your name below a post title— are they listening? Will they respond? Or is this all just another devil of illusion, slowly milking the lie that you so desperately want to believe is the truth.

So what if it does give you a momentary high? Is it worth pining for? Maybe it’s not a Stephen King high, or a J.K. Rowling high— but when you’re a young writer who just wants to sculpt out a creative life for themselves, then a blog presents you with a nice moment of hope. But in truth, for the majority of such youth, it is empty. I remember reading last February of how you could get a job from your blog. That must be a fractional percentage at best. But again, it was hope. A minor shred to cling to.

I’ve spent over nine months making periodic contributions to a mass-blogger site. Thirty-seven posts worth in that time, a number that others do in a month. This passage you’re reading right now was my six-hundredth comment there, again achieved in a month by some. But comparisons and statistics prove nothing. It really comes down to motivations. The why.

For me, I never wanted to be a reporter. Or a reviewer. Or a debater. Oddly enough, I never really wanted to be a critic either, but it looks like my name will always be linked there for as long as they’re around and decide to keep archives. So be it. While my original goals in joining the site have been achieved. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t learn a lot from the experience from the types of writing I’d never done before: satire, pop culture, sci-tech, a sports article, and a book review. I even tried my hand at analyzing some political issues going on in NYC.

While I never garnered more than forty comments on any post, the reasons for writing them were always about branching out. That if you’ve been writing in a certain style for most of your life, you need to switch gears. Surprise yourself. Create a self-induced LOL. Sure, very little is guaranteed success once it reaches the real world. But who cares? It is really about the extension of self.

That site offers many ways to lose yourself in writing, commenting, praising, attacking, whatever. But the truth is that most people could give two shits about you and your life, outside of humoring you. Right now, there are twenty thousand people just like every last one of us living the same life within the same parameters. We think that we’re being original, but we’re just another copycat. Sure it’s inadvertent and innocent, but nevertheless completely true. If you weren’t dishing on the new alt-rock album or stating why a celebrity or sports star is a weasel, someone or some dozen people would be. We are all disposable.

So the biggest lesson I learned there was that before we can truly be critical of the world, we must learn to be self-critical. Instead of dissecting the world and its infinite faults, focus on why all of it bothers you. I’m writing all this now because outside of my original motivations, I’ve come to the conclusion that I too am guilty of being a copycat. It’s high time that the person I needed to have listening was myself.

I do not know what the future holds for my writing. I do not know if the 2nd novel outline I’m working on right now will ever see the light of day, or if I’ll stay stuck on an anonymous plateau like most writers do. But I have accepted my current state and am prepared to move on. Are you?

Thankfully, 2006 is finally here. Every year, I have to bite my tongue and keep my poison pen on the desk. For I can rest assured that as we celebrate the annual changeover of our calendar, all of the same clichés would emerge to haunt the masses. Since it’s a by-product of our fast food relationship with time and pop culture, it seems that there is no escape.

Someone will undoubtedly quip, “See you next year!” in a moment of pseudo-cleverness (and I heard it three times this year). Dozens of editorial cartoonists will scribble out the same old gag of the old man 2005 and the baby 2006 walking past each other. News programs, websites, and of course blogs will lay down what they thought the high and low lights of the past year were. Top ten lists, year in review, resolutions, blah, blah… blah. I welcome my chilly January with open arms. Let’s get back to the grind, shall we?

But while this righteous spew has its truth, I will not totally alienate myself from reflecting on 2005. If nothing else, this year has given me some hope, no matter how infinitesimal. Aside from getting married (an event that I can only imagine has triggered a cosmic imbalance in the universe), I watched my online universe grow and expand exponentially.

As you can see in the graph below, MagicJunk.com started out with very tiny beginnings. I remember feeling like my work was for naught when I did not get more than 20 unique visitors a day in the first three months. But I kept working, writing, tweaking the site, and launching new creative projects. Each month became the “highest yet”, only to be outdone by its successor.

Considering I have no funds for advertising and have not received any link referrals from a big cat website, these numbers are pretty good. Obviously, in showing this though, my point is not to brag. If most online businesses had these numbers, they’d be laying off employees. But since Magic Junk is totally self-sufficient, the only way it’s going down is if I pack it in, die, or get abducted by aliens. Fortunately, I don’t have plans for any of those.

Therefore, my point is simple and two headed: for you, the reader, the graph illustrates that meager beginnings are okay, as long as you don’t lose focus on your goals; and for me, it has helped me set the goal of 50K for 2006, which would almost triple the total unique visitors from this past year. Yeah, I have my work cut out for me. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Turning 30 was rumored to be a personal disaster: where I’d find myself in a shadowy corner wrapped around a bottle of throat burning liquor, wallowing for my lost youth. It did not work out that way though. My 30th birthday came and went this week without much thought on the subject, despite my penchant for doing so in the past. But this is progress for me, and I’ll toast a frosty brew to that.

It’s nice to know that losing your twenties really is just another silly myth we fear. It was difficult to be certain about that before now. I made a lot of stupid decisions in my twenties. The likes of which I’d rather forget about. Being 30 allows me to turn a page on all of it. Instead, I’ve now come to appreciate the wisdom I’ve gained from all of the failures and rejections that have dragged me down over the last ten years.

So I’m optimistic I will not have to live vicariously through material possessions, having kids, or going on vacations in order to find meaning in my thirties like most people seem to. The path of a creative person is never pretty, but I feel it’s far more fulfilling than anything else I could possibly be doing as a career or hobby.

Just because I don’t have the level of daily energy I used to, or know that gray hair and wrinkles are just five to ten years away, that does not mean I’m going to give up on my goals anytime soon. I still dream of having an efficient career without having to be routine, to constantly evolve my creative focus, and try as many new things in life as possible.

Sure, I just exhaled a couple paragraphs of pipe smoke there, but I sincerely mean it. When I turn 40, I honestly believe I’ll look back at this point and say, “This is where I finally got my shit together.” Feel free to check back then, and call my bluff.

As the bite of the winter wind blows across the faces of New Yorkers this morning on December 20, 2005, it will not be because of a passing subway train or a public bus. No, the chill they feel as they are forced to walk over bridges to get to work is the colossal greed shared in a contract struggle by the Metropolitan Transit Authority and the Transport Workers Union.

At the most primordial level, we work to earn money. The capital that pays our bills, keeps us fed, allows us to support our children, have hobbies and so on. Quite often, we get so wrapped up in earning that cash, that our work day (or night for you vampires out there) becomes a routine. A routine that we become numb to, that we forget is eating away some of the better years of our lives.

So, riddle me this, blog reader: can you predict with a 90% accuracy rate exactly what will happen to you at work today? Tomorrow? This month? If you can, then you’re in the same cubicle as me.

To illustrate this, here was an eye opener for me yesterday. I walked into my favorite Manhattan deli, set to order the same tossed salad I get every Monday. I know exactly what I get every time, as well as the periodic variations I use. However, the young man who had prepared my salads for the past few years was out from behind the counter. He was wearing a shirt and tie, and walking around the deli with a clipboard. He had been promoted. Since we are civil to each other, I congratulated him and he was genuinely appreciative. Hell, I almost felt proud for him.

However, after I left the deli, it reminded me that I’ve never been promoted by my company in the six years I’ve been here. It is not as much a reflection of my performance, as it is that there is no position for me to ascend to. I tolerate my career path for the most part because my options are limited, but reality begged me to ask “How long is too long to stay at a job?”

According to a Washingtonian article, that time is three to five years if you haven’t been promoted. Uh oh, looks like I am overdue. Such reluctance leaves me open to becoming what CareerOne.Com.Au calls a quit stay, where you have ‘mentally quit your job but keep turning up for work anyway.’ Now that’s scary. But of course, things like this wouldn’t get defined if it was not happening.

So as I read more information on related topics, Salary.com listed the top ten reasons to leave your job. Check them out for yourself. If you have five or more as a reason to leave, perhaps it’s time to smack yourself in the face. Pour some salt in your coffee. Take a hard look at where you are and where you want to be— do they line up anytime soon?

Of course, such a look can be depressing to most, present company included. But as hard as it is to swallow, you have to use it as motivation. Unless the folks at the Reincarnation Institute are right, you only get one life, so don’t waste it doing bullshit work in a career path you have no passion for. All of the links above should tell you if it has been too long.

Therefore, the point of this article is if you are in the same cubicle of numbness as me, start taking steps to get to where you want to be. Even if you spend the rest of your life trying but fail anyway, it beats the hell out of sitting around waiting for something to happen. With that, I have to go take a dose of my own medicine. Good luck.

Mother Nature tried her best. But she could not make me lose my lunch.

While traveling on my honeymoon this month, I had the ‘good‘ fortune of experiencing three of the four forms of motion sickness and emerged unscathed. Okay, perhaps the memory remains, but the nausea did not humble me like a college freshman’s first keg stand. The ‘good‘ element to it was I had a small window of time to compare them directly. Your grandma told you knowledge comes from mysterious teachers, and she wasn’t lying.

For those who don’t travel much (which included me until this month), here’s some trivia to bubble the acid in your gut. As defined by Wikipedia, motion sickness is “a condition in which the endolymph (the fluid found in the semicircular canals of the inner ears) becomes ‘stirred up’, causing confusion between the difference between apparent perceived movement (none or very little), and actual movement.” Take a deep breath now, that was the bad part.

Motion sickness occurs while traveling via sea, air, car, or in outer space. Since I can only assume that my marriage upset the gods, I experienced the first three forms to a degree that I never had before. (As for the fourth, NASA has yet to return my calls). Most of the air and sea motion on my trip was due to the outer effects of Tropical Storm Gamma, which was passing through at the time. See the diagram below that compares my travel path to Gamma’s.

Since I have stomach ailments while on solid ground, such a trip appeared to be a gastrointestinal death wish for me. But I planned ahead and packed a Ziploc sandwich bag of remedies like Johnny Depp’s suitcase from ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas‘. It contained the pill form of Pepto Bismol, Rolaids, Ginger extract, digestive enzyme supplements, and of course Dramamine. Lots of pretty colored tabs that luckily raised no eyebrows from U.S. Customs.

Here was my week of motion sickness:

(1) AIR – I traveled from New York to Tampa (and back) via plane. The ride down was fine (apart from the fact that I ingested a pound of strawberries, whipped cream, and champagne the night before). But the return trip was a little rough leaving Tampa. The turbulence began as ‘choppy’—small bumps that made the plane appear to rumble— and escalated to ‘wavy’, where the plane seems to bounce in a huge arc causing the sensation that most of your major organs migrated to the bottom of your throat. In my opinion, air motion sickness is more about fear, since I’ve seen one too many dramatizations (LOST, Fight Club, etc.), and is usually able to be overcome mentally.
- – - I give it a Nausea-O-Meter rating of 7 of 10.

(2) SEA – Part A – After arriving in Tampa, we boarded our cruise ship for a loop of excursions around the West Caribbean (as shown above). The waters were most choppy at Grand Cayman, and near Costa Maya. Overall, the motion was not too bad when you were doing something active. But anytime we were still (either dining or lying in bed), we had the sensation of a buoy, bobbing from side to side in rhythm to the ocean. I didn’t think this motion was as unexpected or jarring as air turbulence, but it was more about the repetition just gnawing at you. Like Chinese water torture. But there are lots of remedies to combat this annoyance (see the link at the bottom).
- – - I give it a Nausea-O-Meter rating of 6 of 10.

SEA – Part B – Just when we thought we had the ocean under control, my wife and I boarded a tender going from our cruise ship to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico. While the cruise ship was steady in its motion, this boat was like an amusement park ride that had a couple bolts missing from the stabilizers. The motion was a combination of the unexpectedness of the air turbulence ‘wave’ combined with the sway of the sea. The dozens of people around me all had the same thought balloon of strangling the captain— that is, when we weren’t having Dorothy’s heel-clicking “There’s no place like home” moment.
- – - I give it a Nausea-O-Meter rating of 9 of 10.

(3) CAR – While traveling to an off-boat excursion in Belize, my wife and I boarded an old school Blue Bird bus (similar to one I used to take to grade school). Despite the tour guide’s boast that the driver had a Ph.D. (a Doctorate in Pothole Driving), driving 15-30 mph down a dirt road near a rainforest is not kind to the morning’s extra serving of bacon. Nevertheless, it paled in comparison to the plane and boats.
- – - I give it a Nausea-O-Meter rating of 5 of 10.

- – - – - – - – - -
In summary, apart from our cruise ship being unable to dock at Costa Maya (which happened to be our designated ‘beach laziness’ day), the weather and subsequent motion sickness did not affect our honeymoon too much. We swam with sting rays, saw Mayan ruins, and got to zipline James Bond style down a mountainside— so we won’t complain.

As always, experiences vary—as I’m sure some cruises and flights are motion sickness free, while others were much worse than ours. But just in case, I recommend doing some light research and preparation before your trip. For some treatments and remedies, check out WedMD’s page on motion sickness. You might just keep your lunch too. Happy traveling!

I confess my guilt: it was wrong of me to complain about my speeding ticket in a public forum. Luckily, I had many people who were more than happy to call me out as a “naive” twentysomething trying to apply the logic of common sense and safety to a system based solely on revenue. So… forgive my transgressions, you may now return to your regular broadcast of cynicism.

- – - – - – - – - –
While the charcoals of my frustration have cooled since then, I now had in engage in damage control for the ticket. The fees were begrudgingly paid via credit card, so all that remained were those two points on my license. As most of you know, insurance companies aren’t too fond of points, and will hike up your rates or even drop your coverage at their holy discretion. Indeed, I had no wish to see if the gecko could be a poison spitting serpent.

So I went in search of a defensive driving class to reduce my points and insurance. I was lucky enough to find one about half a mile away. On a nice day like last Sunday, I could walk there. Such a thing could come in handy if I get caught in another speed trap or two. But let me knock on wood for that thought.

Anyway, I had been to a defensive driving class twice before, in 1999 and 2002. Both times, it was for the 10% discount. In your twenties, 10% is usually a nice chunk of change over a three-year span (which is how long the DD class is good for). So this would be the first time I actually had to use the point reduction option.

When you attend a DD class, you’ll quickly learn that it is not offered by the Department of Motor Vehicles, but through an independent contractor or driving school. The contractor then mails your proof of attendance in to the DMV, who will confirm your reductions in a few weeks.

In my three experiences, the classes all consisted of three identical elements: handouts, videos, and discussion.

The handout is half workbook/half factsheet. It’s filled with DMV statistics, common sense advice, and recommendations on avoiding road rage, cell phone use, etc. Are there any kind of magic factoids, where you leave and can suddenly drive like the car chase from Ronin or French Connection ? No. But it is a good refresher of everything you skimmed over when getting ready to take your driver’s test at 17.

The videos are usually either a recording of a TV story from 20/20 or PrimeTime Live, or a cheesy made-for-driving school short. The recording I saw had Sam Donaldson traveling with Delaware state troopers in an undercover car, then interviewing the violators the trooper pulled over. The short was actually an instructional video geared towards teens, which the driving school was getting double mileage from. But the basic information was there.

The discussion was as expected: a room full of people who don’t really want to be there, but will participate for the sake of getting their discounts. We shared traffic stories, discussed our own driving weaknesses, and reviewed ways to compensate for bad conditions (including mental ones). Feel free to talk about anything that bothers you about our traffic system to the instructor. That’s why they are there.

All of the instructors I’ve had were ‘gruff laymen’, for lack of a better description. I’m sure they were certified, but it’s not like they had a Master’s of DMV. My feeling was that the course itself is such a cookiecutter format, that almost anyone could assemble and conduct a class. I noticed that all of the materials come prepared by yet another contractor. All three of mine were done by the NTSI.

The driving school charged $50 for a six-hour course, which may vary by state. With an average of 16 people between all of the classes I’ve been at, that’s $800 a class. Offer two classes a week for a year and the gross earnings are $83,200. While I’m sure there are fees and tests to be an instructor, that’s still a nice pull. At least it is in my starving artist handbook.

- – - – - – - – - -
Before you go to a defensive driving class for a violation, here’s some tips:
- Bring a pen, because you’ll have forms to fill out. Those 3-inch pencils that they have on hand never cut it.
- Get there on time. A guy came in 30 minutes late to my class, and got turned away. Read the fine print on your class registration too. Some places might not give you a full refund if you have to come back.
- If it’s for a DWI-related violation, the DD course will not help you. DWI has its own special course. Check with your state DMV.
- If you got your ticket in another state, double check whether your state DMV counts points from an out-of-state violation. I learned while researching this post that my state does not. Ironic to my plight, since I got caught only three miles from the state border. But you might fare better.

In conclusion, the defensive driving class was a positive experience. While some of the material is tedious and boring, the refresher of getting those traffic reminders back in your head is golden. Besides that, figure out how much 10% off of your annual insurance fees would be. You’ll find that fifty bucks and six hours is not only a worthy sacrifice, but also a good cleanser of any previous guilt.

Hello, welcome to America. Before you may enter the country, you must eat this bucket full of clever jingles, catchy slogans, and singing cartoon pitchmen. But we swear you’ll feel better afterwards! We promise! Now go buy! Buy! Buy!

- – - – - – - – - –
If you think you can get away from advertising in this day and age, then you’d better sew your eyes shut and plug your ears with molten lead. Not even a man living in a mountain shack in Montana can escape it. Because there has to be something he consumes or owns with a logo, icon, or slogan stuck on it.

The forces of advertising have become so strong that we now have a week designated to praise it. Advertising Week celebrates its first anniversary from September 26-30. As the website describes, AW is: “an annual gathering of the industry’s best and brightest. In its first year (2004), the event attracted more than 40,000 participants from over 30 countries. By all accounts, it… will be an outstanding opportunity to learn and share best practices, hobnob with clients, get inspired, remember why you’re in the business and generally have a great time.”

As part of the festivities, people are able to vote online for their all-time favorite icon and slogan for 2005. The top five winners in both categories are then removed from next year’s contest and put into an Advertising Hall of Fame of sorts.

2004′s Icon Winners were:
1. M & M Characters, 2. AFLAC Duck, 3. Mr. Peanut, 4. Pillsbury Doughboy, and 5. Tony the Tiger

2004′s Slogan Winners were:
1. Melts in your mouth, not in your hands. (M&M’s)
2. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. (Almond Joy/Mounds)
3. Where’s the beef? (Wendy’s)
4. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. (United Negro College Fund)
5. Can you hear me now? (Verizon)

- – - – - – - – - –
As I viewed the Advertising Week website, I realized just how indoctrinated I have become over the years. In some ways, it’s personally repulsive to know that I’d get 100% on a test matching any slogan with its icon from the 80′s and 90′s, or vice versa. Being an artist, I could probably even draw most of them from memory too. If pop culture advertising were a virus, it would make anthrax look like a cure for cancer.

On the flip side though, try to separate advertising icons and slogans from the products that they endorse. If you are able to, then you might be able to appreciate the sheer creative genius which has been illustrated in our American advertising explosion over the past forty years.

In terms of art forms, advertising is where many writers and artists have gone to flourish. Why bother writing a novel when you could write ads that net you an six figure salary? Why bother trying to be a sculptor or painter, when creating the new Coke can becomes the highlight of your portfolio? It makes perfect sense to me, even if I haven’t been able to capitalize on this theory myself.

Additionally, the icons and slogans of ads all have an aesthetic value that has persevered over generations. While we may not know the person who created the Jolly Green Giant, or wrote the Cingular slogan, the creators themselves know— and amongst creative people, such infamy is golden. To know your creation is everywhere, yet you will never suffer the backlashes of fame for it— priceless.

So, my conclusion is that while I do my best to not let advertising influence me when purchasing products, I still can appreciate the creative people that live behind these legendary icons and slogans. That is what, in my opinion, makes Advertising Week necessary.

P.S. I voted for the Kool Aid Man and “Time To Make The Donuts”.

Alternate Designation: Are You Telling Me That This Sucker Is Nuclear?

- – - – - – - – - -
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.

- – - – - – - – - -
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.

- – - – - – - – - -
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*

- – - – - – - – - -
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.

We’re happy to report a recent review for The Art of Getting Bent by M. Sahm, that was published this past Sunday at the pop-culture megasite Blogcritics.org.

Read all about it here, and be sure that no matter what— promise me— you keep reading the review past the first paragraph.

Among the creative people of the world, there are many who dare to crossover. Those who try their hands at genres within the arts that they were not instructed on, or gained their fame in. Just think of actors like J.Lo or William Shatner who have made music albums, while inversely musicians such as LL Cool J or Roger Daltrey have appeared in movies. When celebrities do a crossover, it’s essentially a crapshoot in terms of marketing. While the general public knows the name of the performer immediately, it is difficult to accept a celebrity doing something different.

For those of us fortunate enough to be devoid of fame, we can try any and everything we want within the creative hemispheres, and suffer all the same. How gratifying! Nevertheless, the creative area that I have no formal training or experience is music. I love hearing music, and am constantly surrounded by it no matter what I am doing. But when it comes to actually composing or playing the music, I have mostly avoided it for lack of natural talent and coordination. My encounters with playing are limited to three months of saxophone lessons in fourth grade, and a brief stint of singing terribly in a tenth grade rock band, to which I got kicked out of at the end of the summer. Of course, I know wholeheartedly that I did not apply myself in either case. But redemption was always waiting for me.

By admitting that I am a writer and artist first, that puts a big scarlet C for crossover on my chest when it comes to me producing a podcast of semi-melodic tracks. But brand me all you want— producing compositions of words and sounds was as fun as new Christmas toys. For all of the tweaking and timing issues and triple takes that it took to make it happen, I highly recommend it to any creative soul looking for something fun and challenging to do.

- – - – - – - – - -
Magic Junk Radio 1 is a creative fusion of spoken word, samples, sounds, and beats. I didn’t play any instruments, but you’re welcome to pretend I did. MJR 1 has no aspirations other than amusement and an occasional foot tap. At 17 and a half minutes, it’s a fast food podcast. But I’m perfectly content with that. Clog your arteries and enjoy.

INSTRUCTIONS: Right-click this link to download the full podcast in MP3 format, which will play in any iPod or MP3 music player. Left click and the MP3 will begin playing in a new web browser window (unless you haven’t updated in a while.)

To download the tracks individually, click any of the links below.
Content of Tables
Intro Music – 0:51
Welcome – 1:18
Identifying the Train People – 4:53
Interlude 1 – 1:12
Serico’s Wake Up Call (from The Art of Getting Bent) – 2:02
Not Going Gently – 1:51
Interlude 2 – 1:14
Magically Delicious – 1:40
Mushroom Cloud – 1:52
Farewell – 0:37

Magic Junk Radio RSS

Alternate Designation: She Put The Octane In My Engine And I Rode Her All Day

- – - – - – - – - –
It’s before 7am and even the sun has not bothered to get its lazy ass up. I lean on my kitchen counter to prepare the morning’s cup of “322″ elixir. Three shots espresso, two shots Kahlua, two shots dark rum, a fist full of granola and the other ice cubes. Blend? No, liquefy. I love how the ice crunches in my blender like numbers in an accountant’s wet dream. Fifteen seconds and I spell relief, but I’m not awake yet, so I just sound it out phonetically.

Now the ingestion. Pound it like not only is there no tomorrow, but like today is ending right now unless this concoction is dancing with the enzymes in the next five seconds. I suppose I could sip, but I think the violent motion wakes me up just as much as the drink itself.

It’s a virus that spreads through the host, and there’s nothing like the caffeine jitters to shake up a random thought for creative use. So good I get a ringing in my ears, as if a smoke alarm is playing Earth Wind & Fire underwater. This routine is the beginning of my daily psychosis, my creative chainsaw to hack through everyday life.

Of course, I’ve never actually done this little routine. But I like to pretend I do. That my morning cup of coffee will taste celestial if I honestly believe it will bring me to a higher level, to make my brain Hulk out. Cue the metamorphic music, and Lou Ferrigno steps into my skull and growls and pushes running tractors backward and produces me some righteous art and writing. Dig it, sucka.

- – - – - – - – - –
If only it were that easy. We all know what our optimal creative state is, and yet we acknowledge that it’s hard to get into that zone. Sure, things like a good breakfast or some strong coffee or good herbs (I mean the vitamin form, my ganja toking friends out there) will get us into the groove, but it means nothing without the mental mindset.

The ability to concentrate when you’re not worrying about getting laid off, about where your kids are, about where your loved one is, or if you’ll ever even find a loved one. I see so much distraction in the world that I could become a professional distracter. Get a yellow page ad, 800 number, monogrammed pens. Just hire me and I will help you miss the rest of your life in glorious obfuscation. But I’m not having that shit. And neither should you.

Knowing that you’re wasting your creative talent is like walking a block downwind of a slow moving garbage truck. You could stop smelling the stench if only you’d just take off in a sprint to get ahead of it.

Additionally, you could read all of the self-help books in the world and it won’t mean a stir-fried cat’s ass if you don’t have the will to apply theories to life. You might be wondering: am I trying to motivate you? Nope, I leave that to the people trying to make money off of others’ desperation. I’m merely putting the writing in the sky. You can sit on your beach chair and get back to working on a nice tan. Have a fruity mixed drink with a little umbrella.

Because if you’re happy with the way you roll your creative style out, then by all means, share your methods of preparation here. But if you’re not, then take a couple moments to think what you need to do to kick-start your creative chainsaw— be it a cup of coffee, magic elixir, gamma rays, or ultimately the basic conscious decision to do what you want without distraction.

I’m often stating how I prefer riding the train to driving, since I can sleep, read, write, and still get to my destination with minimal problems. A recent incident made my opinion even stronger. After twelve years of nearly flawless driving (meaning no accidents and no traffic violations), I received my first speeding ticket on a questionable infraction this past month. While I cannot get too detailed for security reasons, let me explain the utter bullshit of the situation.

I was driving on a two lane highway with a speed limit of 65 mph. Traffic was moderately heavy, and I was in the right lane behind a tractor trailer. We were approaching a large hill and the truck was doing 65. On road trips like this, I usually cruise between 70 and 75. Yes, I know that’s already speeding, but let’s be honest— that is the speed at which traffic usually flows on a major 65 mph highway. Anyone who drives more than once a year knows that.

So I check my rearview and see a group of cars and SUV’s gaining in the passing lane. Before those cars pass me, I decide to pass the truck and accelerate. As I just get around the truck coming down the hill, there was a state trooper waiting at the bottom. He throws his sirens on and pulls me over.

Never in my life have I been victim of a speed trap as ridiculous as this. Pulled over for speeding while passing another vehicle! When I saw the cop at the bottom of the hill, I looked at my speedometer and was doing 7-8 miles less than what the officer told me I was doing. I told him I was passing the tractor trailer and he claimed the truck was going faster than 65 as well. I knew there was no way.

It’s days like this that I wish I understood the mechanics of how a radar gun could clock me and the truck at the speeds the officer indicated. Was it because we were coming downhill at the time? I don’t know. All I know is I was making sure I wasn’t creating a traffic buildup. Had I stayed behind the truck, the mass of traffic would have passed me, and I would have had to wait to get around. Had I passed at only a small increase, all of the traffic in the passing lane would have been up my ass, creating road rage in others because I was halting the flow of traffic.

I’ve never been in an accident, partially because I’m lucky in terms of statistics, but more because of the fact that I watch what other cars do and how they react. I feel I handled the situation in the best way possible for all parties concerned that were on the road. Was I planning on maintaining the passing speed? No, I wanted to get in front of the truck and cruise the rest of the way to my destination. Would I plead guilty if I was caught doing that same cruising speed in the open without any vehicles around me? Yes.

So I plead not guilty to the ticket and sent it in. I received a court notice for a trial. I then sent that letter back stating that I could not make the trial, since the little town court was four hours away from where I live (and they were open a total of 8 hours the whole week on Tuesdays and Thursdays only!). Knowing I could not beat the officer’s testimony if I did not show up, I requested a plea bargain. To my chagrin, I was granted one, on the basis of my good record, and after some more paperwork exchanges, the traffic violation was dropped by several points.

The catch, of course, was that the fine stayed the same. It ended up costing me a little more than $200. Ouch. For a middle-class artist, that’s a nice chunk of change. But I realize that this all was an experience that shows me that most tickets are driven as much by public safety as they are by the need to make quotas to pay for bloated state police salaries.

So tell me, is accelerating to pass a crime? Let me know what you think.