While it may seem I’m about to discuss how temperatures have finally shown a hint of warmth this month, and I can walk down 42nd St. without freezing my cajones off— I’m not. I’m actually thinking about spring break or, in my case, the lack thereof. This is due to the fact that my finances are on hold until everything is squared away with the wedding and the business expenditures. But hey, December is looking mighty nice! Only 244 days away!

A word to the wise for any young future entrepreneurs in love out there— if you’re getting married soon, wait until it’s over before you start a business. Doing both simultaneously is like slathering yourself with A-1 Sauce and dancing the tango with 2 starving pit bulls. Of course, that might be fun to some of you Fear Factor-esque junkies out there.

Alas, my spring will be without any extended vacation, but this is one of the sacrifices I make. I still consider myself lucky I’m able to juggle everything without losing my brain… or have I already lost it? Don’t answer that. Keep plugging away, people.

“Perhaps you feel you’re being treated unfairly?” – Darth Vader, The Empire Strikes Back

I think far too many people would answer ‘Yes’ to that infamous quote above. Just look at all of the lawsuits, mass protests, and workplace disdain going on in our country. There’s really a lot of people that think they’re being treated improperly. But is it all justified?

While I’ve done my fair share of complaining on the work world, I’ve always been the first to say that if you don’t like your job, then start looking for a new one. Unless you’ve signed a contract, quit and go elsewhere… otherwise, cease your bitching. I’ve yet to have even the slightest need to protest or file a ridiculous lawsuit. But will I? Would I join a protest if they branded all novelists as plagiarists, or all artists as bigoted?

Feel free to argue, but I think it all stems from our preoccupation with money. If everyone made a million-a-month salary, we all wouldn’t complain so much, or sue for lavish amounts, or have to protest for higher raises. The obvious problem in life is there is no almighty voice of Reality to tell us when we’re just being too sensitive or if it is meant to be fought for. Yes, there’s also no Darth Vader to choke the resistance out of us either. )

I recently got into a discussion with family about cell phones, and everyone was comparing their providers and models and so on. My uncle had a Nextel, and he was raving about the ‘Direct Connect‘, and how easy it was to communicate with co-workers while he was working on a contracting job.

While I was able to acknowledge his Nextel usage as necessary for his profession, nevertheless I had to confess my pet peeve— hearing that double beep in a public place makes me cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. It has got to be stopped. I can’t stand it when people use the DC on public transportation, in elevators, or anywhere else I have to be subjected to its annoying shrill. It’s like going camping with a cicada playing its greatest hits next to your sleeping bag.

So my creed is this: If you’re a contractor, messenger, delivery worker, or similar occupation, then it’s okay— you need the DC because it makes your job more efficient.

However, if you’re just talking to your homie on the train about your evening plans, or talking to your wife in the supermarket about which cereal to buy, then do us all a favor— make a phone call instead, okay? That’s why they made it a phone. Thanks.

That title just about sums up my Easter weekend. While I would imagine that wasn’t why the powers-that-be celebrated the holiday originally, I’m certainly not complaining. Of course, playing Texas Hold’Em with family can be tough, since they usually know all of your tells, but it’s always a good time.

Equally enjoyable, I must have eaten a dozen Butterfinger filled chocolate mini-eggs. I swear those things should be illegal, like crack cocaine in a purple foil wrapper. Now if only I had a higher metabolism, then I could have polished off the bag. But then, that much sugar probably would not have boded well for my poker face. Peace.

I was thinking about why people get depressed and go insane and so on. Don’t ask me why, man… it’s just my nature. Anyway, I was waxing how our work systems have all of these provisions built in that in the event of someone going crazier than a coconut, there are fail-safes which can be enacted like counseling and prescription drugs. It’s like it’s expected.

I met a man yesterday who had moved his wife and 2 kids from Chicago to Jersey City, just so he could start up a new division for his company here in NYC. While I admired the sacrifice, I also recognize how risky it is. He wasn’t that high-strung or anything, but I imagined the strain he is under has to be a lot.

All of that ultimately led me to this thought— when people are listed in the news as “addicted to painkillers”, isn’t that a nice way of putting it? I mean, come on, you don’t think a guy who smokes pot or drinks a fifth of whiskey after work isn’t “killing some pain” as well? I just love how we can put a nice spin on things like that.

The moral: if things are too stressful, then cease doing them. Implement change. This service broadcast has been brought to you by the nice folks at Unsung Fu Publishers. No shark removals please.

I took a personal day today to work on some projects and tend to some errands. The recurring motif I find in such days is no matter how well you plan things out, you cannot accomplish everything exactly the way you want.

There are no straight lines in life, everything has curves and detours. Of course, this applies only to those who are driving. If you’re just a passenger, then no worries… but then you get what you deserve for tagging along.

On a side note, I’d love to wake up one morning with the energy of a child on summer vacation. Ready to play all day… nothing that could possibly bring me down. You wouldn’t even have to tell when that morning would come. Surprise me. That’s all.

Ever since I entered into the decision to start a publishing/artwork business, the last 7 months of my life has been a blur. It’s tough to branch out on your own, even tougher if you’re trying to do it while working a 9-5 desk job as well. I had tried to kick my caffeine habits about a year ago, and if I tried that today, I think I might crumble away like that guy in the 3rd Indiana Jones film when he drinks from the wrong Holy Grail.

Did you know, according to the SBA, that over 50% of small businesses fail in the first year and 95% fail within the first five years? So, put that math to work and you get this— if 1,000,000 businesses started the same time as Unsung Fu Publishers, then by 2009 only 5,000 of them will still be around. That’s a totally insane statistic.

But my motivation for it all is this: we all get wrapped up in our lives where the routines cause us less stress, and thus we accept it because we become comfortably numb. Change can be overwhelming at times, but it is the spinal cord of existence. To truly be alive, you need change. Thus I say, who cares about stress? We’re all going out somehow— I’d rather know my life ended crashing into the sun, instead of decomposing in the dark.

So, pour me another cup and keep the broken nose to that creative grindstone. Peace.

Over the past year or so, I’ve found a fondness for guacamole. Whenever I have the chance to get it, I do. It’s quite tasty. Of course, this can have its repercussions. After consuming a Turkey Bacon Guacamole sub from Quizno’s for lunch today, my stomach has been in utter turmoil. I haven’t lost the farm yet, but damn am I in a knot and a half right now.

I know, you’re probably saying, “Mark, is this really blog worthy?” To which I would agree, No it isn’t. But creativity tends to suffer a bit when your stomach has rested a lawn chair right at the bottom of your throat. However, I didn’t any want to break this newly formed daily blog habit I’ve developed. So here is a paragraph of incohesive thought for writing’s sake.

A phone rang and silver was quick to flow away from the lava spill and I left my soul on the train along with the spare change and man oh man if it doesn’t got the groove that twists in a classic mode or a UNIX subheading and were this upset stomach to subside then I might just find out who is calling me… Peace.

The eternal question continues to burn in the hearts and wallets of artists everywhere— Is art made for the sake of the people, or the artist who makes it? If you think it’s for the people, then that would presume that the art must be mass-produced so it can be purchased by the rich and poor alike. If it’s for the artist, then the art can only be sold for extravagant prices which few can afford. So which to choose if you’re a young struggling artist trying to make a living?

I guess the answer lies in your beliefs. Any artist who tells you they don’t like a payoff is full of that fragrant stuff you find in sewers. But to only have your art owned by wealthy people seems holier-than-thou to me. I think the point of being an artist is making an impact on people’s lives, on their way of thinking. Part of that impact is being able to hold the art, touch the art, damn well destroy the art if you paid for it. You can’t do that when the art is on a museum wall behind a burgundy velvet rope with a security guard to the side.

Maybe I only see it this way because I’m young and unsung as an artist. Supply and demand determines a lot. Money can corrupt even the strongest mind. But I’m going to try to do the right thing, and make art that everyday people can afford. If I ever blow up, I hope I have the sense to remember that. Peace.

Wouldn’t it be great if you’re driving home one night and you get pulled over by a cop? Okay, maybe not. But it would be if that same cop told you he smelled ‘change‘ on your breath and you’d have to step out of your current stagnant life and into something new and exciting. If that was the case, I’d walk the dotted line on my hands and recite the alphabet backwards all night.

You could say that I’m bringing this up because I have a distorted sense of optimism this morning. But that is what opportunity brings. Sometimes you have to believe that good things will happen, even when the odds are stacked against you.

As far as change is concerned with me, I’m right at the door. The owner of the house, Ms. L. Luck, has agreed to listen to my sales pitch. But she’s thinking it over whether or not she wants to let me inside for a cup of tea. If things go really well, she might just invite me in for a ice cold Honey Brown. Now in terms of Sahm metaphors— that would be most stellar.

Have a good weekend.

This morning, I joked to my fiancé about me wearing a hideous kelly green sweater I have at the top of my closet just because I heard on the radio it was St. Patrick’s Day. Since I’m not Irish and no longer a frequent visitor to the Manhattan bar scene, I decided against it.

However, on the train into work, I thought about why people wear colors on holidays… red on Valentine’s, green on St. Patty’s, both around Xmas, orange at Halloween, and any variance of pastels at Easter, etc. But does the penchant for color that relates to a holiday make you any more festive? No, it does not.

I suppose if you are actually Irish, and not a poser like most who just need a good excuse to drink green beer on a Thursday night, then it’s understandable. You’re celebrating your heritage, who you are in relation to your ancestry, and I accept that.

But my point is, try to remember that the surface of things proves nothing… your true allegiance to your roots exists in the inside, and only you need to know that. You could be the Incredible Hulk wearing a giant shamrock dress and it does not prove a thing to anybody.

For anyone who has been stuck in a boring job for a few years with minimal signs of escaping to something better, every so often you might receive a ray of sweet sunshine… it is the light of the staffing agency. It begins with a simple e-mail— “We saw your resume online and wanted to know more”— and the sugar is immediately in your veins.

You emphatically close the sports news window, and reply with your freshly polished resume, plentiful enthusiasm, and of course your job and salary reqs. Then you dance around your room with hope, and wait for the reply that Mr. Staffing has something exactly as you dreamed your dream job would be.

Shortly, you find his reply stating how he’s got two jobs, a freelance position and one in Stamford, CT. And then the sugar rush ends. Which only goes to show that if a staffing agency comes looking for you, then he’s got some shit jobs that he cannot fill, thus killing his monthly commission.

Good jobs don’t land in your lap. You gotta go out and find them. Start looking.

There should never be moments in life that are like that final 5 seconds of the classic game Perfection. You know what I’m talking about— the severe anxiety you would get when you had too many pieces left and shit was about to blow up and fly all over the place. Damn, I swear, as a little kid, that was as close to a heart attack as I could get.

Anyway, my point is that all too often we set ourselves up to self-destruct. We create too many pieces to put into the board… we set the timer too low. When things become complicated, take a step back and remember that life, like Perfection, is just a game. You determine your own rules.

This past Sunday, I had a 1:00pm brunch with family at City Crab on 19th & Park Ave. While I doubt seafood would qualify as good breakfast food, it did work well for lunch since I already ate breakfast at 8:30am.

The thing that made the meal bloggable was that live jazz was playing while we ate. Well, that and I like to imagine the giant crab sculpture they have perched over the door would come alive every night at midnight and dance around like the chickens from the Peter Gabriel Sledgehammer video.

Alas, this is really a mental note to myself, but I truly enjoyed the idea of having brunch to live music… and recommend it to others (just don’t sit too close or otherwise you cannot have a well-heard conversation.) It’s nice to think that when I melt out of bed on a Sunday morning, I could throw on the robe and slippers and have a bowl of Jazzy Brunch Crunch. Or something closely resembling that. You get the point. Peace.

Nothing quite like that feeling that everyone in the world could give two shits about your cause, no matter how hard you try. I mean, sure, family and friends always offer support, but if they did not know you from a fly on the wall, would they be as gracious? Would they be just like all of the people that frustrate you?

Today has found me at the short end of the stick on many business fronts… trying to catch a break is harder to do than kissing your elbow.

It often makes me ponder the question of fate versus self-determination… if this path could have only been better had I made a couple wiser decisions along the way.

And thus, I pass that onto you this quandary: Why do you do what you do?

I see the signs of a friend worn on the bent magazine corners of empty promises and work stress. Enough caffeine to throw a horse’s heart out of its finely musculared chest, yet so little actual credit in your pocket that all immediate goals seem like smoky delusions of an old transformer fanatic’s mind drifting the rails along the brass of a Manhattan bar.

The brood of twentysomethings wallow in the winter chill amongst their parents’ haphazard plans, which usually will end in divorce in three to four years. If only they knew it to be everchanging. You cannot stay the same, no matter which side is really to blame.

I spilled the eternal life cup, when the topic of pleasuring a woman came up. I asked a pretzel vendor on the street if he really gave a shit. He explained to me that some men focus too much on the clit. It was then that a fire engine passed me speeding down 5th avenue. The problem was, it was the thing that was on fire. My boss called me a liar for coming to the company morale meeting. I agreed; I really had only wanted a laugh.

A corporate slut is a conscious choice, but an ulcer is a result of bad attitude. Remember your magically delicious salvation equation: Ghetto logic + high class structure = the verge of something self-righteous. The future is a window that you have the power to spray down with windex or break with a baseball if you so desire to.

The end is always near, as Jim Morrison forecasted… but I know I’m going out trying to make life work for me. If I make it happen or not before I die, it is of no consequence… at least I know I was trying. Effort is what matters. Please remember to brush, floss, comb, dispose, recycle, scrub, scratch, scritch, waltz, tango, breathe, chew before swallowing, savor good beer, sing out loud in the shower, salute your dreams, and save your brain by using it as much as possible.

Name recognition as an artist or a novelist is golden like grahams from a cereal infestation on your cupboards. Most people use that recognition to inflate their ego, because let’s face it—our society is based on self-glorification, it’s the backbone of our collective American dream. Don’t think that freedom is the only motivation for people coming to the states.

So I went about getting my last name (Sahm) embedded in every search engine I could. So when someone is looking for it, my art comes up, my writings come up, and so on. Sounds simple and industrious, right? You could imagine my dismay to learn that my last name yields more search results for the acronym for stay-at-home moms, than it does for my work. So much so that a site doesn’t even have to say Sahm, that many of the engines just associate the acronyms.

And thus I have come to meet the agony of being acronymed. That for the vast language of our simplistic alphabet, it does impede originality in some case. Since there’s a lot more stay-at-home-moms than me, I will inevitably lose that search engine battle. Unless I become ridiculously successful. But let’s not even bother smoking that pipe dream, eh?

So the million dollar question is:
If you were me, and trying to launch your creative career to another level, would you stick with Sahm, or would you create a pseudonym that has more originality?