After some deliberation, we have decided to give the experimentations of Magic Junk Radio a home of its own. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to the tunes for them to get lost in the shuffle at Blogimus Prime. Perhaps it’s wise to not lump everything creative in one place. Perhaps it was just a random decision.

Either way, we had plenty of free space on the server, and it gave me a good excuse to create a kick-ass masthead, as you can see by clicking the link below. A new episode of MJR will be dropping within the next few days, so be sure to set the RSS if you know how. If not, check back.

Magic Junk Radio: An eclectic maelstrom of sounds, voices, and samples.
Submit. Submit. Obey.

I walked out of my basement this weekend to find a praying mantis standing at the top of the stairs. The insect was kind enough to wait while I grabbed a camera, and even kinder to not attack me while I zoomed in to get this close-up.

Click here for the large hi-resolution version.

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.

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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.

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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.

This image is best viewed with a pair of 3-D Glasses.
Or if you happen to stumble down 5th Avenue in a drunken haze.

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!

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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)

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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”.

This image is best viewed with a pair of 3-D Glasses. Yes, nostalgia is everywhere, my friend.

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.

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.