Tankas, smakas

Last week, we were asked to write a Tanka for copywriting class. A Tanka is a form of Japanese poetry. Mine wasn't as poetic as others in the class. I just came up with whatever was swimming around in my head at the time. Which was:

Book store fiasco.

Tall guy hot with box of soap,

Humming in the rain.

His friend with tacos, singing.

Slipping on sidewalk in socks.

We used the Tankas for a marathon of different tones expressed in the form of flash fiction writing. It was a fun exercise. Here are a few of my favorites from the ones I created:

Past tense: Sarah had a book store. It was a complete fiasco. This tall guy worked for her and all he did was sweat all day. I gave him a box of soap for Christmas because his BO was getting on my nerves. He never washed. I told him grab a bar of soap and go hum in the rain - pretend the rain is your shower and lather up. He didn’t find this amusing. His friend always smells like tacos and sings badly. I told Sarah her employees were making her business slip off the edge. She didn’t believe me. I told her wait and see as she stood on the sidewalk, her self-esteem slipping, as she starred at her socks.

Metaphorically: Life is like a bookstore, with one fiasco after another. People come and people go. Some actually stay awhile, making themselves at home with their laptops, but you don’t mind. You enjoy their company. Occasionally, some hot tall guy walks in and you want him to take a liking to you. But he doesn’t. At least not in that way. He thinks of you like a sister and helps you with your car problems and lends you a box of soap if you are in need. He likes to walk in and out of your bookstore, as if he knows his inconsistency in remaining in one place pushes your buttons. One day you may ban him from your store for good, leaving him out in the cold and rain, humming his pathetic song. Then there are people like his best friend, who come into your bookstore, presenting you with every little thing your heart desires - even tacos. He’ll sing your praises, telling you how great you are when the world seems to think otherwise. Maybe that guy exists elsewhere, waiting on some random sidewalk, ready to slip into your book store unnoticed, tip toe-ing in with socks. 

Personification: Books stores are my island retreat, pulling me away from life’s constant fiascoes. I walk straight up to the Hemingway section, starring at a copy of “The Sun Also Rises.” The binder stares back, warmly, understanding my inner-workings before I open my mouth to introduce myself. It’s tall and manly. It looks right through me, beyond this body of a soap box and into my heart. I hum a song in my mind as the rain outside becomes my back up band. “Pitter pitter boom, pitter, pitter,” it says. Besides the Hemingway book, a book about tacos tries to become my new best friend. I will not succumb to the harsh reality of the calories it will try to sneak into my hips at night. Some friend. I sing to Hemingway’s namesake as the sidewalks outside slip quietly away, folding the world into itself like a pair of socks, carrying it off into the distance. 

Official letter: Dear Sammy’s Book Store,

This is to confirm that the author known as Fiasco will be hosted at your “Guest of the Week event.” Fiasco plans to read a portion of his latest book “Tall, Hot Guy with a Box of Soap, the Legend of Misty Creek” and sign his newest paperback “Humming in the Rain.” Fiasco’s only requests is that he is allowed to bring a friend and tacos. Also note, if you are not aware, fans of Fiasco may be slipping on sidewalks in socks on purpose, recreating a popular scene from “Humming in the Rain.” We are not libel for any accidents that may occur if that activity takes place. 

Sincerely, 

Ben Labeled, assistant to Fiasco 

Long form: The rain kept me inside all day. Itching for adventure, I hopped into the car and drove to find signs of life elsewhere. As luck would have it, my car broke down outside of the bookstore. Realizing I left my cell phone at home, I ran into the store in search of a phone. I was dripping wet when I reached the customer service kiosk in the middle of the shop. It was the last place on earth I thought I would end up. 

A tall guy in glasses, who looked awkwardly nervous with beads of sweat falling from his forehead, asked how he could help me. His name tag read Tom. 

“Hi, Tom,” I said. “Do you have a phone I could use? My car broke down and I need to call AAA. I think it might be the battery.” 

“Really?” he said in a surprisingly, deep and attractive voice. Sudden he didn’t look so nerdy anymore. 

“I’ll check it out,” he said. He turned to the guy behind him, whose name tag read James. He told James he was going to step outside to see about my car. Tom then ducked under the counter and pulled out his rain jacket and a box of soap. “It’s where I hide my keys,” he said of the soap box, pulling out his key chain. 

When we walked outside, he started humming in the rain. That’s when my short acquaintanceship with him turned quickly into a crush. Tom came to the same conclusion I did about the car: It was the battery. He offered to jump it with his car. 

I felt like we were vehicle surgeons as Tom pulled, twisted and wrangled with jumper cable wires. My only job was to turn the key every time he said “now.” 

By the fourth “now,” the car was purring like a kitten. I was happy but sad all at once, not wanting Tom to leave me. James walked outside with a bag of tacos. “Your order’s here!” he said to Tom. 

I got out of the car as Tom put the hood down. 

“Hungry?” he asked me. 

“Boy, am I,” I said, smiling eagerly. 

Walking back into the bookstore, the unthinkable happened. I slipped on the sidewalk in my socks and shoes. But the awesome part was that Tom caught me in his arms. I could smell his aftershave as his scruffy beard rubbed against my face. He looked into my eyes. I smelled his peppermint breath. 

“Your car should break down in front of the bookstore more often,” he said, as he helped me to my feet. 

As we walked back into the shop, Tom placed his arm around me. 

Chaplin's film buff time traveler

The year was 1928, and a "butch" woman from the future just happens to time travel her way as an movie extra into Charlie Chaplin's film "The Circus." She gives herself away by talking on what looks to be a cell phone. Epic, right?

Because if I was a time traveler, old movie sets would be the first place I'd hit up.

Sure.

Actually, for me, it would probably be "Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back," maybe "Funny Face" with Audrey Hepburn, "Grease" and those 1980's hits "The Golden Child" with Eddie Murphy, "Sixteen Candles" and "Mannequin." Or perhaps the classic "12 Angry Men." Ha. I could walk into the jury's chamber with an iPad and a Playstation phone.

No, wait. I'd visit "It's a Wonderful Life." Lots of time travel and secretly-introducing-21st century-gadgets to be had in that film.

Zuzu's petals suddenly become those toy Zhu Zhu Pet Hamsters that were all the rage last season.

Below is the dude who made the "discovery." He uses the first few seconds of the video to shamelessly plug his own films by the way. Wonder if a time traveler found his way into his films . . .

Intruder alert

The other night, I was awaken to the sound of crunching at 4 a.m.

Like something walking on plastic bags that crunch under its feet.

In my bedroom.

My eyes shot opened.

I knew it could only be one thing. A rodent of some sort. Ugh, writing about it now still makes me uneasy. At the time, I thought I probably was hearing things, so I laid in bed, hoping to drift back into sleep. But the crunching sound happened before any form of sweet dreams did.

I didn't know what type of bug I was dealing with, but I knew it wasn't the small hear-no-evil-see-no-evil kind. No, friends, this had to be a mac daddy roach. I jumped up, turned on the bedroom light and went into the kitchen. That's when I noticed the microwave clock displaying 4 a.m. I had been up late and needing every little bit of sleep I could get. This definitely wasn't helping matters. I grabbed a broom and a nearly empty can of bug spray, wondering why didn't get a new can while I was at the grocery store last week.

I spent the next 15 minutes standing at the threshold of my room with broom and bug spray in hand, hoping for the best, fearing for the worst and wishing there was a man around. Afterwards, I decided to spray the corner where I heard the noise. Three seconds later, I heard something thrashing around, like it was in a box or caught up in some paper. I hadn't finished unpacking all of things from the move to Atlanta, I thought perhaps it was in one of the boxes. After another 15 minutes, I decided to hop on my bed and investigate the scene from a far. It was a roach all right. It sat still in a corner, next to a box containing my 4 foot Christmas tree. It must have gotten in there somehow and then had to fight its way out.

Reaching over, still on my bed, I sprayed a little more. The bug ran around and disappeared behind my skinny Christmas tree box to die. I felt satisfied enough to go back to sleep - on the couch, waiting until sunlight to scoop up the mischief maker and flush him down the toilet. Every night since, though, I've contemplated sleeping with the lights on.

Political Hijinks

From "I am not a witch" to demon sheep, entertainment abounds in these political ad campaigns. I love it.

Check it out:


I disagree with one of the guys in this NBC segment, though. He said that having a misspelling in an ad is okay even if we don't notice it. It may be forgivable but it's still uncool.

Feelin' meh.

Ever feel like the things you create should be a billion times better than how it turns out? I'm feeling that way now, but I was so encouraged after watching this video with Ira Glass. The heart of it is about creator's block and how it's a natural part of a storyteller's life. The key is you have to keep creating, even if the work you churn out is crap. Eventually, you'll break through the crap to get to the gold.

Enjoy.

The truck driver (in the tone of "The Old Man and the Sea")

This is what was known about Jason: He drove a truck for a living. Jason would go up and down the highway carrying appliances to and fro.

He loved his job because it was just him and the road. No one else was with him. Just him and talk radio. 

But one day, Jason wondered what else he could do with his life. He didn't have any other ambitions. He had no desire to be famous. He had no desire to capitalize on the world. He only liked driving his truck, yet he wondered if life offered more than the ordinary. 

Jason told people he was simply "A trucker guy." He wanted to change that sentence to something more conversational. Sentences like "I build hotels" or "I race cars" or "I once wrestled an alligator with my bear hands" would make him feel more important. 

He thought about all this one day during his truck ride from South Carolina to North Carolina, where he delivered dishwashing machines to a small remote appliance store in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He loved going there. The moutains were home to one of his favorite people - Mr. Sageworth. Mr. Sageworth was the 98-year-old owner of Sageworth's Appliances, the only store of its kind within a 78-mile radius. Mr. Sageworth never smiled or laughed, not even when he was making a joke, which was often. He was one of the most straight-faced men Jason ever met. Mr. Sageworth was perhaps the world's greatest salesman, too.

"It takes charisma to do that," Mr. Sageworth often said in his monotone voice.

Insert laughing here, Jason would always think to himself after Mr. Sageworth spoke.

Jason's next trip to Sageworth's Appliances would be next week. 

Wanna be like Harry P. (in the tone of "Atonement")

Stapled to the bedroom door was a chaotically-written note in red crayon that read: "Do not disturb. Experimental genius at work."

Greg smirked when he saw it. This was becoming a famous ritual in the household. It would have been an oddity if there was no note stuck on the door.

Ignoring the sign, Greg disturbed, knocking on the door thunderously before opening it and walking into the room like he created it with his own hands.

"Greg!" a young voice called out. "Didn't you read the sign?"

"I thought that was a suggestion," Greg said with the same smirk, looking at his 8-year-old younger brother Ben. Ben was holding two drum sticks tight in his hand, hovering them over a large, shiny black top hat that sat upside down on a desk.

Ben didn't have time for his brother's petty games. He had to find a way to muster up a rabbit out of thin air before 6 p.m. - the start of the neighbor's pool party. He was determined to be one of the main attractions, second only to the pool. He had been crafting his magic act for hours with no intriguing conclusion. Six o'clock was fast approaching.

Ben was a serious sort. For eight days, he focused his attention on alluring YouTube videos and read all things his mind could decipher on magic - his latest captivation. Yet, he couldn't adapt the magic tricks in the proper way. What little he could do seemed too amateurish and dismally short of spectacular.

In one attempt, he sat for an hour and prayed with eagerness over the hat, noting that if God could speak the entire universe into existence, he could surely be called upon to come to the aid of a boy needy of a bunny.

After the prayer, Ben waited a moment in earnest. Hopeful.

Only silence occurred, after which Ben sat, discontent, on the window stoop. He pondered the existence of miracles in relation to cotton-tailed bunnies. Somehow his mind went from that to drum sticks. He wondered if this is what ADD felt like as melancholy filled his little 8-year-old body. But then he asked himself, with sudden enthusiasm, "What would Harry Potter do?"

And so, this his how Greg found his little brother - in an copious state of mind, with drum sticks in hand, trying to make a bunny that would never come appear swiftly out of thin air. Greg didn't have the heart to tell him the truth about where real magical bunnies come from, i.e. Petland and the like.

Greg shook his head with contempt bent on levity. His little brother was such a drama queen, fretting over magic hats and drum sticks. He wondered why Ben couldn't learn how to pitch a fast ball, like normal 8 year olds.

Ben took his brother's towering presence as the perfect opportunity to wallow in self-pity.

"Paradise lost!" Ben cried, picking up the hat and noticing, for the first time, that there was a large hole through the lid with remnants of white, fluffy fur stuck on its torn edges. "It's paradise lost!"

Greg's eyes grew large with surprise. His mouth fell open in astonishment.

Ben leaped to his bed in one flawless move and crawled underneath the covers, so his antagonizing brother couldn't see. He let the tears fall. Then, after a moment, Ben got up and advanced pass Greg with a courtly walk, wishing him adieu.

Greg's head dropped and his smirk returned. He wondered how Ben managed to get through each day with such dramatics. He also wondered if there was really a rabbit in the room. Perhaps its name was Paradise.

Just another Friday (in the tone of "Middlesex")

The sky was a clear crystal blue amplified against the emerald green grass of the park. They sat under the shade of a tree - on Sarah's multicolor picnic blanket - watching friends play Frisbee under the golden sun. 

Sun beans saturated Sarah's head. Being outside felt like medicine for her soul, soaking all the worry away and momentarily shutting down her ever growing mental to-do list. 

As she was enjoying the sunshine with the look of bliss planted on her pale face, Billy, who was sitting next to her, folded his tanned hands and put them behind his head. He was glad it was Friday. 

"Friday's are awesome," he said as his body flopped down on the blanket.

As normal as Billy seemed on the surface, he had issues. The most tragic being he was homeless. The only people who knew was his best friends Sarah and Jim. But Julie didn't know. Neither did Brian or Blair. He didn't want them to. 

They also didn't know that Billy's parents were drug addicts. Not the kind you see on "Cops" or "Requiem For A Dream," but the kind that went to church every Sunday and were active participants of the PTA. Their goodness gene rubbed off on Billy, who would, as early as age six, called his parents out on their sins. 

At 12, he moved in with his elementary school friend Sarah and her family, who were happy to have him. Living with them brought a better sense of normalcy - three square meals a day, clean house and all of the love, attention and video games a boy could ever want. He was lucky Sarah was an only child. 

"I always wanted a brother," she told him when he first moved in five years ago. 

As far as Julie, Brian and Blair knew, Sarah and Billy were cousins. That's what they told everyone. 

After four years of normal, he wanted to leave, to go back home to his mom and dad, who seemed so picture-perfect from a far, as American as cheese and apple pie. But that was only an act. If all the world was truly a stage, Billy's parents were definitely players who knew how to act. How to play to the audience. To give the people what they want.

At 18, Billy's home is the green open fields of the city park. But you wouldn't know this by looking at him. He often dressed in oxford shirts with his dark brown hair reeking of Pert. 

Sarah had once told Billy she loved the smell of Pert, and he's used it ever since. In fact, his nickname for her was . . . 

"Hey Pert," Billy whispered loud enough for only Sarah to hear, lying down with his hands still folded behind his head, starring at the sky. "Do you think I should try to move back home again?"

"Home?" she whispered, eyes on the Frisbee game, not Billy. "Yes, if you mean home with me and your second family. Only with us, no one else. That's the only home you have."

Pert turned and gave him her best smile before a Frisbee came by and knocked her on the head. 

"What the . . .," Sarah yelled, rubbing her head as everyone laughed. 

Billy laughed uncontrollably. He wished everyday could be like this. For him, home wasn't four walls and a kitchen, it was Sarah. But the truth of the matter was he was homeless. In the real world, homelessness is a stigma. 

That special day (in the tone of "Cathedral")

Tommy's head was spinning fast and furious. He always felt this way when he rode the G train from Jersey. Round and round his mind went, like a washing machine on edge.

The sudden pull back motion and the sharp whistle of each train stop pinched his ears. Made him close his eyes tight and grit his teeth so hard that he wouldn't have been surprised if his teeth cracked under the pressure.

Tommy hated Jersey. He hated the dilapidated look of his neighborhood, his neighbors, his life - disheveled and forlorn. Every once and blue - on days like today - he'd hop the G train and head to the City. New York was only a 20 minute ride away.

Today was special, Tommy thought, as the train picked up again, gradually speeding away from another stop. He could see the people outside turn to blur.

A little boy beside him cried out on the train. A skinny Indian man across from him sneezed. The young woman, whose right arm hovered above him as she held on to a pole, looked down at him, batting her deep purple eye lids. The train did its forward pull back stop motion, followed by that piercing pinch.

When Tommy closed his eyes this time, the scent of flowers made his way through his nostrils -  it was the young woman's perfume. As the train came to - back from its momentary dizzy spell of start, stop and go - he noticed the woman's purse open at will to the gravitational pull of the train. He saw a gun.

She pulled it out of her bag fast and waved it in the air, shouting "Everyone stand back!"

Tommy looked at the woman's face. Long black hair silhouetted it. He saw lines around her eyes and under it - like she hadn't slept in a week. All of a sudden, she didn't seem so young anymore. She quickly closed her bag with her free arm after giving Tommy a venomous look. Tommy quickly turned away, looking out the window. People continued to whiz by in a blur. The boy next to him - a young Indian boy - started crying again. He realized the boy was with the man across from him. Tommy's head started spinning again. Fast and furiously.

A middle-age woman with blonde hair, just three people away to the left of Tommy, screamed. The woman with the gun whirled the instrument at her. The boy cried louder and louder. The Indian man reached out for the boy, his arms gathering like a life saver around the kid just as the words "Nobody move!" were uttered by the woman with the gun.

A gunshot thicken the silence.

Tommy sucked in the air and closed his eyes tight, gritting his teeth as the train stopped and the smoke from the barrel filled the air. All Tommy could hear was the boy's howling tears that echoed through the train car.

Tommy opened his eyes and saw blood, then turned to notice the woman with the gun running off the train as fast as her long black boots could carry her. Tommy turned around and looked at the boy. He looked over and saw the woman, three people away, open her mouth wide as if to scream - but he couldn't hear her. He could only hear the boy, who fell into the arms of the Indian man. That's when Tommy realized that something wasn't as it seemed.

The blood, slowly growing into an ever thickening pool on the silver train car floor was his, not the boy's.

Tommy was on the ground. He couldn't remember how he got there.

"Thank you," the Indian man, who knelt down over Tommy, seemed to mouth. "You saved my son's life."

The world grew faint and quiet in sound and in presence. A smile slowly gathered around the ends of Tommy's lips.

It had been a special day after all. Life, now coming to an end for Tommy, finally had a purpose, he thought.

Waiting in the dress (in the tone of "Fight Club")

I'm in heels. I'm sweating. I walk up the stairs in the little black dress that was sitting in my closet for over a year with the tag still on - until now. All this time, it got passed over for conservative chic. But not tonight. Tonight I'm going all out and I don't want to fail at it.

I walk up stairs, ready to enter another world, a world transformed from the beautiful to the divine. My eyes meet a silver-haired woman dressed in black greeter wear at a tiny desk on the stairs.

"Press," I said, wearing the badge around my neck.

It's my get-into-all-the-cool-places-for-free-card. Perhaps places where I don't want to be, as well.

The woman gives my a shiny black press packet and cuffs my right wrist with a colorful band. This is the part of my job that people envy. This is part of my job that makes me tense. The stairs were just the beginning. Stairs can take you up, but heels, if you can't maneuver them, can take you down.

I can already feel my temples growing warm. I sweat when I get excited. I sweat when I get nervous. I sweat when I have a pulse. Glad it's fall.

But it's fall in Florida, so that doesn't mean much.

Here, there's no true winter and barely a fall. The seasons are are "hot," "hotter" and, if you're lucky, about three weeks of mild. The cold is over before it really begins. The air takes a hint of fall, but not enough to count for anything. Blame it on global warming, or that gas guzzler you drive.

I walk briefly through a hallway and into the courtyard, where life is taking a break to party. Wall-to-wall people carpet the grounds. Champagne is pouring in the distance. There are ice sculptures against real marble ones. I find it ironic that such time and effort was put into a sculpture that will melt in five hours or less. I look to the left and a symphony quartet is playing. Tables are filled with hors d'oeuvres. My stomach is filled with butterflies. I can't eat. I'm here for a reason. I've got a job to do.

Watch, report and write.

I take a step. Then another. And another. Hope to kill time by walking. Only two minutes go by. What to do while I wait? Look confident and sweat free, hoping I don't trip in these heels.

I take a deep breath and imagine looking pleasant. Calm. You are what you believe. Glad I wore the black dress. I feel young and pretty. Pretty and beautiful. Beautiful and gorgeous. Even my hair, newly trimmed, is playing nice. For a moment, all feels right with the world. But I wonder how long it will last. I feel swallowed by the crowd coming to and fro, surrounding me, enveloping me, passing me by like busy bees.

Three minutes go by. I have 20 more to kill before speeches and fireworks and an evening of symphonic music and grabbing random people for quotes. This is the job that I do.

It can be hectic sometimes. At times, not so pretty. I'll spare you the not-so-pretty details.

I hear the cling of glasses plump with champagne, violin bows hitting strings in jazzy vibrations and the chatter of the crowd. There's nothing like an art-filled social event in West Florida - an inaugural event - to bring people out in droves before the real tourist season starts. Here they are: The rich. The artsy. The old. The know-it-alls. The curious. The sophisticated. The beautiful. The proud. The seen and be seens. And me. Girl next door reporter in the black dress.

The wallet (in the tone of "Less Than Zero")

He pulls out his wallet. It's brown leather with etchings and I can't remember if it was a present I gave him. There was a time I loved giving guys wallets, ball caps and ties.

I think about Christmases and birthdays. I think about those "just because" and "I saw this and just had to get it for you" purchases. I was too nice back then. I wanted to please too much.

I close my eyes and quietly shake my head. I'm not so much that way anymore. I wonder if Barry notices this as I stare into his face. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't. I am distracted by a speck of dust in his hair as he makes small talk. I want to reach over and pick it out, but I don't. I don't have the courage. My heart deflates in defeat.

He puts the wallet back in his pocket as we wait for the waitress to return. That wallet looks too thin to be something I gave him. Anyway, why would I care if he did or didn't use it? I lie to myself, telling my mind that it is all irrelevant now as Barry goes into pop culture mode, talking about the latest he said, she said.

I smell tacos from far off. The sun burns through the windows and into the middle of the restaurant where we are sitting. I notice a guy at the booth across from us stretch his legs out toward me for a moment.

I look into Barry eyes. He smiles. My heart deflates.

The waitress comes to pick up our checks and I suddenly am glad for another momentary distraction. I feel like getting up and running away.

Square box of empty (in the tone of "Trainspotting")

Love sucks. Only because I don't have it. I can't find it meandering through this here life like I do. When I find it, I don't even freakin' know I have it. By the time I realize I do, it erases itself into utter freakin' nothingness.

Can't even win for losing.

I saw this guy the other night. He was this stranger on a stage. I didn't know him from Adam, and I thought 'I'd like to marry him one day.' What kind of crazy, flipping thought is that? But folk think this crap everyday, don't they? Strangers end up marrying totally strangers they don't ever take the freakin' time to get to know for qualities other than potential trophy wife or big money husband appeal.

Darn, freakin' nonsense. Can't believe the world works this way. And this is the only model I have?

'Bout time I move to another planet, perhaps. One with better climate control while I'm at it.

But this guy I saw - he could sing really well and he didn't make my eyes glaze over in a fix. Totally eye candy - the good kind that doesn't corrupt a gal from the inside out or turn her teeth black. Yet I can barely picture an introduction with him. How would we freakin' meet? I bet he's married. All the good ol' ones are.

I guess I can't figure out the horrid logistics of love. I reckon that's the class I missed somewhere in between undergrad and the real freakin' world. Somehow I got railroaded and train-wrecked. Branded too accident-prone for love.

Y'all know what I should do? Start a new religion here for love worn-outs who can find love by being drugged out of the square-pegged box of empty they just happen to fall into by no shear means of their own. More suitable eye candy is what we need. None of that freakin' fake stuff.

Fake is useless.

Chance of rain (written in the tone of "Motherless Brooklyn")

Things falling on your head can't be that bad. I challenge you to test this hypothesis. I mean, it could be opportunity knocking, a wake up call from life or something to break the random stream of conscienceness in the form of a silent film playing in your head. I see it as a game of chance. Like alphabets tumbling out of the heavens, into the stratosphere and breaking through sturdy tree branches with a crunch before landing on, say, the tire repairman's noggin.

The question is how will it hit you when it falls. With a thud? With a pang? Perhaps a subtle descent like a feather falling from the wing of a pelican, tickling your face as it floats within your line of sight.

Here it comes now. Don't look up. Close your eyes. Brace yourself, like a woman giving birth in a New York City taxi cab. Just breathe.

Things can tumble from the sky like the letter "O." If O's could tumble.

O's remind me of alphabet soup. Or better yet, alphabet cereal, swimming in a little pond of white. Lost in a sea of letters. A's. B's. C's. No wonder it's breaking free. How can it find its identity when everyone carries the same alphabetical DNA contained in a space the size of a cereal bowl? It's no way to live, really. So it decides to fall out of the "Milky Way" for its second life. For its redemption, which suddenly crashes in on your life, becoming either your rise or fall.

Since we know the O is coming - and it will come, in all its oozing, ornamental opulence - we must return to the question: How will it hit you when it falls?

With a optimistic pelt? Or a thud of oppression? Chew on those words a moment - optimistic and oppression. Savor it like a last meal of some sort. Like your last cheeseburger.

C'mon. You can figure this out. This question weighs like a game of chess on a shiny marble board, with your knight aiming to take down the Queen before your home base becomes occupied by a fellow knight in the form of your friend Larry or that darn tire repairman whose tires are overpriced by at least 50 cents to the dollar. Before you get to point where you have to brace yourself, before you second-guess, define the fall before it defines you.

You just have to close your eyes and breathe, really.

Ringling Fest this week

I can't believe I'm going to miss the second annual Ringling International Arts Fest in Sarasota. I had the opportunity to interview some of the talent coming this season before I left Florida. Last year's event was more than I had hoped for - amazing to say the least - and it was neat seeing people embrace the arts and all of its grandness.

Read my overview story that ran today.

Is there really such a day?

Okay, so I don't recall there ever being a National Stop Sucking Your Thumb Day, but apparently, real or not, the day is coming on Oct. 12.

There's a movement on Facebook (a whooping 65 people strong) in support of the day where thumb suckers everywhere will kick the habit and join the rest of the world in normalcy.

After a little digging, I found out Elise Primavera is using the day to promote her new children's book "Thumb Love." The book is about a little girl who develops her own 12 step program from thumb sucking.

I honestly don't believe the kiddies out there are going to commit to not sucking their thumbs on Oct. 12. Kids will be kids. Now, if there are any adults out there who still suck their thumb, well . . .

That's just plain gross.

For the TV idea inclined

A few days ago I submitted my TV idea for the Florida-based Sarasota County Film & Entertainment Office's "TV ME!" contest. My chance at fame!

Contest officials are looking for fresh ideas for reality TV, dramas, comedies, documentaries, etc. I decided to play the perhaps overused reality TV card. But my idea is pretty sensible. No crazy brides, ruthless nannies or jaded bachelorettes. I won't share my idea here, though. The only way you'll find out about it is if I win. :)

If you've ever had a good idea for a TV show, now is the time to try to make it into a reality by entering the contest. The person with the coolest idea will be flown to California for the opportunity to pitch his or her show in front of Hollywood TV executives. I wrote a story about it for the Bradenton Herald before I left. You can also find details about the contest here.

I have another really cool idea for a drama with a "treatment" (show description/details) almost done, yet I haven't had the time to finish it and with money tight (student budget) I have to decide if I want to sacrifice the $20 entry fee for it. I might . . . great opportunities require sacrifice of some sort. Right?

Anyway, I was stoked when I turned in my first submission because I had a really encouraging conversation with Charles Meyer, executive director of the Scriptwriters Network, which is based in Los Angeles. Meyer is partnering with the SCFEO for the contest. I called him because I was having trouble downloading one of release forms and hoped he could help. I told him about my leaving the Herald to go back to school in Atlanta to study advertising. He said it was a good move - a move that could pave the way for me to become a TV writer one day, should I want to become one. That's because it will give me a better understanding of writing for TV in general (via commercials and working with commercial brands). Plus, coupled with my journalism background, I'll be even more marketable, he said. I never thought of it like that. He mentioned a handful of copywriters who made the switch from advertising to writing for TV shows, including the guy that helped developed the hit show "Cheers."

That really inspired me. But first, one career at a time. Gotta learn the terrain of advertising first, be great at it and then see what else life has in store.

The future meets my past

Here's a repost from a post I found from one of my old blogs, dated July 29, 2007. It's neat to look back on this, especially since I am pursuing a career in advertising now. I didn't have a clue on how to get into it then. Glad I didn't take the original advice I found on the Internet. Ad sales is NOT the way to break into the creative side of advertising.

career switch?

One day, the same friend from the previous post asked me what I would do if I could do anything else besides being a reporter. That's easy:

Write commercials.
Go into public relations.

I love commercials, especially the ones that really catch my attention, like all good commercials should. I don't really have an all-time favorite one though. I have a few ideas for some though, which I won't share — who knows, I could actually use them one day.

Here's a cool one:


During my video production class in college we got to write and produce our own commercials. It was really cool. Though I can't remember what mine was about, except that I used part of the soundtrack from "A Charlie Brown's Christmas" for it and I had people sitting around drinking coffee or something ... My mom asks me about commercial writing every once in a blue cause when I was a kid I used to tell her that I would enjoy doing that. I should do it one day, but I don't have a clue how I would get into it.

Curious, I looked on the Internet. Looks like I would have to take some marketing classes, but it said that if I'm really passionate about it, I could break into the business by working in ad sales (yuck), maybe even PR. Plus, I'm great with listening to other people's needs, which is needed when you meet with clients about their product. . . .

Write and possibly win a scholarship

If you're constantly looking for cool scholarship opportunities (like me), I encourage you to check out superfuturescholarship.org. If you sign up, create a page and get active on the site by blogging/posting about your dreams, careers goals, etc., you could be eligible to win some cash for school. It's called the "I Want More Scholarship." The Web site is giving away $10,000 worth of scholarships for its next big award bonanza (deadline is Dec. 24). Find out more when you visit the site.

I switched

Is it sad that I’ve spent an hour looking over the horrid selection of WordPress themes to choose for yet another blog of mine? I actually found one that I liked made specifically for WordPress on another site, but I have no clue how to install it. The layout here may change from time to time until I get one that fits the groove of this blog, whatever that groove may be. This will do for now. I’ll start writing real stuff soon – promise.

. . . Two hours later . . .

I've decided to switch over to blogger. The templates are way better. Plus, it's neat to go through some of my defunct blogs on here.