More About Current Living Conditions.

The Horror. The Horror.

The phenomena in this phouse gave me pneumonia phor real.

And now a little about me.

I'm not the young hotshot guy with the book that makes you consider retirement. (Though it might make you think about taking a three-day vacation.)

I'm not the seasoned journeyman creative that's seen and done it all. (Though I've seen a lot in my day including a giant taco body slam a giant beer bottle in a wrestling ring.)

I'm not the ad geek that can quote Bernbach like scripture. (Though I've been known to spend many a night weak and weary pouring over random industry tomes.)

What I am is a writer with passion for storytelling and a massive chip on my shoulder. I've got something to prove and honestly, I probably always will.

I am not simply what I have done. Who I will be can't be known be looking at who I've been.

I am not predictable.

I am not stale.

And I am never, ever satisfied.

There's a perfect, golden, beautiful story that could be told for every brand. Sometimes the difference between brilliance and run-of-the-mill comes down to the smallest details. I want to tell those golden stories and I will dig as deep as I have to--through every tiny detail--to find them.

Most of the posts here are just rants--proof to myself that I can write more than 50 words at a time. You'll find my portfolio linked up there on the top left. Take a look around and sound off if something so inspires you.

Thanks,

William

Kingdom of the Spiders (from 2004)

Last week was my first week at my new job and the experience of acclimating to my new gig took much out of me. I worked late on Thursday night and could barely manage to stay awake long enough to eat dinner. Immediately after scarfing down some semi-edible bachelor, chow I stumbled sluggishly into my bed.

When I got under the covers I immediately felt something odd. There was something —somethings—under there with me! I felt 6 furry creatures and instantly came to the obvious conclusion—there was a pack of Brazilian goliath tarantulas in my bed. I should let it be known that I have a touch of arachnophobia. I pretty much always think there are spiders in my bed, but never had I felt their furry spider parts on me.

Powered by a million horsepower of pure terror, I shot out of the bed and levitated about 3 feet in the air flailing my arms and legs violently at invisible attackers. In flight, I heard a voice screaming something like “Ohmigawdwathefawk!” and this terrified me even more until I realized it was my own. As soon as toe one hit the floor I started grabbing for anything solid enough smite giant, bed-dwelling arachnids. As I am something of a student of the martial arts, I was lucky enough to have situated my bed in the middle of a very respectable samurai arsenal. With ninja-like agility, I seized the nearest katana (for you rookies, that’s a big damn sword) and threw down my meanest-looking ninja stance.



By this time, my bed covers were undulating as the plate-sized monsters, who, with their cover blown, now prepared to leap from beneath the sheets and attach themselves to my face with Ridlyscottian cunning (it happens). I looked at the 32-inch blade in my hand and thought maybe I could benefit from some more firepower—something in the megaton range—but I realized that there was no time to pay the Russian black market a visit and I would have to face these beasts octomanos a mano. I readied myself to strike down upon the villains with great vengeance and furious anger and threw back the sheets fully expecting to meet my end, and fully prepared to do so fighting in accordance with the warrior’s code.

To my surprise, tossing back the covers revealed something totally unexpected. Looking up at me with what I read to be total feline confusion, lay 6 tiny kittens, their developing brains straining to comprehend why a large human was screaming at them while brandishing a 3-foot long knife.

Kittens! It had not occurred to me that my cat, who had given birth to 6 kittens a week before might stash her brood in my bed. I suppose she had not foreseen a brush with a Benny-Hannaesque demise when she put them there but she really should have known that baby kittens feel EXACTLY like giant Brazilian goliath tarantulas—I mean everybody knows that!

After I changed my underpants and took a dozen or so Valium®, I sat mamma cat down and explained to her that she should refrain from putting her kittens in places where I would least expect to find them as I watched a very scary movie about spiders when I was 7 and tend to react with extreme prejudice when small, furry things are placed in my bed without my consent.



I placed the ball of kittens back in her kitty cage, tucked them snuggly in and went to bed knowing that there was very little chance that any giant spiders would have used the chaos as a distraction to sneak attack me. I mean, what are the odds of that?

The next morning, I went to into my clothes hamper to retrieve a pair of socks. Instead of socks, I felt a writhing ball of fur. After levitating, screaming inaudible obscenities and again brandishing a weapon, I realized that my cat had stuffed her progeny in my hamper. It would appear that she doesn’t listen very well. She just pretends to understand, but I personally think she doesn’t even speak English. It’s a lot like going through the drive thru at Taco Bell really.

I am now accustomed to finding baby kittens in just about any dark and soft place from sock drawers to pant legs. I no longer grab for cutlery when I grab fuzz instead of linen. And that is what worries me. This might be just what the giant Brazilian goliath tarantulas want from me. This might be all part of their plan!

Damn you William Shatner, damn the Kingdom of the Spiders and double damn the Animal Planet!

The Great Lincoln Log Conspiracy.

Every so often something happens that gives me a greater understanding of who I am and how I got that way. Something like that happened today. Today I discovered yet another source of my adult insecurities thanks to a client of ours here at [Redacted] that builds elevators and, as part of a clever ad campaign, we found ourselves attempting to construct Lincoln Log houses.

There's no need to explain the concept, though I am sure question marks are appearing over your head as you try to imagine why a grown man would be getting paid to set around and play with Lincoln Logs. Suffice to say that my job is much cooler than yours...or my employer couldn't find anything better to use me for.

John Loyd Wright: Epic Dick:

You'd think that, as a grown man of 35 years, my tiny log cabin building skills would have improved many fold since childhood. You, however, would be wrong. After a few minutes of construction two things became very clear to me: 1. I am about two points away from being autistic on the Lincoln Log IQ Test and 2. John Loyd Wright was a total dick and possibly guilty of felony conspiracy of the highest order.

Allow me to explain. Check out the pictures of what you are suppose to be able to create from a can of Lincoln Logs. Looks simple. A child could do it, right? WRONG. A child could TRY to do it but they would inevitably fail.

Now why would somebody set children to up fail and crush their fragile little egos?

The Shadow of a Great Man:

Well, let's consider John Loyd Wright, the inventor of Lincoln Logs. I know, you are shocked to find out that Abe Lincoln did not invent the logs that carry his name. That's why you read this blog, for insights like that. You've probably never heard of John Wright, but you've hopefully heard of his dad, Frank Loyd Wright. Yep, John's dad was the most famous and revered architect in the history of people building things.

And his son, also an architect, is famous for creating a childrens' toy. Ouch! The story goes that John was inspired to create Lincoln Logs while watching the construction of his father's Imperial Hotel in Nagoya, Japan (a particularly Lincoln-Log-esque creation). So instead of being inspired to create a masterwork to rival that of dear old dad's, John was moved instead to create a can of notched wooden logs that would forever infuriate children and reduce their dreams of becoming successful architects to nothing more than a formless pile of notched wooden logs.

Or perhaps there is more to it.

Tiny Wooden Houses of Pain:

Some say (me) that John, disgruntled at his attempts to best dad in the edifice-construction department (call it an "edifice complex" if you can stand the sighs of disgust from anybody that hears you do so), decided to exact revenge upon children around the globe. Driven mad by the unrelenting pressure to escape his father's shadow (a story later made into an early horror film), he devised a cunning plan to subject kids to the same soul-crushing experience he had had growing up.

He created what seemed to be a fun toy that also inspired childrens' creativity. That was only on the surface.

The Missing Linc:

Lincoln Logs were actually carefully constructed to introduce children to the same crushing feelings of failure and inadequacy Wright felt as a child himself.

Doubt me? Try to build something (see my example) with Lincoln Logs. It starts out fun and happy times, but you soon run into Wright's devious diablo ex machina: there's only a few logs with three notches--far fewer than would be needed to frame a proper log-a-minium. Call it the tri-notch conundrum if you will...and you will.

Anybody who has built anything with Lincoln Logs knows that those three-notch pieces are the longest and are key to building anything larger than an outhouse. Many a brotherly fist-to-cuffs as broken out over the last three-notcher. It never fails, you get halfway through your construction of a lovely three bedroom Victorian and BAM, no more of the invaluable three-notch pieces to be found. If you want to keep going, you need a whole additional set of logs which dad won't buy you because he spent all his money on stripper and blow again. So you are left with either a half built log structure or a room full of tiny logs scattered in every direction.

Lincoln Logs and the Fall of Democracy:

You might think it is just a clever way to get you to buy more Lincoln Logs. No. That feeling of failure, the feeling of knowing your dreams will only go half fulfilled, echoes of a man whose life went the same way, a bitter bastard named John Wright.

And so one of the reasons I am such a cynical adult who no longer believes in hopes and/or dreams was revealed to me today as I tried to build a kick-ass tri-story Lincoln Log multiplex. Sure it started out well enough but it ended in crushing defeat, just like life itself.

Thanks John Loyd Wright for teaching millions of kids what they could expect in life and breeding cynicism and hopelessness. Considering the Lincoln Logs were marketed to affluent Americans in the 1940s and 1950s (ran TV commercials and only the rich possessed TVs at the time), perhaps the impact was even worse. Our current leaders were only rich little brats back then. Perhaps G.W. Bush or Karl Rove lost their sense of altruism and fair play after suffering repeated defeat on the field of play and vowed to one day exact their revenge upon the world as a whole.

And the cycle continued.

That seems plausible. I'm going with it. It's settled: John Loyd Wright and his confounded tri-wedge-shorted Lincoln Logs led to the depredation of the world as we know it.

Don't agree? Look at the epic FAIL below.

If I'd had a few more of those damned three-notchers, I could have built one of these:

Advair, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG!

Pneumonia, I have it. Why? A fit specimen such as myself, suffering a notorious granny-afflicting ailment?

Well, I recently moved back to Dallas from South Carolina and, in order to save money, my wife, Mrs. Copywriterman, suggested we move into her mother's house and save some money, buy all new furniture and get ahead on some bills.

As my mother-in-law resides elsewhere and the idea of getting a financial leg up sounded bully to me, I went along with the idea.

So, off to Dallas we went, leaving our old furniture behind and all. New place, new stuff, American dream, Waldensian utopia and so on.

What you don't know can hurt you as always. My wife neglected to tell me that her mom's house is a mold-infested, sewage-backing-up, little-house-on-some-damn-prairie throwback with all the comfort and charm (not to mention relative humidity and mold content) of a 14th century dungeon. The mold is so bad in fact that the only treatment is a nuking from orbit (only way to be sure).

It appears that living in such environs has been known to cause epic respiratory distress in mice and copywriters.

The more you know...

To cut to the chase, after wheezing like a asthmatic in a tornado made of dandelions for about a week, I went to the doctor and found out that I had an ear/sinus/every-damn-thing infection and walking pneumonia. As I prefer my lungs functioning above 30%, I agreed to a myriad of shots, pills and to inhale something called Advair thrice daily.

Problem solved, right? Medical science saves the day. Marathons for me mere days later. I mean, Advair is a steroid and steroids give you super powers. My lungs should be strong like bull, right? Right?

No. Not so much.

Advair® (fluticasone and salmetero) has some mind-blowingly ironic side effects. Remember, you take it to help with bronchial ailments, i.e. to breath farking better.

Here are the listed side effects with my particular ones in bold:

Upper respiratory tract infections, such as the common cold -- in up to 27 percent of people
Headaches -- up to 21 percent (Does passing out from lack of oxygen and hitting your head count?
A sore throat -- up to 13 percent
Bronchitis -- up to 8 percent
Coughing -- up to 6 percent
Nausea and vomiting -- up to 6 percent. (Gee, too bad I missed that one)

Sorry, BRONCHITIS? UPPER RESPIRATORY INFECTIONS? Whisky Tango Foxtrot?! You mean the exact things you take Advair to treat? You mean it will help me breathe farking worse? Gee thanks for that.

I suppose this should come as no surprise. Prozac increases risk of suicide. Heart attack meds increase risk of heart attacks.

Dear pharmaceutical companies: YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG. Please revisit the concept of curing ailments at length. Hire, I dunno, some qualified medical personnel, maybe even some doctors, to help sort this all out for you.

Or maybe they are out to kill us all and things are going swimmingly. More concerning to though, maybe my wife is trying to kill me!
She's probably got some superhero-sized immunity to whatever manner of fonchy, microbial malfeasance haunts our house. It could be. She does watch a whole lot of CSI of late.

Surely not.

[cough]

Err....hopefully not.

[From May 1999]


It was 20 minutes after 9 when the drug began to take hold. I had arrived at my desk early and feeling sluggish from the previous night's revelry. I had gotten into that black demon coffee earlier than usual and had consumed two maybe three cups before anyone else had showed up.

I had gone too far this time. 

I didnt feel anything after the first cup so I had another. After the second, time began to lose meaning. It could have been an hour later that I came back for another hit or it could have been only moments. I couldnt be sure. What I was sure of was that things were getting weird all around me and I was going to have a hard time keeping it together.

I remember thinking that I felt a bit lightheaded. And suddenly there was a strange buzzing sound above me like the sound of some great beast of a wasp swooping down on me like a helpless grasshopper. I looked up and realized that I could actually hear the florescent bulbs humming above me. This is not good, I thought.

"What's not good?" said Dan, the portly technophile in the next cubicle. Shocked, I whirled around and fixed a terrible glare on the boy. "What are talking about, man?" I said. "You just said This is not good," he smirked. 

Oh god! He could hear what I was thinking or did I say it out loud? I retreated back to my computer screen and attempted to forget about Dan's possible 6th sense as best I could. But things were no better on my screen. It seemed to be undulating to the rhythm of my pulse. Soon the whole room seemed to be keeping the same time. 



Ye Gods! How long could I keep it together? How long would it be before I started parading up and down the isles ranting about Jesus, damnation and dogs and cats living in sin like some crazed evangelist at the end of a two-week-long meth binge?!

The caffeine was right on top of me now. I was at the peak of the trip and I had a 10:00 meeting coming up fast. Maybe I could just sit quietly and ride it out. Yes, surely I could make it. I just needed some time to get it together.

At that moment, as if sent by a cruel and ill-humored god, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I cannot describe to you the FEAR I felt when I spun around and found myself looking up at my boss and his enormous, floating head. All I could see was his huge head. It seemed detached from the body and everything else in the room faded out as he spoke."William, we need to get together about the ad in USA Today," said the disembodied head. I heard myself say something like, "You can never be too sure about those kind things. Best to use dynamite or maybe ammonium nitrate." I had no idea what that meant but I was fairly sure I had just said it to my now-confused boss's floating head. 

"Hahaha!" chuckled the head. Thank God I was always strange enough that such odd behavior would be viewed as a joke that he didnt get or some counter-culture code referring to some obscure movie he had never seen. I was lucky but how long would that last? It was 9:55 and I had 5 minutes to evolve back into my previous upright form. 

Maybe everything would be OK if I just explained myself. Then perhaps I could rest easy. Surely they would understand my low tolerance for caffeine was the cause for this temporary madness and not the result of the abuse of every chemical known to civilized man since 1452.

On second thought, I'd better ride it out. The fiends would never get me. I just had to find a safe place. I thought back to my early school days of "stop drop and roll" and crawled under my desk for refuge. I'd have to ride it out here. "Buy the ticket take the ride," as they say. 

But was I really safe? A pair of large feet came my way and stopped at the entrance to my cube. This could be bad, I thought. Maybe I could leap out and subdue this interloper before anyone was the wiser. I had seem it done in movies. 


Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.