8/30

That was grumpily plastered on the whiteboard of my first class at the Adcenter, Conceptual Thinking in Copywriting with legendary Coz Cotzias. He told us to write this date down and we followed his order with fervor and intense anticipation.

He soon shattered our excitement with this simple paraphrase— “you have no f---ing clue what you just walked into. This is the date to get all your money back from the school. I expect at least four of you to not be here by the end of the semester.”

After being yelled at like tattered young sailors for the first 30 minutes, our ship’s captain continued by letting us know that this is the biggest group of copywriters that the school has ever admitted, twenty-four. He also belted that this was also the most diverse group of writers they’ve ever admitted. It seemed as if he was licking our wounds from the razor-tongued lashing we received from the class intro. But, he sucker punched our egos by letting us know a little secret.

The secret? According to our great leader, a leader with the awards, work and years to prove it, our ’09 class of writers is the most untalented group of writers ever admitted. Sure, we have plenty of talents, work experience, even a law degree. That’s not what he meant. He meant that our applications were complete SH*T. Of the 24 people in the copywriting program, 8 of us are considered long shots and need to be working our buns off to keep up. All of us had crappy samples that we turned in. Simply put, we were the worst group of writers the school has ever seen.

He did comfort us by saying that it is all going to change. For the better.

The one thing we did have, the reason we all got in was the amount of cream factor we have for our chosen craft—we love advertising and creative communication.

We started bombarding the legend with questions, and the vibe of the class completely changed. He sensed we were getting “it” a lot faster than he anticipated—so fast that he decided to extend class from three hours to just a smidge past six hours, covering our first three lectures on the first day, instead.

The funny thing is I loved every minute of it. The cursing. The rants and raves. The doubt. The realization. The passion. The promise that if we work our buns off we are going to be amazing. And really, isn’t that all that any of us ever really wants, to be amazing?

Steve is a brave, brave soul

I’ve never met the guy. I’m kind of glad I haven’t. His breath probably smells like old gym socks with a dash of sewer water. I apologize for the visual.

My older brother sent me a link to a blog called The Sneeze, and in particular, a section lovingly titled, “Steve, don’t eat it.” This section of the blog is part Fear Factor, part stupid and part balls. The dude goes on a culinary adventure, if you could call it that, and documents his experience for us less willing, weaker-stomached folk.

One of my favorite posts is when Steve the insipid decided to try Beggin’ Strips. As he listed of the ingredients, he realizes that one of the ingredients is “meat.”

That’s it. “Meat.”

No specific meat. No turkey, ham, nor anything that moos.

Just meat.

And really, if you think about it, it is probably composed of the same “meat” that was so jocundly served to us as high school kids and undergrads in school cafeterias. When it comes to this “meat,” the Charms Blow Pop Owl is probably right, “the world may never know.”

So, Kris, what does this have to do with any of the themes or literary motifs that are normally presented on this blog?

Well, to be honest, not too much. I just found it interesting. You could rack it up to the life category. Or you could wrap your brain around how to be interesting/remarkable/viral for you Purple Cow fans. I mean damn, I couldn’t stop reading what Steve was going to try next. Just think of the potential a random, weird, yet interesting website can entail. Mmm, I can smell the cash.

All I know is that I’m sure as heck not going down on a can of Cuitlacoche (pronounced (kweet-lah-KOH-chay), or “black fungus infected corn” anytime soon.

Richmond is a long way from Lawrence.

I’m here. Richmond, VA.

And wow, I didn’t miss Southern humidity. It feels like I’m trying to breathe underwater and we all know how successful that can be, right? Right?!

Thus far, I’ve been a little overwhelmed with new names, new faces and some of the most interesting life stories I’ve ever heard. Folks from Thailand, India, Mexico and yes, the good ol’ U.S. of A. Oh, and let me clarify, overwhelmed in a good way.

I’m excited to get jiggy with the program and work my buns off all for the love of my craft. I’m also excited about finding opportunities to use words that no one uses anymore, ie. jiggy. I smell a resurgence, that is, unless Will Smith has it copyrighted.

I still can’t believe I’m here. It doesn’t feel like home. It feels like I’m just on trip or something; as if I’m coming back to KCI any day now. I’m sure it’ll set in that I’m in the deep end of the pool once my classes start up and my sleeping habits become worse than undergrad all-nighters could ever hold a candle to. Damn, I hope I packed my floaties.

One last thing to do before I get this show going, how am I suppose to come up with $40,000 to pay for this again?

Last Day in Wilbraham

10:08 PM.

Six hours from now I'll be on the road trying to beat the sun to Richmond. Of course the sun will win. It always does.

At least 10 hours is how long the finally leg of what has seemed like a summer long journey will take. The road and I have always been fond of one another, but tomorrow starts a new layer to our relationship. Bring on the miles.

I'm sure I'll have lots to think about, which is good. Remember where I've been. Smile at where I'm at. Find where I'm going. Just me, the road and the crimson sun. That and my parents and prolly a phone call or two to my lovely girlfriend.

Goodbye Wilbraham. See ya in Richmond.

Rainy Wilbraham, MA

Remember in elementary school when we used to sing and taunt the rain to “go away and come again another day.” Yeah, well, in Wilbraham, MA, it ain’t going away. Not all day, at least.

I’m in my parent’s house. Granted, I’m not from MA, nor have I ever lived her for more than a month. Geez, they’ve only lived here a little over two years. So, what is there to do in a quaint township on the outskirts of Springfield, MA, which sometimes seems as generic as its Simpon’s-esque name?

Not a damn thing. And that’s good. Monday morning I will be a Richmonder.

So, in honor of a happier, more colorful time (that and I’m bored) enjoy this music video from Zero 7. I guarantee you’ll like it, unless you like “Pop, Lock and Drop it.” Then, I just can’t help ya.

Damn, I hate it when Richard Ashcroft is right.

Today is it. Well, 4:55pm is it.

That’s when this journeyman says farewell. Farewell to a place that I now claim as my home, even though I’ve never considered any place home. Farewell to dear friends and dear foes. Farwell to all the good times and the bad. Farewell to all the fun times and the sad. Farewell to the best summer of my life.

Farewell to my reason. Farewell to the love of my life, my girlfriend, Sarah.

She is everything I never knew existed, but always wanted. Someone who is Mother Theresa-caring, but Goof Troop-silly. Someone who is as down-to-Earth as she is sexy. Someone who whole-heartidly, unconditionally loves me for me and not the pseudo-glitz and glam that sometimes comes with me. Just loves me, Kris.

And for that I cannot thank her enough.

I know I’ve mentioned her amazing-ness on this blog before, but no, my friends, it isn’t to kiss her buns just because I know she reads this sometimes. No, it is because I mean it with every ounce of me, every centimeter of me, every nano-whatever. My whole being. I love her.

She’s been so supportive of all that is going down and what will be happening in the next 60 weeks. And I’m making damn sure to make her part of every minute of it, although she’ll be 1100 miles away. Shit, that’s just a phone call and plane ride with the occasional layover.

Point being is that it feels like I’m going off to war, creative war, and damn, it is amazing to know that she’ll still be in my life in a place I never thought I could call home. That is my home. My parents are in Massachusetts and that’ll be home. But home is where the heart is as well. Call me cliché, but you’d agree if you got to hold her the way I do.

So, as I sit here next to her—her clueless that my last entry in Kansas City is completely about what I hold most dear, her—and I think about Southwest Airlines and I dancing later on this afternoon, I can’t help but think that Richard Ashcroft is right. That bastard.

It’s a bitter sweet symphony.

I love you, Sarah. Thank you.

Wichita tastes like hell, but the wedding sure was nice

This weekend, my girlfriend and I hopped in the car and took a lil’ trip down to Wichita, KS to see my best friend tie the knot. After almost 4 hours of some serious car bonding time and all the dully beautiful, open spaces Kansas can offer, we made it—Wichita, KS.

Now, if you don’t know me yet, let me fill you in on a little secret. I hate Wichita, KS. I’ve never had a good experience there. I always performed like crap there for state track meets in high school. Last two times I’ve been down there my dad almost got in fist fights with some of the most trailer-y people I’ve seen since….the gut bucket of Alabama. (no offense…but Alabama isn’t the most advanced place in the world. I mean come on, car insurance isn’t even required in that state and I guess neither is having your wife not be related to you. Cliché’s aren’t bad if they’re true, right?!)

This time started off the same way my stints in Wichita always start off, horribly. For the first two hours we were lost, frustrated, hot, anxious and upset. Classic Wichita.

But as the rehearsal dinner started and toasts were made during day one, I started to realize a couple things:

1) This wasn’t my girlfriend and mine’s trip. It was a trip to see my best friend get married and be the happiest man on Earth for at least a day.

2) There is a kick ass, swanky wine bar named Oeno in Old Town down in the heart of Wichita. It doesn’t even fit the rest of the Wichita motif.

3) That my girlfriend is the most awesome gal ever and that she keeps me level headed when I act like a whiny three-year-old in K-mart who just can’t seem to take “no, you can’t have it” for some reason. I can never tell her how much I love her, nor can I ever express how much I appreciate her in my life. Cheesy, but true.

The wedding was beautiful—traditional and fancy, stress-free and well-run. It was a chance to see folks that I hadn’t seen in years, reminisce, make new friends and realize just how great it is to see someone I care about so much be so damn happy.

So, to keep it short, sweet and real, I want to wish Mark and Jaclyn all the best in their journey through life together. May God bring you all of the world’s best and may you cherish every last breath. Love ya guys.

I still hate Wichita, though. My gal and I, we ain’t goin’ back.