In a different life, I'd be a warrior for Lupe

This is for me
And this is for everyone else
Please listen to this song closely
Very closely
'Cause music needs real folks for a change
Sure, the video is raw an unattractive
That’s the point
Let the words speak for themselves
Maybe you’ll find out something about music
where it needs to go, what it needs to do
Maybe you’ll find out something about yourself
But, who knows. I’m just a snot-nosed kid
Trying to find the real.
Maybe one day, right?

Coffee, Sugar & half and half

Just when you thought,
scratch that, just when I thought
I would never find time to post on this darn thing
again till Winter Break, here I am.
Willing and able, however I apologize for my lack of coherent thinking.

Why?

Simple answer. The Adcenter is just
that demanding, that challenging, that difficult.
Sleep misses me, as I miss it. My relationship
with my dearest Sarah is heavily invested
in the telecommunications industry. And, if wisdom
is measured in number of wrinkles on the brain, let me inform you
that the process to developing those is a mentally tiring one.
Funny that I’m not even getting any wiser.
But, that is a different story in and of itself.

Well, it might be time answer a question that I’m sure I’ll hear from more than just my parents. “Did I make the right choice?”

Don’t let my late night rants, my lack of
being a good enough friend to call you all back,
my 20 hour work days seven days a week, my new
found appreciation for my gray hair, my now
apparent addiction to my coffee lifeblood, my disconnect
from the current events, my being dehydrated and still
living to tell about it,
my lack of time to grocery shop nor exercise,

my intense familiarity of what
both sunrises and sunsets look like, my daydreams
of being in my girl’s arms fool you.
No, not at all.

I made the right choice.
Just waiting for the rest of life to catch up is all.

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.

Trading in He-Man underwear for boxer briefs: smells like transition

UPS has all my stuff. On a truck somewhere. Or in a warehouse. All nice and neat, packaged in dull, sandpaper brown cardboard boxes. That’s where my life is.

I’m not talking about my stuff. No, those are just shiny trinkets. I’m talking about the transition my life is sipping on right now.

Yesterday was my last day in Lawrence – home to the Jayhawks of the University of Kansas. I didn’t think I would miss all my lil’ hawklings.

It really hit home as I was enjoying my last Jimmy Johns sandwich for a while. I’m really doing this. I’m really hopping on a jet plane. And for the really cliché, I really don’t know when I’ll be back again. (hopefully for homecoming or something)

I’ve always been the kind of fella to live life with no regrets; everything is a learning experience. As I savored one last delcious bite, hit I-70 and trucked it to my AMAZING girlfriend’s (she’s uber-neato) place in Kansas City, which will be home for the next week and a half, my mind became driftwood on a river. In reflection, did I regret anything in my time at good ol’ KU?

The answer was yes. Is yes.

I never did write that one last song with my group the Crux. That song that made folks nod their heads in both agreement and appreciation. That song that shook tail feathers and still tugged heart strings tighter than facelifts on Dr. 90210. That song that made folks whisper, “I heard that,” to themselves. That perfect song. Sure, the fellas in the group are kind enough to continue to try to include me in their perpetual trek through the music game. I’m glad they are. Those are my boys. That’s my crew.

The reality is, however, that life at the Adcenter will probably not allow such things to happen. Not for the next two years anyway.

About a year ago, before our group’s successes, the group (Crux) was getting very little attention and/or love from the Lawrence/KU community and music scene, despite all of our hard work. It was so damn frustrating. Up all night to pour our souls on the mic and over beats like gravy over 8am biscuits, all in an attempt to shatter the stereotypes that Top 40 garb saturates in all our minds, tastes and beliefs. It brought up the question, “What if this was my last song?”

What if that was my last song?

The first four lines of my verse still burn in my skull.

“What if this was my last line, my last time/ On the mic to say my peace and get my mind right/ Would I be like Lil’ John screamin’ that’s right?/ Or would I be like Jay-Z and make this song cry?”

I’m hoping for the latter of the two options. Even though Lil’ John does make me laugh.

So what’s all this have to do with anything? What am I leading to here?

Well, what I’m trying to say, however unsuccessful it may be, is that as my life is transitioning from my college undergrad He-Man under-roos to a much more sophisticated grad school boxer brief, I pray that I remember who I am, what got me there and who still has my back. (note: THANK YOU to all my former KU homies, by the way. Big up to my old record label, Stratified Vibe Ent. Keep doin’ big things.) I pray that I keep on working my buns off for everyone who believes in me, for my loved ones, for my lost ones, for my future ones, for myself. I pray that I don’t sell out. ‘Cause even though I don’t think I have sexy eyes, I’d still like to look at them in the mirror every morning.

Oh, and UPS better not lose my shiny trinkets. Where are my damn tracking numbers?

Wendy's: It's not just pigtails anymore

I just want to know who in the Hades wrote this one? It is one of the funniest commercials I've seen in a long time.

Just imagine giving a pitch to sell a bunch of people kicking trees in order to sell hamburgers, and, well, the client buying it. Wow...that's some serious awe-factor. I guess Wendy's isn't just pigtails anymore.

Okay, I like you Stanley. I guess I freakin' like you.

So in my attempt to be pithy, I found another Stanley Steamer commerical that is almost as comical as a dog rubbing its ass on the ground. Almost. Check it, check it out.

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

My dad told me to take a look at this commercial. From my own studies of my upcoming career in advertising, I've found that the idea of "finding the common human truth" of a product or service as being the key to stay working in this industry. I wish my contribution was this funny. Maybe I'm just a little childish...damn it, the joint is hilarious.

Richmond is beautiful city after all, maybe Dr. Kelso was right.

I’m a bit of a Scrubs nerd. I love it. I have all five available season on DVD and watch it whenever life allows such a delectable treat. However a fourth season quote from Dr. Kelso rang in my mind loud and true while I was in Richmond looking for a place to call home for the next couple of years.

“Anything in life that is worth a damn won’t come easy. You gotta work for it. So, get up off your ass. Get out there and do the work.”

Two days to find a place to live is challenging enough as it is. But doing for myself and for my two roomies in a town I know nothing about was, well, let’s say it was big set of growing pains. Mike Seaver, eat your heart out, my friend.

I was in Richmond, VA to fend for myself. No friends. No family. And thanks to Enterprise-Rent-A-Car, no rental car. Just my luck; it was a hundred some-odd degrees that blistering Tuesday. I only had two appointments lined up and every place I saw on the Internet must have thought I was kidding when I very politely asked, “please call me back when you have a chance. Thank you so much.” I’m still tryin’ to figure out just why I was thanking them.

8:30am to 4:30 I trekked across the rainforest of a city that was Richmond as the Sun licked me up and down. Kept my chin up, kept placing one foot in front of the other and kept my eagle eyes open for places better than what I saw on the Internet. I’m sure I lost 10 pounds of water weight, but the Scrubs quote kept echoing and I kept going with a stiff upper lip. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the heavens decided it’d be a great idea to pour its soul on me. I was drenched.

I got leads from everyone and everywhere, but every place I saw became worse than the previous. A funny one was when a lady from Waybright Properties showed me an apartment that looked like part of WWII was fought in it. Windows were broken. The refrigerator door was missing a handle. Floor boards were missing. Paint was peeling everywhere, as if the even the paint hated being associated with the place. There was a hook latch for the front door’s lock. It looked like someone started a fire in the restroom. Debris was crumbled all around my feet.

I ran into luck. A very nice waitress named Heather at the 821 Café over in the Fan district of Richmond saw me drag into the restaurant, slump in my chair from dehydration, exhaustion and just being soaked. We got to talking and she was kind enough to tote me around for a tour of Richmond for two and a half hours.

It was a blessing. Suddenly, through Heather’s kindness, I was able to learn about the town, some of its history, where not to look for places to live, who not to rent from (Waybright, Pollard & Bagby, etc.) and what there is to do in the town. I felt like I was becoming a local. No worries, I paid her gas money.

Well, moral of the story is I put in the work, to little avail. I was blessed with undeserved kindness. Then on the following day, found a place to live. I’m not sure that chain events would have happened if it weren’t for just going out and doing the work, even if I’m still dehydrated from the whole affair. Thank you for you words of wisdom, Dr. Kelso. Thank you.

Just weeks till I pee myself from the anticipation

Click-click. Click-click.

That was always my favorite part of roller coaster rides. That first climb. That anticipation. It pounds one’s chest, sweat beads one’s brow and a rock of a lump forms in one’s throat, all in anticipation of the dips, loops and corkscrews to come.

It seems like after five years, two degrees, a minor and a lifetime of experiences that occurred in my time at the University of Kansas, I’m still on the climb. I’m on my way to portfolio school.

It wasn’t an easy decision. I was close to sticking with a “real,” corporate job at a highly respected greeting card company in Kansas City. But for me, that was the chicken exit. I was hours and inches from making mid-40k a year, rollin’ a brand new, non-college clunker car and sportin’ a sweet new pad. That was safe. I always made fun of the folks who couldn’t handle the burn of anticipation of those roller coaster rides. Chickens…

No chicken exit for me. In fact, I like to put my hands up and feel gravity try to rip my insides out. That’s fun. That’s happy. That’s scary, but still, happy. So, when I found out I was blessed with the opportunity to go to the Adcenter (http://www.adcenter.vcu.edu/), which is the best ad school around, I had to put my hands up and wait for gravity take control.

Well, my friends, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Sure, I thought twice about it. Damn, I thought seven or eight times about it. The whole idea scares me. I’m leaving a lot more behind then I thought. A great job, a great, huge group of friends/support base, an amazing and loving girlfriend (who I can’t thank enough for being so supportive of my two-year trek. Thanks, darling.), the reigns to my budding indie record label, my two brothers, my rockin’-azz music group (the Crux—www.cruxcrew.com) and did I mention my awesome girlfriend?

To me, that means there’s nothing to lose. To me, that means freakin’ go for broke. To me, that means I have no choice but to, with the help of my fellow future classmates, kick some serious ass, or die trying.

There’s always the chicken exit. But, I’m less afraid of the Adcenter than I am of looking myself in the mirror if I had played it safe. So, I say bring on life. Bring on the roller coaster. Bring on that first dip. Because, like I said. I always loved that first climb.

Time to set it off...

This is the inagural post for my blog. I hope to write about both serious and fun musings. However, in all actuality, this is just a test post. Holla at ya boy.