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I'm a writer and creative director. I make things, collect books, write fiction and don't understand Zen. I'm Vegan.

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Things Progressing Nicely At The Taqueria

Now we’re getting somewhere. I’ve been back to the Taqueria a few times in the recent weeks and it seems like I am well on my way to being a regular. To me this is great news, because I am bound and determined to get in good with the guys at the tiny gem that is Taqueria Mi Casita near my house.

On my last visit, after ordering my usual: two tacos al pastor, one taco de carnitas and a glass of horchata, the waiter actually talked to me. Here’s how the conversation unfolded:

“Te encantan tacos, verdad?” he asked. Which was true.

So I said, “Si, me encantan. Especialmente los tacos aqui. Estan muy buenos.”

“Claro,” he replied.

Can you believe that? It’s like I’m a regular now. Holy shit. So after that, after getting my tacos and horchata and eating, after getting my bill and paying, as I’m walking out the door, the old man on the grill says, “Nos vemos, amigo.”

Amigo. He called me amigo. It was at that point that I truly new that I was on the verge of getting in good with the guys at the Taqeuria. From here it’s just a matter of time before I’m getting invites to gatherings and quinceañeras where I’ll get to eat pozole and carne en su jugo, while drinking mezcal and micheladas. Que barbaro, estoy super contento con todo. If you know what I mean.

What Does A Copywriter Do All Day?

People I meet think working for an advertising agency as a writer is so cool. They remember Melrose Place and movies like What Women Want and think doing what I do is neat and sexy and filled with fast-paced excitement. They think around every corner is a lust-filled assistant, a drug wielding creative and a conniving boss. And they would be right in fantasy land. But in reality, what I do is more like being a kid who twirls in circles for 10 minutes only to render himself dizzy and nauseous.

But this begs the question: What do I do all day? With that said, I’ve scientifically documented my movements, activities and whereabouts for an average day and come up with some pretty startling numbers. Here they are, published for the first time on my site.
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As you can clearly see, I don’t spend nearly enough time drinking coffee (10%) and entirely too much time revising (75%). And I won’t even get into the time spent actually writing (10%). Vocalized complaining will have to be reduced (5%), but this should free up more time to quietly grumble and act disgruntled while I am revising things I have already written multiple times.

Regarding complaining, another ploy of mine, one that has proven to be exceptionally effective in cleansing my work place frustration palate, is to engage in frequent acts of masked sarcasm and mockery. This is especially effective in navigating the common advertising pitfall: the catch phrase. Are you picking up what I’m putting down? Great. Because we all need to be on the same page here.

CONCLUSION: I am a writer, but barely. Sometimes I consider myself more of a typist, especially when you consider the fact that most of my actual time is devoted to, you guessed it, typing. But then again, there are worse ways to make a living. Maybe I should be content in knowing this. Forget what my research says. After all, I can go to Starbucks whenever I want. Let’s see Accountants and Teachers do that.

The real problem for me is jealousy. Because at the end of a long day of revisions, miscommunications and lattes, I always think of Melrose Place and What Women Want and yearn for what could be.

Playing Far Below The Rim

I used to be able to jump. I swear it. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. And yes, I saw White Men Can’t Jump. But I can, or could get up there with the best of them at one point in my life. Then, somewhere along the way, this ability completely fled my legs. I know this because I played last week with some guys at the office and as play began, shortly after we were all warmed up and filled with hope that today would be a good court day (TRANSLATION: We’d make roughly as many shots as we missed, we didn’t pull any muscles, and we could walk off under our own power), one of the guys thought it would be cool to see if he could still touch the rim.

He took off, lumbering to a full-throttle sprint before springing into the air, soaring, soaring and grabbing nothing but a large handful of net. In fact, he almost ripped the damn thing down. Then the next guy tried. He came in from the side, allegedly thinking maybe he could get more elevation that way. He ran, leaped and missed the rim badly before angrily taking a swipe at the poor defenseless net.

Looking on from just beyond the free throw line I was horrified. Here we were, four grown, successful men, all desperately trying to touch a round piece of metal hanging 10 feet above our heads. 10 feet. That was the prize. And for what? A small bit of validation? Maybe touching it was an indicator that we still had some youth left in our tank? This is what it all comes down to I thought: four gravity challenged men in a horrific ballet of attempted rim touching.

The third guy went. He took two steps and jumped, reaching, stretching, pulling back and shoulder muscles, yearning, grabbing and grazing rim. His middle finger, the fuck you finger, got rim. Glorious rim. Limping ever so slightly toward a much need drink of water, this 3 seconds of flying painted a look of deep satisfaction of his 30 year old face. Then, came the inevitable: My turn.

For the record, I was dying to know. I used to have great ups. Now, I was frightened to know where I stood. Frightened to find out how much my athleticism had deteriorated. Standing there, I sized up the rim. I made a deal with gravity. Then, I took off. Not in a sprint, I didn’t want to seem that into it. That way, failure could easily be explained away by lack of effort. I took two steps, jumped off two legs and up I went.

Planning A Musical Intervention

Ok, the guy across the hall from me at work must be stopped. All day long he sits at his desk, works diligently and listens to the worst collection of music ever assembled.

Not since man first began to bang sticks together and pound on skins stretched across gourds has there been an abomination such as this. He turns his stereo up and down in multi-hour waves so that just when you think you’re in the clear, he rips your heart out with a loud shriek, “We’ve built this city. We’ve built this city on rock and roll.”

For my part, I’ve engaged in a steady ritual of door slamming and wall pounding, always to no avail. I even sneak into his office and unplug his CD player when he goes outside to smoke just to send him a message. His take away: He thinks it’s funny. What’s funny about having to endure daily uninterrupted stretches of Wham, post-Thriller Michael Jackson, Justin Timberlake, several random metal songs of no merit, more post-Thriller Michael Jackson, some Mariah Carey, Huey Lewis and something by either Jefferson Starship or Foreigner? What the fuck? Is this guy trying to do me in? I tell myself it’s all part of some joke that he’s playing on all of us, but then I hear him sing along and I know the real truth. Which is why I must do something. Why we must do something. And that something is a musical intervention. It’s the only way to save him and to save ourselves.

UPDATE: He spent Tuesday morning listening to deep cuts by Air Supply. If anyone is curious as to what hell sounds like, drop me a line.

Conchas, Conchas, Conchas

If you’ve never ventured into a Mexican Panaderia, I urge you to do so. I guarantee the discoveries you’ll make will change you forever. In fact, once you’ve tried some of the stuff you’ve discovered, you’ll wonder how you’ve gotten through life up until now without them. Pan dulces, Mexican sweet breads, come in many shapes, sizes and flavors and they have colorful names like conchas (shells), novias (girlfriends), orejas (ears) and cuernitos (little horns).

If you hit your local Panaderia at the right time, you can get the breads while they’re still warm. Get to know the baker and learn a little Spanish and you’re on your way to pastry heaven. I find myself stumbling into the Panaderia near my house on frequent Saturdays, always sure to get there just when they come out of the oven so Domingo, the baker, can load me up still hot conchas and cuernitos. Once I get home (if they make it home) I always eat my pan dulce with chocolate caliente (Mexican hot chocolate). Again, if you’ve never had Mexican hot chocolate, you haven’t lived. So, if you’re reading this, stop now and find a panaderia. You won’t be sorry.