When Words Collide

Chicken Biscuit on Steroids

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 15:40:00 +0000

Lance Armstrong of lunches at Denver Biscuit Company - Denver, CO

No-Baked Breakfast of Champions

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 01:51:00 +0000

Oatmeal alternative at Flying M - Boise, ID

No-Baked Breakfast of Champions

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 01:48:00 +0000

Oatmeal alternative at Flying M - Boise, ID

Brunch w/Texas-Sized Taste

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 16:48:00 +0000

Bistro Alex - Moment of Truth in Houston, TX

Pictoral Injustice of Perfection

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 22:44:00 +0000

Founding Farmers - A chili burger's bad side in Washington, D.C.

Chicken & Waffle-A-Ganza

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 22:42:00 +0000

Founding Farmers - Sweet and Savory Beginning of the End in Washington, D.C.

The prodigal returns ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 01:05:00 +0000

... well, kinda. This thing has been on a six-month hiatus (!!!!!!!) for many reasons including:

A) Currently interning out in Washington, D.C. as a Media Program Analyst at EyeTraffic Media. Busy.

That's me if I ever wore a suit! Note: serious post-editing and CGI.

B) Enjoying all the spoils Our Nation's Capitol has to offer (eating delicious food, seeing interesting people, hanging out with the Obamas, et cetera).

C) Blogging twice a week over @ THE INSIGHT BLOG. Most of my posts relate to the internship, but focus on social media (Twitter, Facebook, etc.), marketing, and the like ... which affects all of us at least once a day. Be honest with yourself. And check it out even if you don't think you'd be interested. I try to make it as entertaining as I can.

D) All of the above leave little time for my random ramblings. But, rest assured, they will return in due time. And, when they do, I will have so much fodder you'll have to poke your eyes out to avoid pleasure overload.

Seriously.

Catch you soon. Until then, be good to one another.

- Blake Joseph Bowyer III, Esquire

Watersheds ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 18:27:00 +0000

"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection." - Abraham Lincoln

Tomorrow is indeed a new day. For many of us, it's a day we knew we'd see, but not so soon. For some, it's a breakthrough built on decades (and familial centuries) of tears, sweat, and struggle - a hallmark to be proud of and remind us that, though they still exist, each day we chip away at barriers like a sculptor at a slab of granite - with purpose, unveiling something beautiful. For others it's justice and vindication and "about damn time." For all of us, though, it's progress and an opportunity to acknowledge not only how far we've come, but how far we need to go.

Growing up in the generation I did (and still do), it's difficult for me to realize the full magnitude of tomorrow. But history definitively fills in the blanks. The last Jim Crow laws were repealed little more than forty years ago and the ruling in Brown vs. Board of the Education was written during our parents' lifetime. One can practically smell the ink and feel the reverb.

My closest touchpoint with that class of bigotry was when I watched the Aryan Nations march down the deserted main street of downtown Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, like a social club with quirky views. Though, that was a desperate demonstration; the livelihood of the group teetering like a Chihuahua on a linoleum floor, clinching First Amendment rights closer to their hearts than their own ideologies. It wasn't met with embarrassment by the city's leaders like in years past, it was met with something more powerful - disgust. But that makes it no less haunting that in 2004 such pockets of hate still came to the surface, gasping for air and spewing vitriol. Tomorrow, though, that group - and many like it - can't help but face their last, most devastating defeat.

But, more than its social and cultural significance tomorrow is a historical and political watershed, echoing the same essence. Tomorrow, the United States begins to rebuild. In many ways, its infrastructure has been damaged by corruption, negligence, nepotism, and general idiocy. As the outgoing Commander-in-Chief grapples with some uncharacteristic introspection, the country he and others have fumbled the past eight years can't help but look onward and forward. Historically, we will find ourselves at a crossroads, and while a consensus isn't necessary, we can all agree that success will be easier achieved if we work as friends.

So, $800+ billion (plus the second $350 billion of TARP) is the bill we've been left to seal the cracks of our country, but there is much more damage to be undone. Mostly, the US needs to invest in rebuilding its character, and there's no price tag to be assigned and no amount of tax dollars that can be committed help. It depends on us and our participation, and tomorrow is an auspicious start. So, as images of Lincoln are evoked left and right, it's important to remember that the parallels are plentiful,and internal conflict and crisis is one of the most crucial. Though he doesn't have to pull us from a Civil War, the holes in the national spirit still need to be patched, but they won't be unless we invest our own social mortar.

I apologize this was a bit disjointed, but I didn't want it to turn into a novel ... and a gushy, preachy one at that. So, please scroll back up and read the words of the original lanky guy from Illinois. He said it better than I ever could.

Peru and life, in so many words ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 17:16:00 +0000

Some things are best left to themselves than summed-up. There's no way I could describe to you how it feels to be on an island in the middle of lake as the tin roof of my bedroom claps against its walls; or how the juices of a perfectly-ripe pineapple taste when confronted by a sunset that's uninteruppted by noise or building (but I'll try - they both explode. And, like wine and cheese, go better together); or how the stones of centuries-old buildings feel after they've been turned to rubble and used to build a new empire ... and the sediment left on your fingers when you brush against them, trying to imbue yourself with their power or wisdom or history ... as if by some metaphysical osmosis you could understand each stone's journey.

I could try. Through adjectives and similes, but you could only be there if you had been. Many times during my trip to Peru, I uttered to my travel companion, "No matter how many pictures we take, we'll never be able capture this." Not with disappointment and

not with regret, however. But, in revery. Like many times before (and hopefully many more in the future), I knew the best picture would be the one that would fade away in my head. And not just picture, but the more ineffable senses of experience - sound, smell, feel. All I have is a window.

I realize now, as I did then, there was something special about those moments we can't capture or describe. And be thankful that we can't. Otherwise we could just read travelogues and flip through stacks of pictures and be there. But these moments, they require our participation. They require that we GO. Otherwise, you would only know this about the little girl on Amantani - her name was Lucy and she chomped on an absurdly large carrot that reminded me of the exaggerated-action of Shoot 'Em Up and her bites made a crunching sound like when you step on an insect with an exoskeleton. Even more, she liked it when I drew on her hand with a blue colored pencil and her sun-kissed skin felt like the hide of an animal; she was fascinated with my camera and took THIS picture; lastly, her curiosity was only exceeded by her smile that looked like that of a rough charcol sketch I once saw in a Degas collection.

But, that's just me and my frames of reference. You would have to meet her for yourself to know how delightful she was.

Of my trip, though, I can tell you these ten things ...

1) Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches can sustain one for only so long.

2) When in doubt, buy the poncho.

3) Escupir is the Spanish verb "to spit". An alpaca taught me that.

4) In Peru, soft serve ice cream dispensers are the new phonebooths.

5) When you travel, you'll often be more amazed by yourself than your destination.

6) While thin, the air at 10,000+ feet is manna for the lungs.

7) My definition of "hot water" is much more flexible than it once was.

8) Guinea pigs (cuy) are cuter than they are tasty.

9) Going sin guia (no guide) is so much more exciting (or, at least, eventful).

10) The crucifix can be depicted a startling number of ways.

Oh, and, one more ...

11) Peru is a spectacular, remarkable, and simply amazing country.

I'll be back with more. For now, go discover for yourself.

Bringing the chullo to Colorado in 2009,

BJB

Green (head)achers ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 20:03:00 +0000

I am currently holding a delicious piece of irony in my hands. I'm thumbing through a 58-page (plus two covers) glossy, four-color guide purported to help Treasure Valley residents live green. It's official: the word "green" has jumped the shark. Or, at least, killed it off with upstream drainage.

Head in hands, brow furrowed, I just flipped through Meridian in the Middle magazine's "The Green Issue". Ho boy. A magazine, arguably one of the most wasteful forms of communication in existence, has published a green issue. A complimentary magazine that you will never find in short supply on the racks at coffee shops, supermarkets, and the like because it's such a waste of time. It is, in fact, media pollution. It's no distribution miracle that issues of publications like these are always plentiful. There isn't a diligent delivery representative restocking them as they fly off the rack. Why, then? They're terribly written and trivial and pointless. How do I know? I just read it.

Like any good magazine of its ilk, it's chocked full of advertisements for really green products and services like health spas, country clubs, and Tony Roma's. When I think eco-friendly, the first things that pop into my head are ridiculous portions of meat and vast, underutilized expanses used exclusively by the elite for recreation! Meridian in the Middle, you've satisfied my need for ribs AND supplied reassurance for my superficial environmentalism. Thanks!

And the articles. Oh, the articles. Topics covered range from telecommuting ('cause employers would be more than happy to let you stay at home and screw off), socially responsible investing (abbreviated "SRI" so acronym freaks can throw that around like it's a whole different level of transcendent investing. Formerly known as "due diligence" or "common sense".), and some art gallery (huh? Why?). Additionally, you'll find a few other articles included for no particular reason including a "Gear Guide" that highlights common outdoor gear, like a $3,200 bicycle for the everyman. Each piece of gear is conveniently linked with a Valley outlet that will totally hook you up and it's green because the page is COLORED green! Wicked. (Though, I do have to admit that the headline on a blurb for a tent - "Tents & Tentability" - made me laugh.)

The most mind-blowing piece of all, however, is an article entitled "Emission Statement: Green options let you have your car and drive it too." (I'm convinced that the contributors to the mag spend more time on titles than they do on the articles themselves.) Basically, it mentions three performance vehicles (yeah, a whole shitload) that the author considers green. Two of them are SUVs and one is a V12 Lexus. The Lexus sedan gets an astronomical TWENTY TWO MILES on the highway. Wowza! Just like a 1982 Honda Accord! Truly revolutionary gas-miser technology coming from Lexus. The others are a Toyota Highlander, which gets a respectable 25 MPG highway and a GMC Yukon. The latter, while never mentioning the actual gas mileage (it comes in at a staggering 20 MPG highway), have engines described as "just as green as those in the diminutive [Toyota] Prius. Who would have thought?" Well, to answer your question, Steve Schutz, NOBODY. That's an absolute lie! In what way is that hulking road-tank "just as green" as a Prius? I'm going to sheath the green thumb in favor of the green middle finger on this one.

Ignoring the reality that this publication is an uninspired rag produced solely to sell advertising, I am still astounded. On its cover, MitM proudly gloats that this issue was "PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER." Wow, this truly is a magazine that cares about the environment. Disregarding the contention that the jury is still out on whether recycling paper is efficient or not, do you really think that lessens the impact of printing 58 pages (plus two weighty cardstock covers), half of which is ads, the other half sparsely filled with obvious tips on "going green", of pointless drivel? Seems inconsistent, to me. If you're going to propagate a lie, you're going to need to live it 100%. The paper didn't come out of the recycling plant glossy and the four-color ink isn't derived from berries the printer found in the wild. Not to mention the fuel used in manufacturing, distribution, maintenance, and, most sickening of all, disposal. This isn't Time or Reader's Digest, in which "THE GREEN ISSUE" would make exponentially more sense because they're more efficient and have a high circulation. In MitM, the concept comes off as sad bandwagoning; a half-assed attempt at catching the casual environmentalist's eye by riding the green wave.

So, what could MitM have done for "THE GREEN ISSUE"? First, this is supposedly a special issue, so think creatively. Instead of the usual 58-page snoozefest, print an 8-page supplement on heavy, fibrous recycled paper with teaser articles to drive readers to its website to read more. Save paper, print less, be different. Let this GREEN ISSUE tangibly BE a green issue! Second, worthwhile, you know, CONTENT to help people live green, not these trivial life changes that are nigh-impossible to implement. They can still keep the ads; put them online, stick a few premium spots in the supplemental, and give discounts for current advertisers. Build, you know, READERSHIP. Ad rates and survival are based on actual readership, not how many racks you stuff every other month. Live that green lie and make people curious. The moment any potential reader opens this issue and sees that the first 7 pages are ads, you've probably lost him or her. At the very least, you've thrown the whole green thing out the window. Third, include ads, not just articles, that are consistent with the message. If you have to turn away a few advertisers, it might come to that, but I'm certain any company interested in advertising in this particular issue would comply to make its firm seem green. I mean, that's the concept right? That green is so awesome and it's our choice, NO, RESPONSIBILITY, to make that effort? It is. Otherwise, why dedicate an issue to it? Make it awesome, because what you've got is underwhelming and unconvincing.

Sorry, this is way too long. I'm just fed up with the faux green panderers. Eco-marketing specifically, and eco-communication generally, is powerful right now. I expect it to be exploited, but marketers need to focus on goodwill and be CONSISTENT. Tell your story and then live it. Don't be a walking contradiction; it won't resonate. Hell, it won't even get noticed. The only thing that attracted me to it was morbid fascination. Now, though, I'm going to return it to its rightful place among the other 20+ copies where it will surely collect dust until the time comes to be "recycled" again. What an efficient process. Green exists, but it truly needs to embody the concept. Be green, otherwise you'll just look it. That's not green, that's AstroTurf.

BJB

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Thu, 22 May 2008 04:07:00 +0000

My current project's weblog can be found HERE. It's entitled The 30 Day-Long Vegan and it might be the greatest thing on the Internet right now. And that's not hyperbole.

Sunday, bloody Sunday (last b-log until July) ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Mon, 19 May 2008 03:35:00 +0000

Oh, the seventh day. Regarded by most as a day of reverence, repentance, and, most of all, rest. How is it, then, that I feel the most restless on Sundays? I'd like to add an "r" of my own: reflection.

I guess it's no coincidence that Sunday is the day of the week that I spend most of my hours alone. Intentionally. The majority of that time is occupied in coffee shops thinking, writing, and chipping away at the mountain of magazines under which the table by my front door will soon collapse if I don't do my part to save it. Sunday is when all of the ideas, ambitions, and information running amok in my head collide and amalgamate. It's when I do my most coherent thinking ... and probably my most disjointed.

I skim an article related to famine and think about what role I play in perpetuating it. I absorb a poverty statistic that sickens me to action and I try to relate it to others. I see a celebrity magazine resting on a table with ostentatious taglines that cause such a violent involuntary eye-roll that I bump into the person ahead of me. I drink from a bottle of water on which the company proudly advertises a pledge of 5 cents for every bottle it sells and I question, "That's it?" I wonder if compassion is an acquired taste and why guilt is the largest untapped resource on the planet. Sometimes I'm so naive.

Sunday is the day I typically go shopping for groceries. As soon as I set toe into Fred Meyer, I'm confronted by mass absurdity. I was educated in a milieu that extols the growth strategy of Starbucks, the slogans of the ARMY, and the efficiencies of Wal-Mart. My profession was borne of a philosophy that fabricated the need for seven million different types of pen. Quite possibly the simplest and most rudimentary implement this side of the wheel. Perfected during some era near the BEGINNING OF TIME. Yet, as a marketer, I'm schooled to see that wall of pens, stand stoically with my arms crossed, and admire it with equal parts smugness and accomplishment. We did it. In a world where more than half of its population doesn't have access to a basic education, I can write upside down with the greatest of ease in one of nineteen distinct colors and hues. Yay, we win. Who, you ask? Beats me, 'cause I'm pretty sure we lose.

I get disgusted with my profession, with my country, and with my life. I exist simultaneously as a marketer and a human being, proving that they're not mutually exclusive. I want to change the term"marketer". Or at least what it means.

Sunday is the day when I spend the most time with my parents, which sadly isn't much. I used to be bored by my dad's undying enthusiasm for topics like psychology and Mayan culture. I used to find it insufferable. I used to think I didn't connect with my parents on any level philosophically. They're conservatives. They're cynics and drumbeaters. However, the more I talk to my parents, the more I realize the things that pull us apart most are our affiliations, our labels, and our unwillingness to listen to one another (or, at least, mine). We see eye-to-eye on so many things. I was ambivalent to appreciate their ideas because of a superficial partisanship. A label divide, that's all it was. "Conservative v. liberal." Where the great divide exists. That "v" might as well be a wedge, because that's how insignificant much of the partisanship is. Let's just remove the v., let's just lose the labels. Sigh. Sometimes I'm so naive.

I used to think my parents were jaded. (When you're young, liberalism=idealism. When you're old, liberalism=socialism. Ergo, idealism=socialism, maybe? I bet Marx saw it that way.) I used to think that idealism aged like bad wine, turning acrid and into vinegar. I once saw no remnants of idealism left in my parents, who both existed at various levels of hippie-fication throughout their adolescences (radical, leftist hippies, not the hacky-sack variety). Really, though, their idealism wasn't reigned in at all. Their youthful fancies are as fresh as mine, albeit a bit rougher and with, ironically, fewer shades of gray. Just because my dad's waist got softer doesn't mean that his brain followed suit.

I'm fortunate to have grown up in an environment that encouraged discourse and I wish I wouldn't have realized it this late. I am no less bored by my dad now than I was then, but I have an appreciation for what he prattles on about. Our viewpoints aren't cohesive by any stretch, but at least we can respect one another and our disparate opinions. I feel like I'm finally able to afford him the respect that he has afforded me ever since he called me "son". We still find each other despicably wrong, but never despicable.

In our youths, we can disregard tax brackets, familial obligations, and retirement funds. We are, as every bitter adult likes to note, ignorantly invincible. Unfettered idealism is a luxury not unlike an endless wall of pens. The big difference is, though, that we can do so much more with our idealism than we can with our goddamn pens. We have to foster it and believe in it. We have to harness it. And ourselves. And our restlessness. And our Sundays.

Boy, that entry was not atypical of my mental meandering. I hope someone found a thoughtline in there somewhere. Anyway, as you read in the post's title, this will be the last b-log until the month of July. (collective gasp.) But don't worry. I'm working on something and there will be plenty of nonsense afoot. In fact, I'm planning on posting every day for thirty days straight right ... (drumroll) ... HERE. Click HERE to see my most current project come June. HERE you will find my imminent weblog while this one is on temporary hiatus. Do not fret, though, as this blog will return near the middle of the summer. For now, though, you should really click HERE to follow the absurdity that is my life during the month of June. Where can you find me June 1? Why, HERE of course. HERE you'll find peace, peace of mind, pieces of mind, but not pieces of meat. Absolutely no meat HERE. Why? Click HERE to find out ...

Arguments from the Arctic ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:36:00 +0000

Time for some levity. Time for the inconsequential.

Can't concentrate at all right now. I sit in Boise's most conventional alternative coffee shop, Dawson Taylor, where the eccentrics chill and give people like me the hairy eyeball. That is, people who don't partake in their uniform individuality. Oh, oxymorons for morons. I love it! I feel bad for the employees, who are genuinely amiable and seem to be of reasonable sensibility. Even as a marketer, I couldn't deal with posturing all day. If Jared was here, he'd go berserk and create a whirlwind of eyeliner and self-loathing.

I get the impression that a lot of transients, out-of-towners, and geriatrics randomly stumble into DT not knowing they'll be confronted by the Too Cool Crew. It would be terrible for business if these aforementioned regulars didn't develop a cult-like obsession with being different and hanging out at the same place every day. I guess that'd seem more reasonable if I didn't have a job, a purpose, or a life. Well, I've got two-to-three of those, depending on the day. That ain't bad. I pose this question: is today's emo culture analogous to that of the 60's hippie culture? I am not fond of either, but at least the hippies had principles. (Well, some of them. Most are just idealistically uninvolved. Being anti-establishment isn't an excuse to be lazy and feckless.) I don't even like to use the terms "emo" or "punk" because they have become so broad and amorphous that I'm not sure it applies to whom I'm referring. I'm mostly lambasting the armchair rebels who regurgitate the philosophies of Marx, Gandhi, and Guevara without truly understanding them.

I have a certain distaste for hippies, because, truly, they were often, and continue to be, lazy and impractical. That's a broad generalization, but I believe a fair characterization of the group. However, I don't disagree with a lot of the movement's ideals. Many were impractical and not carried out with appropriate tact, but at least they were progressive. I'm trying to decide whether these emunks (contrived portmanteau of "punk" and "emo") have any of that fire or they're just babies. In their defense, they generally are babies; they're in their teens and early-twenties, whereas hippies were 10-20 years their senior. However, that just accentuates one of the reasons that frustrates me the most: they don't know anything, but act like they know everything. They know pain, dude. Pain is a three-gauge earring.

Ah, I'm just kidding. I only hate the poseurs and the pedantic. And even then I'm pretty tolerant. No one should ever typecast and I'm reminded of that every day. I've told a couple of you about my experience at the Fred Meyer register when I was buying yoga mat and shamefully assumed the guy behind me thought I was a fairy or something. "Yoga, huh?" the guy in the flannel shirt asked with a cock-eye and a guttural tone. "Oh, great," I thought. " ... I'm getting rolled in the parking lot." In a nutshell, we ended up talking about yoga for about ten minutes and he encouraged me take it seriously because he'd been doing it FOR TWENTY YEARS.

It's obviously natural to group people and assign them characteristics based on how their looks ... but, why? Is it simply easier to exercise prejudice and dismiss 99% of the people who don't share our style so we can get on with our lives? Well, we do know everything and have met everyone. What an annoying burden to treat people as individuals. ;-)

Equally annoying is the cold weather that keeps resurfacing like some terrible rash. Its bitterness is only heightened by every DT denizen who walks into the place, flinging the door open so wide that the caffeine-crazed poseurs could fit three-wide. Each time someone walks through the door, I feel like I'm in witnessing the lead-up to a Wild West gunfight from the barstool in some old saloon. The door swings to-and-fro as if Wild Bill Hickok himself just entered the room and it's time for gun-slingin' at sundown!

Probably doesn't help that I was fooled by the peevish Les Bois weather gods and wore shorts and flip-flops. I'm warming myself with my laptop battery. I guess I have only myself to blame at this point. Myself and the emunks.

Equal parts tolerance and jocularity,
BJB

Midnight musings ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 05:10:00 +0000

All righty. At the point on a Friday evening when there is both a slight sting and a satisfying comfort when I close my eyes. I'm also a bit weary from a few glasses of Donnie Mac beer and Bardenay wine, so you'll have to excuse the prose. And the syntax. And the nonsense.

Sometimes I like to take advantage of this state of mind and just exercise some stream-of-conscious writing. Much like James Joyce, but with little literary signifigance. The term stream-of-conscious always brings to mind a book called "Johnny Got His Gun" that I was supposed to read over a decade ago but have yet to crack. It's about a disembodied torso or some shit in the middle of a battlefield. That might not even be right, but it sounds like an interesting concept. Trumbo? Naw. Actually, maybe. I'd Google it, but that would defeat my mission right now.

I had lunch with Jared today at Subway. We are trying to get the most out of the sandwich chain's "five-dollar foot-long" promotion while it lasts. The commercials are obnoxiously addictive. I don't really dig them, but I do dig a good jingle. Jared tells me that jingles are coming back, but I'm not sure about that. I'd like them to, though. Jingles are pure marketing put to an excrutiatingly simplistic tune. I dig. "Free credit report dot commmmmmmmmm."

I've substituted spinach for iceberg lettuce on my deli sandwiches. It's way better and I wish I would have started this trend a long time ago.

Had a three-hour meeting today. Ron Paul was at the newly-named College of Idaho, but I missed his presentation as my meeting ran into it. Was a bit upset about that, but had no choice. Oh well.

The Great Gatsby sits on the counter to my right, folded, crinkled, and beautiful. It is of a similar length to "The Catcher in the Rye" and gives me hope for finishing it. James Joyce is dense. F. Scott may not be. Joseph Conrad is a sober day's read. Maybe tomorrow night I'll crack that and finally understand the first page. It's daunting as fuck. Every time I drink, I wake up in the morning and hope I'm not stupider. When I was studying for the GMAT and not drinking at all, I was sharp. Sharp like a madman (TCITR reference). Trying to decide if the abstinence is worth it.

Caught Mike Doughty at The Record Exchange tonight. Maybe the best concert I've seen in the last year, sadly. Save John Mayer/Ben Folds. That was excellent. However, it was awesome to be within arm's reach of Doughty. Great musician. Learning to play the guitar myself and failing spectacularly, I have a lot more respect for artists like him. Stopped a few times in the middle of songs, self-aware and insecure. It's amazing to see a musician who crafts such fine songs acknowledge errors in front of an audience. You can tell he's a bit of a perfectionist. Much like me ... to a fault.

Looking for a place to do comedy. Looking for a place to see comedy. Coming up with a lot of material on my own, but no outlet. Seems frustrating. As soon as I become relatively comfortable, the outlet dries up. Every city needs a comedy club. It's good for its soul. Comedy may be the purest artform left. It's not marginalized, it's not regulated. It's pristine in a lot of ways. Stand-up comedy may be the last bastion of free-speech in this world. Truth in the form of jokes. Or, rather, jokes on us. It's beautiful, really. Comedy is critical and introspective. Much like music, but without duplicity and subtlety. It's a necessary component to any existence. We're seeing a crazy boom of stand-up again and the bubble will surely burst like it did in the 1980's. A new group of vanguards will turn comedy on its head and it will be underground/alternative again. Comedians are on Best Week Ever and acting and shit. No matter what you think, popularity and stardom spoil comedy. When a comedian hits the big time and can no longer relate to humanity, that's when he or she loses his or her edge and becomes unfunny. It's cyclical. Like the economy. Not really.

I don't want to find a picture for this entry. It's too much work at the moment. Finger resting on keys, like there are weights in the tips. I have to go get bagels before tomorrow's volunteer activities. Damn.

The staff at Blue Sky Bagels hates Tom and me. Not exactly sure why, but I bet it has something to do with our boisterousness. That's a word. Yeah, surprised me too. But, really, I guess buying a bagel sandwich doesn't give you the right to sit and people-watch for two hours. At least not for us. You should see the utter disdain in their eyes when we walk in. Boy do they hate us. I'm not even kidding at this point. HATE US. Except for one girl who is absolutely in love with us and awaits our arrival. "Did I see you at Bardenay last night?" she asked me once. The only response I could muster was "Do I have to sign for this?" I never have cash in the mornings. What's up with that? Credit card for $1.25 bagel with cream cheese? I have no choice.

Food rationing. It's in the news, let's talk about it! I love how this nation (the U S of A) is so full of incredulity and smugness about the very idea of rationing food. It'd do 50% of this nation some good to cut down a little here and there. I just can't believe the complacency. "That will never happen in THIS country. Not in this day-and-age." I love the phrase "this day-and-age." Like we've got it all figured out. "The generations of yore were full of unsophisticated chimps. They rationed food 'cause they were IDIOTS! Not because of civic duty or patriotism, but because they were stupid enough to get themselves in that situation. They didn't even have computers, the half-wit mongoloids!" Far be it from us to sacrifice a bit of our daily bread so we're not under the thumb of exporters who now need to feed their own people. 10 million people across the globe can now no longer feed themselves because of skyrocketing food prices. 10 million may only seem like a drop in the 7 billion-person bucket, but it's still 8-9 times the number of people in our (me and my fellow Potatohoans) state. Think about it that way. If you and your family and friends starved 9 times over.

I also find it funny that Costco is rationing rice ... not a food I necessarily associate with the US diet. Shouldn't we be watching our supply of bacon and chili-cheese fries?

Goddamn hippies.

The wine glasses at Bardenary are entirely too cold. They're defeating my oenophilic experience. I kid, I kid. But they are quite cold. I have to paint a mural tomorrow. Hopefully that entails painting within lines, not actually defining them. Where did my dexterity go? Was it with the wine? Aw, it's worth it. And, to think, a year ago I was sharing a bottle 4-5 nights a week. Now I have a wine fridge full of bottles and nary a single one has been cracked. Amisfield. Almost time to open that baby. Nearly time to go to New Zealand ... once the US dollar recovers. Before that: Peru, Nicargua, New Orleans, Niagra, Honduras ... et cetera. Too many places, so little time. Time to become a photographer. Time to let go. How long can I live off of student loans?

MS in Marketing. Time to learn. Time to return to academia.

My face is slumping. I've lost feeling in my cheeks. My friend Joe Davio used to ask us to slap him in the face when he drank. We could knock the hell out of him, like madmen, and he'd only ask for more. Yes sir. Full Metal Jacket. Yikes.

God I'm tired. I feel like I have a mouth full of false teeth. I'm uncertain I could form words with this mouth at the moment. If I did, they'd be over-enunciated in an effort to feign sobriety. Smiley, but full of self-conscious intellect. "Forty-grand in the hole."

Not coming up with much. Nothing in this entry that I'm thrilled with. With which I'm thrilled. Prepositions are weird. I have a big day ahead of me ... I should stop. Thanks for reading. Sorry you had to read it. Peace and love. -Blake J. Bloggerton

Creating a cause with real mass appeal ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 22:03:00 +0000

"The economy, stupid."

Those are now (in)famous words from Bill Clinton's fiery campaign strategist James Carville. Carville wrote that curt reminder on a list posted in Clinton's campaign headquarters during his initial run for President. It's pithy advice that always holds true, but is rarely regarded as much as it should be. The economy affects everything, even those places you might not expect.

I recently read an article regarding the impact of a poor economy on charitable gifts. Common sense would say that once an economy worsens, the fat is trimmed. The luxuries cut, the necessities kept. Now, while charitable giving certainly isn’t a luxury, it certainly isn’t a necessity, either.

I’d like to see non-profits adopt a model closer to the one employed by the Obama campaign this past year and a half (seems eternally longer than that, I know). Many charitable organizations use a rule of thumb even more extreme than most commercial corporations. For-profit organizations use a ratio called the Pareto Principle (PP), which states that 80% of total sales comes from 20% of the customer base. It’s applied across most industries and holds true a surprising amount of the time. Seems a bit extreme, huh? How can 80% of Coca-Cola sales come from 20% of the company’s customers? Well, you should see the pyramid of Coke Zero Vanilla cans that I see each night when I come home, only to be razed and rebuilt each tomorrow. Sure, caffeine is an addictive substance, but I’d argue that most products have habit-forming qualities. Vanity, greed, gluttony … you decide.

Anyway, the PP is astonishingly applicable and reliable in most industries. Seems wild, right? Well, the non-profit industry typically uses a different ratio, 90:10. Yup, typically 90% of total donations (that means total moolah going toward initiatives) are given by 10% of donors. That means keeping that small fraction of donors happy, engaged, and active is essential to a non-profit’s ability to accomplish its goals. And, moreover, its livelihood. During an economic downturn – or recession or depression or however you want to classify this current Bushian Blooper – that 10% gets wary. The 10% are typically wealthy philanthropists and they didn’t get rich by disregarding the economy and its markets. I think this is a fair and accurate generalization: most got rich by investing and being smart with their monies. They weren’t all entrepreneurs and lottery winners. Not to mention, a small, but sizable chunk of donors were born in or grew up during America’s Great Depression.

So, despite having inordinate amounts of money they likely couldn’t ever spend, they have stingy habits. They flinch when the economy is suffering and reach for their wallets only to check if they are still there. They’re not stupid or ignorant, they’re frugal and very, very prudent. Unfortunately, that affects philanthropic organizations enormously. A perfect example is the recent Bear Stearns (of bailout fame) debacle. Within that organization, a former chairman had set an admirable example and standard for its senior managers: 4% of their annual compensation went to charity. Well, seeing the recent turn in Bear Stearns’ fortune, I’m not sure that tradition can be continued. That’s the dilemma. Non-profits rely so heavily on 10% of their donors that any fluctuation amongst that group is detrimental and potentially fatal.

This is getting too long, so I’ll try to wrap it up quickly.

Charitable organizations would do well targeting larger groups of smaller donors. A significant number of $20, $10, even $5 donations can be aggregated into significant sums. The challenge is obviously reaching those prospects and mobilizing them to donate. I think the solution is in establishing a structure of civilian advocates for causes and certain non-profits. For example, Oxfam International is a non-profit relief organization that I’m particularly familiar with and fond of. There are many proponents of the causes and solutions the organization supports and those supporters should be harnessed. They are the advocates, they are the “cause evangelists”, they compose the foundation for a truly fertile network of funds.

More practically, one of them, say me, finds five friends to donate $5 each month. $5 each month. That’s all. Those friends can determine their own levels of involvement in the cause. Anywhere from minimal (simply donating $5), to optimal (finding five other friends to donate $5) participation within that structure. All of the advocates make their pledge each month and each of the six members is given examples (maybe even specific with contributions to families or children) of what difference his or her contribution makes. It’s truly that simple. Is it easy? Not entirely, but it’s not impossible by any means. It’s a concept everyone can get on board with and a program most people can afford. If an individual was to contribute that amount on his or her own, $30 (which honestly isn’t a much, let’s face it) can be equated to a phone bill or a new shirt. The outflow is equated with an expense that is significant in the contemporary consumer’s mind. $5, however, is equated to what? A smoothie? A pair of dress socks? Or, my favorite, a McRib Value Meal? (Just kidding anymore.) In my opinion, it seems like an easy sacrifice to make. And, what I feel, is a reasonable sacrifice in the mind of most consumers.

So, if the groundwork can be established for this new structure among the current and potential facilitators, it could prosper. I’m almost positive. Not without work, but what does? I’m going to use a banal phrase that I hate, but a paradigm shift needs to happen. Charitable organizations that receive the majority of their funding through donations need to explore other streams of fund-raising before their current ones run dry. A little can add up to a lot if organized correctly. Who knows, maybe a first-time, five-dollar donor takes that feeling to the next level and donates $10, $20, or even $100. It only takes one time. You’re hooked. Gratification may be the most addictive substance in the world … and why it should be used to change it.

The pen is mightier than the 'board ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 05:29:00 +0000

Irony's a funny thing. It happens much more than we realize. In fact, it's happening right now as I write this and at the moment you read it. How so, you ask? It all began, as many things do, with a smile ...

I received a letter in the mail the other day from Children International, an organization that connects children in impoverished countries with sponsors who are looking to lessen their families' financial burden. I'm currently a sponsor of a little guy from a small village in Honduras named Jairo. The letter I received was from the organization, encouraging me to write Jairo a letter to introduce myself and encourage him to study hard, basically. I've received a letter from the little gent, but haven't had the means to write him back until that day. I was stoked. Finally, I get to write mi amigo and express my excitement about the cultural journey we will take together.

So, I ran back to my room to bag-up my laptop and head to Java to type away. In my bustle, as I loaded up my messenger, I saw his picture sitting on my TV stand. In this photo, Jairo is a stiff cherub of a child, an awkward innocence exuding from his face and posture. At that moment, I considered whether he had ever seen a camera before, much less ever had his picture taken. Such an odd thought. Uncomfortable but dutiful, he stood with his arms tight to his sides as if his hands were magnets and his pants were made of steel. I wondered what went through his mind in that fraction of second during which he was immortalized on film and uploaded to a website. Does he know his picture will be seen by strangers? Or, does he think the photo is for school? Does he have any idea? I doubt it. Would you have any idea at six years old that your family lived in poverty and that Children International was trying to improve the quality of your life? It's just life to him. It's just life as he stands there in what are, in all likelihood, his nicest clothes, ill-fitting as they may be. He probably wears them only on special occasions and wondered what made that occasion worthy of his special clothes.

That day, Jairo (I call him "Jairo-Hero" 'cause I'm lame) got his picture taken. Unbeknownst to him, I came along that picture who knows how many months later. In it I saw curiosity. In it I saw tragedy. In it I saw a boy who may never know the luxuries I take for granted on a daily basis. In it I saw one boy who I will help amongst millions I could help. Beset on all sides by poverty, corruption, and injustice, I saw faces who might as well be ghosts if it weren't for our ability to help them overcome those obstacles. In it I saw ...

... well, I saw a lot of things and that's where my train of thought took me elsewhere and out the door, eager to write my letter. I hopped in my new car, turned on my new iPod, opened my sunroof, put on my sunglasses, and felt engulfing guilt. I thought, "Now is not the time Blake, get to Java and write your letter. Do this one thing for one child and later you can think about doing more." So, I drove down to Java to the tune of Jack's Mannequin, but cognizant only of hazy thoughts about how I live my life in so much fortune.

I arrived at Java, stepped out of the car and realized something ... in my bewilderment and introspection I had left my messenger at home. Laptop and all. Sonofa. I'm not driving all the way back to my house for my stupid computer. So, I did something I haven't done in a long time, I grabbed my folio and my pen, determined to write this letter. At that moment, and still at this moment, I can't remember the last time I have written anything of length by hand. I found a comfortable seat and a cup of tea and began to write my letter. With my excitement, I began to write feverishly on the yellow legal pad. My handwriting is an odd combination of print, cursive, shorthand, and maybe calligraphy that is solely for me to decipher. You'd need the Rosetta Stone to translate it. It's a mess. My hand cramped shortly into the second paragraph and that's not comedic hyperbole.

So I wrote and I wrote, choosing my words wisely so that a six year could make heads or tails of it. I've always prided myself on being able to write to any audience. But, honestly, this was different. My audience is usually in double digits age-wise, at least. So, I struggled a bit. And that's when I had a realization, as I was crossing out some convoluted sentence that made little sense. I realized that despite my attempts to conceal my mistakes in syntax or spelling or lapses in grammar, they were still on that page. They were scratched out, but still existed. Those words were evidence that writing pen-to-page is much different than writing finger-to-key. The crossed-out miswrites were like fossils of thoughts that once crossed my mind, but died on the page in a matter of seconds. They couldn't be erased and they couldn't be backspaced. They were there on that page until I trashed it.

That inspired me. This is the only way stream-of-consciousness can exist. Even as I type this now, I could not help but correct my spelling errors immediately and reconsider my word choices over and over. It is an entirely different process. On the computer, I can type fast enough to go neck-and-neck with my brain, but I can't when I'm transcribing my thoughts by hand. It alters the thought process immensely as things are mentally re-routed. The output could be completely disparate compared to what I would have typed out. It's fascinating.

So, I finished my letter, but was inspired to write and continued to write. What emerged were some entirely different ideas through an entirely different method. Now I'm going to transcribe verbatim what I wrote with the hope that it will encourage you to blow the dust off your journal or notebook and exhaust a brand new pen with your new found journalistic freedom. On my crumpled paper, I wrote as follows:

gratitude, difference making is one act you never build up a resistance to

you never build up a resistance to changing lives

It takes one every time

It takes one act every time

You never develop a tolerance to changing lives. Those acts never lose their impact. They never lose their poignancy

Making crises a spectacle is not effective. I believe in the power of pictures, but not morbidity. There is no need to highlight people as sideshows. Poverty, famine, corruption, they are social issues that require social consciousness, not social disgust. Disgust makes us feel, but understanding drives action. The collective brains of so-called developed countries know that atrocities occur and tragedies persist, but what it can't grasp is that they happen to people. Real people, flesh and blood. People just like you. People who could just as easily have been you. But, you got lucky. Whether you are born into freedom or financial security, you were born into opportunity, or, simply, stability. Not tumult. You were lucky. We were lucky. We're lucky to be here tonight.

When people cringe, they forget. When people can't bare to look, they don't.

People see less the more you show them.

They must understand.

Yup. That's it. So, Jairo was a boon to me that day. In his neat white shirt that has never seen starch or an electric iron, he helped me forget about my laptop. Both literally and progressively. Thanks, Jairo. This is the beginning of a fruitful journey, and the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Visit www.children.org and sponsor your own little Hero.

Blog-servations ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 04:07:00 +0000

For all of the people around the world the illustrious George W. Bush has alienated, disenfranchised, and utterly confused, he has made the lives of two types of people much, much easier. One is satirical journalists / "political" comedians, because when have they had such a smörgåsbord of material? And, two, snarky Internet nerds who like to make animated graphics of celebrities and demure political figures dancing or generally just doing ridiculous stuff. Click the preceding words to see what I mean. He's either made their lives a lot easier or left them without a hobby. Either way, at least they can focus on Bill Clinton.

It's odd and blasphemous, but a lot of lefties are finding Bush to be more likable now that he's riding into the sunset. Well, maybe not likable, but certainly laughable. That's akin to likable, right? Truly, though, he's turned into some sort of surreal court jester. It's like he's rubbing the fact that he's probably going to leave office NOT via impeachment in the collective face of the American people. He's pounding podiums, he's balking at pervasive analyst statements (he'd never heard about $4 oil before, I guess), and generally just acting like a caricature of a world leader. He's even gone self-referential with his low approval ratings, acknowledging that maybe not supporting McCain would help him win. Tongue in cheek, I know, but there are kernels of truth in that statement. Even he knows it. And, by kernels, I mean the vast cornfields of Nebraska. I wonder how many hours of Minesweeper he plays per day during these final months.

Meanwhile, I'm still trying to find a substantial explanation on why his endorsement of McCain was such a hooplah. I mean, if there was any president who would endorse an ineligible candidate, it would be this one ... but still, what other choice did he have? I guess I don't understand the importance of what I see as an arbitrary formality. Of course, this American politics and the entire system is filled with formality and ceremony and gestures of no real consequence. It's funny the rules and etiquette politicians adhere to when you consider that which they simply ignore. I've been fortunate enough to attend a political ball and an inaguration in my time and they epitomize the words "pomp and circumstance". It's quite amusing really. Just seems like a weird process when there are so many substantial things to focus on. Like, say, legislation. Ah, alas, we must have our galas and our celebrations. Glory be to the king.

In other news, the current season of Survivor is awesome. I really despise television in general, but I cannot escape Survivor. It's my guilty pleasure that I don't feel that guilty about. Survivor would be my "desert island" TV series. Not only would it be infinitely useful, but endlessly entertaining. This season, filmed in often-mistaken-for-fictional Micronesia, has been confusing and full of twists. As I've read, Survivor is one of, if not the only, reality shows that isn't manipulated by the producers. It broke my heart to discover that Last Comic Standing was pre-determined and shaped by the powers that be at NBC. I mean, it was a mediocre show celebrating mediocre comedians (save John Heffron), but stand-up comedy is my gospel and to watch it defiled kills me. Maybe that's why my love for Survivor endures. It's pure. Pure in the sense that it's "reality" on "television" ... but its relative unadulteration still appeals to me.

In fact, next next season, I'll definitely be submitting an application for future casting calls. No "Sole Survivor" has ever gone on to do something selfless with the winnings and I'd love to land on the island with that goal. Go on, win, give at least half of the after-tax prize to a non-profit of my choosing and use the rest to do volunteer work around the world for a year or two. I'd like to be left with about $100,000 out of that million for traveling and investing. How much money does one person need at any given time, anyway? Seems superfluous to me. Can you imagine the kind of exposure and goodwill that would garner for non-profit organizations and relief work? It'd weave itself a nice tale and manifest something positive and progressive out of something trivial and regressive. It'd be beautiful. I'm going to at least apply. No joke.

Lastly, while I'm proud to say that Barack Obama is my candidate of choice this year and have been impressed by the level of support and excitement he has been able to provoke, I still can't fathom the amount of money being spent in political campaigns. And these are only the goddamn primaries. I'll need a defibrillator when I see figures for the general election. Obama managed to raise a record-setting $55 million in February. $55 million. According to his e-communications, 90% of the donors pledged $100 or less apiece, assembling a truly tremendous following of supporters. Both in commitment and diversity. You know where a lot of those funds went? Texas and Ohio. States in which he made considerable gains, but ultimately did not win. The amount of money is at the same time remarkable and rebukable.

Now, sure, that's tallied in American dollars, so $55 million really isn't as much as it sounds like (zing!), but that amount of money will still buy quite a bit in Bushian '08. This discussion is old hat for some and trite for others, but the fact is that the stakes are continually being raised and I wonder when it's time to finally say "enough". Not only is $55 million a financial benchmark and resource, it's also used as a political chess move. In other words, Americans' motivations, even those political, are still influenced by dollar signs. These figures are touted by the candidates like they are credentials. While they may be accomplishments and while money may still "talk", I hope its silver tongue falls on deaf ears of the undecided. It's just money. Though it may buy thousands of 30-second TV spots and print millions of flyers, these are never a substitute for platforms and policies. I honestly can't believe mudslinging still works. It literally boggles my fucking mind that the pull of a (voting) lever can be determined by the push of a (remote control) button. Isn't that completely outrageous to anyone else? Each generation has its propaganda.

Don't listen, LEARN! As savvy as us Americans claim to be, we still froth at the mouth after a good dog-and-pony show. It's time to put the dog to sleep and send the pony to the glue factory. I don't know much - in fact I know very little - but I know that if we ignore them, they will go away.

P.S. I realize this is getting long, but I do have one post script that I'd be remiss if I didn't mention. Somehow a gentleman from Australia stumbled across my last blog entry. He took the time, put finger to key, and sent me a truly nice message about enjoying my "poem". (I put that in quotes as to not offend actual poets who spend more than an hour on their creations.) To say the least, that was really, really cool and gratifying. So, if he's reading this, thanks again. I encourage others to write with their questions, comments, and even objections, if they're feeling froggy. Anyway, I thought that was pretty neat. Just happy to know this comes across someone's screen and provides some level of entertainment or amusement or ... whatever. As long as it's something. Except Islamo-facism, 'cause I do NOT endorse that shit. Whatever it even means, Rush.

Rhyme time ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 23:27:00 +0000

Prose break for the weary:

Too Big

Big trucks in parking lots

Askew in parking spaces

Because they don’t belong on asphalt

Or any urban places

Big rings on small hands

Weighing down the fingers

Because they represent our feelings

Not the strife that lingers

Big houses on hilltops

Overlooking the cities

Because its owner can’t imagine a life

Among those men he pities

Big ships sailing through

Islands and sandy beaches

Because the sea-faring want a short glimpse

Of the meek hamlets it reaches

Big heads, small minds

Existing in a bubble

Because it’s inconsequential to them

Who lives among the rubble

Big hearts make change

And they must be it

Because one hand makes a difference

Even if you don’t see it

Airport Amusement Part 2: The Medium ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 19:07:00 +0000

Sometimes I get a bit too ambitious with my blog entries. I start with a concept, but it often meanders and I end up with a veritable novella that creates more questions than answers. One digression leads to another digression that leads to a story three ideas removed from the original premise. So, this is a continuation of my last post. Please reference "Part 1: The Light ..." or the entry immediately below this one.

I love airports. And babies love Vegas (no one is going to get that). Why the love for airports? Why an unrequited affection for the venue that falls only behind the dentist's office on a list of places people love to loathe? The answer is simple: liberation. Airports, even one as modest as Boise's, are little cities in and of themselves. Whether I'm stranded in Dallas, LAX, Orlando, or Sea-Tac, I feel as though I'm going somewhere. Where? Anywhere will do. As long as it's not where I'm at.

As travelers hurry and scurry from terminal to terminal, they're all going somewhere. Airports represent emancipation, because they are the places that are literally nowhere. They have names, they have identities, they have infrastructure and rules and staff. Though, when you're in an airport, you're going somewhere. It might take a couple of hours, it might even take half of a day, but it's certain that you won't be there forever. Shortly, by the magic of air travel, you will be somewhere else.

You know that feeling when you reach your final destination, but it hasn't processed yet? You've landed, stepped on the solid ground, grabbed your bags, and found transportation, but it won't hit you for a few hours that you are halfway across the nation or thousands of miles around the globe. I like to call that phenomenon "Airport Amnesia". The brain and the body must adjust to the concept that you're no longer where you once were. It's magic. Airports are magic. That is one reason why I love airports ... because I love magic!

Another reason I love airports: culture. I'm sure your incredulity just punched you in the face, but hear me out. I'm not talking rich, vibrant cultures. Hell, I'm not even talking about the dull, insipid cultures of the Midwest. I'm talking about the zaniest, weirdest, gift-shop souvenir culture cultures of the cities that these commonwealths try to represent. Sea-Tac has 7,000 coffee shops, Orlando MCO has palm trees, and Dallas-Fort Worth has an impressive smattering of fast-food steak joints that make arteries cry. When I visit these airports, IT'S LIKE I'M VISITING THE CITIES! I don't need to ever go to Dallas because I go the authentic experience when I ate at Dickey's BBQ, had dessert at I Can't Believe It's Yogurt, and bought my trinkets at JP's Dude Ranch! (If you think any of that is fictitious, go there.) Done, put a push-pin on Texas!

Of course I'm kidding, but I do find it hilarious. Airports are quite possibly the worst live-action brochures for any city. Any impression you get from an airport, please forget it the second your plane leaves the ground. As I said, airports aren't even places, they're neverwheres. Your soul doesn't exist in an airport and that should explain the quality of service. They're fun places, airports, but take them for what they are. Enjoy the in-betweens and know that you're off to somewhere better ... or, at least, somewhere that matters.

So, for the countless reasons I love the airport, there are a handful for why I don't. I'll only delve into one today, though: people who don't check their luggage. Holy shit I detest these people. Now, realize that I'm not referring to those who carry a backpack or a few reasonably sized bags. I'm talking about the travelers who insist on saving time by bringing their gargantuan rolling carry-ons on the plane. First clue: it's so heavy you have to roll it. Seems pretty fucking simple to me. "Carry-on" should be literal. If you cannot traverse the concourses without dragging your goddamn bag all over the goddamn airport, you need to check it.

Second clue: security screening. Not only do you have to drag that behemoth around with you, but setting it on the conveyor belt practically causes an equipment malfunction and registers a 5.6 on the Richter Scale. Then, as the machine exasperatingly shakes and struggles to move your bag, we have to watch that thing squeeze through the x-ray like sending dead Hawaiian recording artist Iz down a water slide. After which, it is inevitably selected for additional security screening because you have it jammed with so much shit it's like trying to look through the core of the Earth with a Fisher Price microscope. Saving yourself a lot of time so far, asshole.

Third clue: boarding. This is probably the worst portion of the journey. Because, not only does it make this person look like an idiot, it inconveniences EVERY ONE ELSE ON THE ENTIRE PLANE. Turbo McSavesNoTime is always of course in the middle of boarding so that two things occur. 1) Nearly all of the overhead bins are full by this point and 2) half of the passengers are still waiting to board the plane. So, this individual (usually a guy who you can tell has more time than he's honest with himself about) has an audience watching him from all angles releasing his suppressed rage on his precious carry-on as he savagely jams a bag that is way too big into a slot that is way too small; simultaneously devastating all other items in that particular bin, scaring the fuck out of the half that boarded before him, and annoying the shit out of the half that is impatiently standing behind him just wanting to end this nightmare. Guh.

(However, when I last flew, which was to Denver, those who had carry-ons that could not fit underneath the seats had to semi-check their luggage at the breezeway and pick them up after the flight. When we got off, those inconsiderate SOBs, instead of standing in the comfortably warm terminal with the rest of us, had to wait in the unforgiving Colorado weather while their bags were removed from the plane with no particular urgency. VINDICATION!)

Fourth (and final) clue: deplaning. Shortest, but second-worst step in A Bag's Life. The owners of these bags, though infinitely inconsiderate, are ten times as stupid. They have no grasps of the laws of physics. As soon as we all stand to retrieve our various items and get off the plane, these MFers must get their monstrosities out of the overhead bins. Even though it holds up the line, I'm not even concerned about time anymore ... I'm worried about my safety. Now, I'm not certain whether these people think flying is like going into space and there is less gravity or that their muscle strength after the flight is roughly 50% of what it was when they boarded the plane, but you know ... YOU KNOW ... that these bastards are going to be stunned by the weight of their bags (well, in all fairness, they haven't carried them all goddamn day) and give someone a concussion. At the very least, someone is losing a toe. I've witnessed it more times than I can count. Realizing that it took extreme force to get the bag INTO the compartment, it will take at least that much to get it out, so they yank and they pull and out it eventually comes like a fabric fucking missile to decapitate a fellow passenger.

Unless you have a donated liver or pet iguana in your bag, please do everyone a favor and check it. I promise it isn't that big of a deal.

Other than these imbeciles, I love airports! ;-)

Airport Amusement Part 1: The Light ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 16:31:00 +0000

Airports are funny places. They really make you think. I cannot imagine another environment in which there are so many people, but each one feels so alone. Not lonely, but alone. In the airport, each individual has a similar objective: reach a destination. Whether it be for work, pleasure, or whatever, few milieus are as isolationist as the airport. Immersed in an environment of innumerable stimuli, it's paradoxically natural to get lost in your own little selfish world. I guess that's why separates me from most titans of the terminal - I get lost in the worlds of others. I love the airport.

The airport is one of the few places where you will see two to three open chairs between each passenger. Most would opt to sit on the floor or in the aisle ways to avoid encroaching on the lives of their fellow wayfarers. Airports transform even the most passive, rational individual into a powder keg just one small offense away from a nuclear meltdown. (Truthfully, it's not airports that cause this regression, it's the airLINES, but the airports take the fall.) Each countenance I observe reveals a unique, but similar attitude about the passengers. Exasperated, annoyed, irate, antsy, bleak, exhausted, incredulous. They are the same expressions and attitudes you'll see at any airport, on any day, at any hour, going any WHERE.

It's a weird dynamic, because, as I said earlier, the leg-twitching, arms-crossed, eye-rolling inhabitants of each gate have a similar objective: reach a destination. They are all going to the same place, usually for some pleasurable outcome. Visit friends or family, go on a vacation, see somewhere new, explore, or surprise someone special. You would think that these motives would be a uniting force, sparking thousands of interesting conversations and new friendships. In fact, in my experience, the shell of a volatile traveler is easily cracked with a simple greeting or introduction. Needless to say, it is the continual disappointment of airline service that turns each person in that venue into an island, but it's just as easy to form an archipelago too.

That doesn't really explain why I like airports, does it? Other than the fascinating social empiricism I gain from just being at there, the typical attitudes of my fellow travelers don't really brighten my day. Moreover, the incessant ineptitude of the airline industry in general is appalling. Airlines continue to overpromise and underdeliver. Even more enraging are the times when an operator DOES do its job as advertised and practically blows out a shoulder trying to pat itself on the back. (I was going to use the metaphor "remove three of its lower ribs so it can suck its own c**k", but that seems a bit ribald.) In all honesty, the airline industry is a bastion of technological innovation, efficiency, and adaptability, but its customers have been victimized by, like I said, a differential between promises and delivery.

It's an unfortunate gap in marketing that we encounter every day in various ways. I often think to myself "Does the burger match the picture?" It doesn't, most of the times. Literally, though, I'm willing to accept a deflated Big Mac (yeah, I know, I really wouldn't eat it) because it doesn't cost me $500 of my savings and two hours of my life.

Succinctly, the airlines have shot themselves in the foot. I think they would do well to be more transparent and explain their policies and practices and be more realistic about their service delivery. Do you know why airlines overbook flights? In a nutshell, a lot of business passengers don't show up (with refundable tickets) and the airlines run on such slim margins that it's crucial to their survival (and, thus, our ability to travel) to fill the majority of the seats. Services aren't like tangible goods. Coca-Cola doesn't have to worry if a can of soda doesn't sell today, because it could be sold tomorrow or the next day or the next day. Airlines don't have that luxury, because empty seats can't be inventoried. They're just lost revenue. It's a practice that is incongruent with everything that is taught in a capitalistic market. Once you buy it, it's yours. Not true at the airport. Your boarding pass is meaningless until you're actually sitting in Row 7, Seat D.

I know, it seems unfair. And that's because it is, but a better understanding of the reasons you get bumped and your rights as a customer might help fill those hollow terminal seats between travelers. I'm not advocating a utopian airport society, because I'm as flummoxed as most people by the industry. However, the countless times I've been burned by a surly attendant at check-in have taught me to be realistic. Just as the burger doesn't match the picture, the flight probably won't meet the departure time. No matter what the price.

I'm not certain if it's the marketing that has superseded our previous trillion negative experiences at the airport or we're incapable of learning ANYTHING, but no one can seem to grasp that, from tarmac to tarmac, it won't happen like you've been promised. It's time to realign expectations with reality and not with what the Travelocity Gnome told you. Check out http://www.mytravelrights.com/index.cfm for your rights as a traveler and the "rationale" behind many of the travel industry's maddening policies. It is with that knowledge that one can hop, skip, and jump around the world without murdering someone with honey roasted peanuts. (For reference, an awesomely stupid example of that actually happening can be seen in the movie "Daredevil". Yeah, believe it.)

Overdrafting a Ledger account ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 03:10:00 +0000

Everyone remembers what RIP stands for, right? It’s an acronym for Rest In Peace. Not Report In Perpetuity. Not Rape Individual’s Privacy. And certainly not Relate In Passing. It’s Rest In Peace, but I’m not sure the media is caught up on acronyms; certainly not since the days of FEMA, WMD, and GDP. You know, the important shit.

Every morning I’m confronted by a laundry list of “most recommended” stories and banner headlines speculating on how and why Heath Ledger was so prematurely shuffled loose of the mortal coil. Was it anxiety? Was it depression? Was it the recent separation from his long-time girlfriend? How about his alarmingly immersive approach to becoming the Joker in the upcoming film The Dark Knight? Most importantly, why are we so concerned? There is obviously a certain amount of curiosity piqued by such an event, but it’s starting to border on the degree of obsession you would afford a family member or close friend if one of them was to pass.

I read a headline earlier today that stated, “Heath Ledger edgy and anxious over Christmas holidays”. This kind of "evidence" produces undue assumptions and hearsay. What human being is not anxious and a bit edgy during the holidays? These statements suggest nuances in his character that we have no right to know. New information is unearthed hourly, creating a tableau of the last hours of this man’s life in some ridiculous paint-by-numbers “investigation”. It is an ugly game of grapevine on a worldwide scale. Why does a scene need to be painted? Why does the public NEED to know why and how died? Celebrities in this country are put on such high pedestals that even a mid-level actor can fall from towering heights and shock us to our cores. I mean mid-level not in the sense of his talent or ability, but in his notoriety and career’s work. I can’t imagine the fallout of Julia Roberts or Tom Hanks dying freakishly. Surely it would be a national holiday.

Undoubtedly, Heath Ledger’s death was tragic. It was tragic insofar as he was young and apparently an individual beloved by those who knew him. That’s as profound as his death is to the public. Beyond that, it’s time to drop it. We can honor him through remembrance, not presumptuous headlines or invasive examination. He was a human being in the spotlight, but that doesn’t secure us a press pass to his autopsy and funeral. However he died, let him RIP.

P.S. Below is a picture from a “memorial” point-of-purchase display at Best Buy. Class, class, class.

An amateur diagnosis ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 19:16:00 +0000

I've been getting a lot of headaches lately and I have no idea why. I'm not an individual who usually suffers from this affliction, but they've certainly been present in the past couple of weeks. I'm trying to figure out why. Have you ever tried self-diagnosis? It's a problematic undertaking. Let me start by stating that I don not have medical degree. I have no background in medicine or health care. The closest I ever came to becoming a doctor was when I got CPR certified. Fifteen years ago. Worst of all, these brain pains completely disable me from composing coherent thoughts. It's a perfect storm of inanity and ineptitude. First, seeing as how I had just taken the GMAT and filled my head with a sea of useless knowledge, I thought my brain had finally outgrown my skull. It was bound to happen. The shooting pain I feel in my temple is actually a fault, not unlike the San Andreas, created by my bloating brain. I'm still hanging onto this one. Oh, and my ears are bleeding, so I think that's another symptom of neurological giganticism, the name I gave my affliction. It affects 1 in 314,159,265 people worldwide.

Second, my brain may be revolting. I think there is an uprising taking place in my head organized by the dendrites. They might be protesting the recent lack of sleep or the recent shortage of wine. I'm not sure on this one. Either way, it's getting ugly.

Third, something is hatching inside my head. It might be an alien, it might be a conjoined twin. I'm not positive on this one either. I'm just surprised that the incubation period was so long. I hope it doesn't affect my modeling career.

*** Sidebar ***

Does anyone still study/practice phrenology? Goddamn that had to be a fascinating period to be a medical student. I have performed so many lobotomies. "So, how are we fixing these mentally ill folks?" "Oh, we're just going to pull out the corresponding parts of the brain that cause the mental illness." Doesn't everyone wish his or her job was as simple as removing parts of the brain? Seriously, someone disagrees with you, take out the frontal lobe. Problem solved. Now who's the boss?

*** Sidebar #2 ***

Has anyone seen that new commercial for the Bowflex home gym? It's the typical quick-cut glamor shots of the spaceship-looking machine and its greasy, bronzed beneficiaries with the generic voiceover ("I lost 70 pounds and took 12 inches off my waistline in just 20 minutes, 4 times a week."). All is business as usual until the actor (or former monstrosity, I can't decide if they Photoshop those pictures or not) smugly spouts this gem: "I gave all my fat clothes to my fat friends." WHAT?! Wow, you're, all at once, the best and worst friend anyone could have. I guess the Bowflex gives you great abs AND a God complex. That's amazing. Who writes this dialogue? I'm not sure what copywriting book suggests you that you create completely unlikeable characters in your ads. And who takes hand-me-downs from friends, anyway? Especially in that situation. It defies logic.

"Hey, Mike, you know how I'm in the best shape of my life?"

"Yeah, you don't shut up about it."

"Why would I? Anyway, here are the clothes I can't wear anymore since I'm no longer a disgusting pig. I thought you might want to give them a try. Careful, though, they might be a bit tight. I'm so awesome."

I bet he didn't even wash them, for those fat friends of his don't deserve time. HE'S BUSY PUMPIN' IRON! What a smarmy asshole.

However, I envision a scenario in which this was the best, least offensive take after like three hours of shooting and the producers decided to throw in the towel. Lines that didn't make the cut include: "I gave all my fat clothes to my fat friends, after I infected them with monkey pox." "I gave all my fat clothes to my fat friends, then I gave them titty-twisters and spit in their faces." And, best of all, "I threw a bag of all my fat clothes at my fat friends and then ran them over with my car. They'll get the bill in the mail." Mental marketing note: don't use roid-ragers in commercials. Check.

This is so disjointed it's not even funny. Sorry, I have a headache.

All that's left is stardust ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 04:19:00 +0000

"So, if you wake up one morning and it's a particularly beautiful day, you'll know we made it."

That quote is from the movie "Sunshine", an above-average science fiction movie about the spacecraft Icarus II and its crew. The ship and its team are sent on a mission to reignite the sun by detonating a device on the surface of the burnt-out star to save humanity from its current longstanding ice age. The quote is directed at physicist Robert Capa's family. The first part of the line refers to presumed exquisiteness of the sun's resurrection to those living on Earth. The second part refers to the team accomplishing its mission. The movie's most prominent theme is self-sacrifice and weighing a few lives against the fate of humanity. The sense of duty prevails in the end as most of the characters make huge sacrifices in the name of their objective. The quote encapsulates the moral of the movie perfectly, but it has much broader application than to a mere throwaway sci-fi flick. The statement is an acute thought that most of us should consider from time to time.

Self-sacrifice seems to be waning these days. It's unfortunate that a line in a movie can move people more than most of what they witness in daily life. Is self-sacrifice so uncommon and heroic that it can profoundly touch us only through film? Though the magnitude of the actions of the characters in Sunshine is heroic, should they be so unusual? I would even contend that heroic actions of a small magnitude are far too rare. The gaping lacuna between the haves and have-nots widens every day and still it only spurs a few to action. Are we relying on writers and the storytellers to define self-sacrifice for us? Those of us in the upper-echelon of the wealthy (trust me, even with $80,000 in student loans, you're still comparatively wealthy) should be making sacrifices on a regular basis. Hell, to even call donating or volunteering "sacrifices" demonstrates what an appallingly fantastical notion humanitarian duty has become.

I don't want to moralize too much, but people are suffering around the world. Millions are starving. Millions live in abject poverty. Millions are displaced from their homes. What sacrifices are you making to challenge these atrocities? Go to the Oxfam website and donate twenty bucks a few times per year with one less drink every weekend. Dedicate a few hours per week volunteering at a rescue mission (find Boise's right HERE) or become a Big Brother or Big Sister (HERE). Such gestures should always be welcomed with praise and gratitude, but rarely with disbelief and unfamiliarity. Maybe that reaction is because diamond-studded bikinis, and opulence are the status quos. Nearly half of our nation's television programming is dedicated to celebrating astonishing luxury (Cribs, My Super Sweet Sixteen, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous). Or, that is, what was once astonishing luxury. Most of us aren't even shocked by the most outrageous levels of self-indulgence, because those have sadly become the norm.

So, then, why are we so touched when we self-sacrifice play out on the big screen? Because, for most of us, it hardly even exists. Further, we've been desensitized to inexplicable wealth and grandiose spectacle. Yeah, it has come to that point where even the poorest of this nation don't find platinum rims deplorable. I'm not saying life needs to be a 100-year war against injustice, I just think we should all realize as our obligation as beings of humankind.

"So, if you wake up one morning and it's a particularly beautiful day, you'll know we made it."

With the simple efforts of 1% more of US citizens, I can only imagine the morning we would wake up to. I don't even think 3, 4, or 5 percent more would be too much to ask, but maybe I'm overestimating the benevolence of my fellow men and women. I know a lot of good people who could do a lot of good things, but they need a push. I don't know what motivates them, but it's my job as a marketer to find out and see how they and others can make every day particularly beautiful.

Hey blog ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 01:09:00 +0000

... sorry for the delay. Hey readers (that should probably be singularized), sorry for the delay. Consider this show back on the road! So, an update of the mundane:

- Took the GMAT. It went well enough.
- Applied to graduate schools. Not sure about the success on that journey quite yet. Stay tuned.

During this entire testing and application process, I had a few revelations. For one, the GMAT isn't so much a test of quantitative skills or verbal prowess as much as it's a test of endurance on several levels. Most noticeably, mental, emotional, and psychological. Mental in that the content "studied" for the GMAT is an infinite cavern of information of dubious significance in most fields of work. Emotional for the fact that your collegiate future hinges heavily on the testee's performance. Finally and most profoundly, psychologically the GMAT tries your reason. It was the reason where I encountered my biggest nemesis. I fought tooth-and-nail against insanity, against irrationality. I battled the beasts of logic so I could endure. Near the end, I was a finely-tuned studying machine, because I was at last able to prescribe to the ludicrous notion that this test measured much more than those three aforementioned attributes.

What type of people succeed on the GMAT? The chameleons who are able to disregard the inherent pointlessness of the test. Those who are able to, hopefully temporarily, surrender to one number that will have a hand in deciding your academic future. Years of peerless experience? Awesome. A beaming undergraduate transcript? Super. References of shining praise from former superiors? Neato. However, those three things won't get you far at most institutions without an above-average number tallied after four hours of sweating bullets.

The other components would suggest that you would excel at the test, too, sure. What if you don't test well? What does that measure? The GMAT measures quite a few things, but I'm not sure aptitude is one of them. Unless "aptitude" is defined in the broadest sense of the word. It's the same revelation you have once you graduate at lower levels and realize that not much you learned in years of coursework is applicable to the real world. Most of it is absolutely hollow without application. I'm betting on the fact that graduate studies will be different, and I'm hopeful, but I'm not sure I agree with means by which a student arrives there. I won't even delve into the reality that an entire industry exists to serve the preparation, administration, and delivery of the test. Hell, the GMAT itself is a registered product sold by the Graduate Management Admissions Council. I might even argue that it's a monopoly. In fact, the GMAC's revenue would increase if examinees took it multiple times. Seems like a conflict of interests, but that's another diatribe.

Wow, none of that is exactly humorous, is it? Let's get to something that should be.

As most know by now, the Funny Bone Comedy Club in Boise went out of business on New Year's Day following the staff's collective resignation. I'm privy to the details, but let's just say they had a bone (pun!) to pick with the ownership and were underappreciated. Anyway, alternative comedy has been absent in Boise for over two weeks and it has left a hole in my brain and soul. ComedySportz is currently making a name for itself, but I'm personally not a fan of comedy for the masses. Family-friendly yucks are frequently bowdlerized and devoid of anything interesting or erudite. Improvisation is an artform, but ComedySportz is for families, not me.

However, in auspicious news, I recently heard that former manager and staffmembers at the 'Bone are pursuing another venue under another name. According to articles and hearsay, a phoenix will rise from the ashes and embrace comedy again at Crackn-Me Up Comedy Club and Theater! Now, that is one of the most unwieldy, unfortunate names for any comedy club, but at least it means the laughs make their way back to Boise. Let's hope the City of Trees catches on this time and realizes stand-up comedy is one the final unadulterated bastions of truth and free speech. Pending campus visits, I'll be there on opening night and many evenings thereafter. Want to share the yucks with me?

I'm sorry that this blog wasn't terribly entertaining or enlightening, but I'm not feeling 100%. I promise to be less sobering next time. Cheers.

Synapses ...

noreply@blogger.com (Blake J. Bloggerton) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 00:38:00 +0000

A million miles a minute goes the mind, so let's see if we can mine something funny, interesting, and/or wise out of this.

Took GMAT. Hallelujah that's over ... now for the legwork.

Fell on ice last night and almost broke the knee that broke my fall. I should probably treat it better or it might defer to my face next time.

Watched "Death Bed: The Bed that Eats" and my current predilection for kitschy movies is only strengthened.

Listening to "Motorcycle Drive By" by Third Eye Blind at the moment. For my money, the best song ever written and rarely listened to. It speaks to me.

I need to learn more idioms. What's literal anymore, anyway?