Here's a little story 'bout...
Okay. I know. I haven't been posting lately. Christ, leave me alone! Okay, just had to get that out; last week was an INSANE week at work and I wanted to say that more than a few times.
Anyhow, I got this idea as I was searching old my sketchbooks for inspiration and ideas for some ads. I didn't find any. But I did come across a nifty little thing that caught my attention: a (unfinished - always unfinished) story that had me grinning. Perhaps it'll do the same for you:
The flight was delayed, of course - they always are. At least that's what it feels like. I get to the airport hours in advance, work my way through ticket counters and brash security personnel, get to my gate with enough time to drink my coffee and read The Journal, the the flight's been delayed.
Not cancelled. Delayed. At least if it were cancelled I could get a hotel room or something. But nope - delayed.
Sometimes it's not so bad, travelling. Once you get to your destination, everything could change for you. Maybe have an interesting meeting for onec, or a conference that actually puts a smile on your face. The nights are usually the same when you're on the road: the conference/meeting/dinner ends, and you hit what is most likely the hotel bar, watch some basketball highlights, get drunk, and go to sleep.
Last night was kind of like that. Except for one thing. I got lucky.
It's hazily clear to me; a mixture of sour Long Islands and sweet perfumes. Her name - and I'm bad at names anyways, so don't use it against me - was something along the lines of Jenny. Or Penny. Fuck, it could have been Greg Normal for all I cared.
Anyhow, the meeting rate, which in hindsight was a good thing, because I probably would have missed Penny/Jenny/Greg had I arrived earlier. But man, that fucking meeting, though.
This little prick of a sales guy, always playing the charming fuck, he held the meeting, right? Which basically amounted to him telling us just how great his numbers are. That was it.
Meeting are for the most part a huge waste of time. Stephen Hawkins, God love him, has it all wrong. The cause of black holes in the universe aren't due to radioation, energy, gravity...nothing like that. Meetings. That's what black holes are: they suck in time, erergy, passion, focus...everything right out of the air, just like that. Until 5 pm roles around and, in a mad rush of tired sighs and wrinkled slacks, people flee for the exits. Nothing accomplished, nothing gained, except age and crow's feet.
That's exactly what happened with this kid Paul, right? Except that he keeps it going until five fucking thirty! In Boise. Fucking Boise. Seattle's too far, Vegas too tempting, so we're stuck in Boise. With this shithead Paul. Smug asshole. His mission in life is to remind anyone and everyone around him that he is unbeatable, the best, most reliable guy on the West Coast. On a daily basis, no less.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, was bored out of their fucking skulls. Even the ficus in the corner looked depressed - it was realizing that, like the rest of us, it was trapped in a prison with unlocked doors and a staid slide show.
To be honest, I can't even remember the overall point of the meeting, really. Paul rambled for hours like some motivational speaker hired by the second leading bleach manufacturer in the U.S. That's what I do, by the way. Bleach. I know, it's not exactly Hollywood, but it pays for Gin and Tonics.
And that's it. I never finished it and never looked at it again until last Friday. Anyhow, till next time!
Anyhow, I got this idea as I was searching old my sketchbooks for inspiration and ideas for some ads. I didn't find any. But I did come across a nifty little thing that caught my attention: a (unfinished - always unfinished) story that had me grinning. Perhaps it'll do the same for you:
The flight was delayed, of course - they always are. At least that's what it feels like. I get to the airport hours in advance, work my way through ticket counters and brash security personnel, get to my gate with enough time to drink my coffee and read The Journal, the the flight's been delayed.
Not cancelled. Delayed. At least if it were cancelled I could get a hotel room or something. But nope - delayed.
Sometimes it's not so bad, travelling. Once you get to your destination, everything could change for you. Maybe have an interesting meeting for onec, or a conference that actually puts a smile on your face. The nights are usually the same when you're on the road: the conference/meeting/dinner ends, and you hit what is most likely the hotel bar, watch some basketball highlights, get drunk, and go to sleep.
Last night was kind of like that. Except for one thing. I got lucky.
It's hazily clear to me; a mixture of sour Long Islands and sweet perfumes. Her name - and I'm bad at names anyways, so don't use it against me - was something along the lines of Jenny. Or Penny. Fuck, it could have been Greg Normal for all I cared.
Anyhow, the meeting rate, which in hindsight was a good thing, because I probably would have missed Penny/Jenny/Greg had I arrived earlier. But man, that fucking meeting, though.
This little prick of a sales guy, always playing the charming fuck, he held the meeting, right? Which basically amounted to him telling us just how great his numbers are. That was it.
Meeting are for the most part a huge waste of time. Stephen Hawkins, God love him, has it all wrong. The cause of black holes in the universe aren't due to radioation, energy, gravity...nothing like that. Meetings. That's what black holes are: they suck in time, erergy, passion, focus...everything right out of the air, just like that. Until 5 pm roles around and, in a mad rush of tired sighs and wrinkled slacks, people flee for the exits. Nothing accomplished, nothing gained, except age and crow's feet.
That's exactly what happened with this kid Paul, right? Except that he keeps it going until five fucking thirty! In Boise. Fucking Boise. Seattle's too far, Vegas too tempting, so we're stuck in Boise. With this shithead Paul. Smug asshole. His mission in life is to remind anyone and everyone around him that he is unbeatable, the best, most reliable guy on the West Coast. On a daily basis, no less.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, was bored out of their fucking skulls. Even the ficus in the corner looked depressed - it was realizing that, like the rest of us, it was trapped in a prison with unlocked doors and a staid slide show.
To be honest, I can't even remember the overall point of the meeting, really. Paul rambled for hours like some motivational speaker hired by the second leading bleach manufacturer in the U.S. That's what I do, by the way. Bleach. I know, it's not exactly Hollywood, but it pays for Gin and Tonics.
And that's it. I never finished it and never looked at it again until last Friday. Anyhow, till next time!
posted by The Haiku Review at 1:16 PM
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