Roots

As in, getting back to mine.

A long time ago, in an apartment just like the one I'm in today (actually, it's the same apartment sans mountain bike, snowboard, ice axe and crampons), I started this blog. Granted, the name was different (can't remember it), and I'm pretty sure the ugly design template that I used was only slightly uglier than this one, but yep, it was still this blog. Anyhow, the blog was meant to be a running journal of sorts as I made my way into advertising. The thing is, I had only one real job lead and didn't have the balls to call up other (read: better) agencies and have them shit all over my book (which was actually befitting for my book at that time, since it was, indeed, shitty). But now things are different. Actually, not that different. Yes, I have a job. But it's one that I am growing more and more hostile against everyday, becoming bored with by the minute, and it's time to change.

Which means I have to get my book in shit-ready shape. Which, for once in my life, it's actually pretty close, so that's good. It also means I have to do something that I've been putting off for a good four-ish years now: cold call creative directors.

Frankly, this scares me. Frightens me. Makes me anxious and nervous and paranoid. I hate cold calling. It's a fate worse than death. It feels phony and false, like I'm trying to push a Pinto on an old, hunchbacked woman with poor vision and food stamps. In short, I feel like a desperate whore. And a very ugly one at that, surrounded by other, more beautiful, more pliable whores.

And with these phone calls and whoring, comes a rejuvenated blog and, hopefully, maybe even a new gig. So...we're taking it back to the old school.

We're going Costanza:
I'm back, baby! I'm back!