I finally got one!

I've always wanted a bean bag, if for no other reason than just to say I had one. And now I can. And do.

Work was clearing out the 4th floor and had a whole lot of things to give away. Yes, just give away. As in for free. Take it. Go! Be gone. There were 8 bean bags available. I raised my hand and said I'd take one. Some other greedy farker decided he wanted ALL 8, and was pretty pissed off when he found out I had replied first asking for just one.

Anyway, now I have a bean bag. A nice big red one.

And it takes center stage in my furniture-less lounge. I love it.

I hear voices

But not in that crazy 'need to see a therapist' kind of way. I mean in the way that my job requires me to listen to voice talent for a radio commercial.

The weird thing is that after a while, they all sound the same.

So here's how it works:

You write a radio script, send it off to voice talent managers, they rifle through all the voice talent they have on file and forward voice samples to you that they believe best fits what you're looking for. Then you sit down and start listening to voices.

Maybe you've written a funny radio commercial and the voice type you had in mind was Jim Carey. You'd then tell the voice talent manager that you're looking for a Jim Carey-ish type voice. Young, humorous, fresh. It's all about the adjectives. And the more you give the voice talent managers, the more they can pinpoint the exact voice you're looking for.

But some of them are just so boring. I mean put-me-to-sleep boring! Some of them sound as though they are about to read the morning news. You know the type, the tone goes up and down like gas prices. Almost sing song. And that's not good.

So, let me get back to my voices.

They finally picked a name

While this may very well be MY blog, it is in fact read on occasion by my sister who bore a son last Friday. So I shall reserve negative comments about their choice of name for my one and only nephew to myself so as not to offend anyone.

Oh screw that, I'm entitled to my opinion! Dammit people, of all the names in the world, why, why did you have choose one that's as soft as a feather pillow?

"Hello, my name is Bradley, and yes I have a floppy wrist because I am a poof."

"Hello potential friends on the elementary school playing field. My name is Bradley, but please don't beat me up. Again."

"Hello, my name is Bradley. I like to write rhyming poetry, I drive a hybrid, and I read the Bible frequently. Amen."

Hey, it's their son. They can name him whatever they want. But the cool thing about being the uncle that lives overseas is that I might get to see him once every 3 or 4 years. So I can call him whatever the hell I like."

"My name is Bradley, but my cool uncle calls me Gator!"

"My Mom & Dad call me Bradley, but my uncle in America calls me Ripper!"

"Every 3 years I get a little confused. My parents call me Bradley but my cool uncle who comes to visit sometimes calls me Slasher!"

The name Bradley should be reserved for Missionaries, Life Insurance Salesmen, Librarians, and Botanists. What has my sister done?!

He may not have a name, but ...

he sure does have a cute face! Here's my nephew, just 10 hours after saying, "Peekaboo!".

"He's adorable, what's his name?"

So on Friday, my sister pushed and screamed and cursed as she welcomed a baby boy into the world. Okay, so she didn't push and scream - she had a C-section - but still, I imagine it's quite a thing to have a 7.5 pound 'thing' removed from one's body.

But the joyous part of this birth is not that my young nephew was welcomed into this world on the 8th day of the 8th month in the year 2008, but that when people peer down to look at the pink wrinkle monster and ask, "He is just adorable. What's his name?", my sister looks at them with a blank stare because she doesn't have an answer.

A few weeks ago, she emailed me asking for name suggestions. They knew it was going to be a boy so they wanted to be prepared. I sent her a short list. She liked two of the names I sent. They pondered them for a while.

Then when I asked what his name was going to be, I was told, "Oh, they're letting their 4-year old daughter choose his name."

Oh, okay, well, in that case, world please meet Bubble/Hungry/Kaka/Booboo.

Busy like a bee at the salt mine today

Yes, my friend down in the fairest Cape hit that nail quite squarely on its rounded head when she coined the phrase “salt mine” for one’s work place. For today, I returned from the dead only to find my daily schedule to be rather full.

Deadlines. This is what I work with. Daily. Hourly. And today, I shall be the Deadline Demon as I race against the clock to scribble out basic radio scripts and strategic platforms and other fun things like that.

Everything else has been pushed to the side. Not too far to the side though mind you. They need to stay far enough away that they don’t distract you as you speedily scribble away on your writing pad, yet close enough that you don’t forget that they have this little niggly line with a date that was etched by the hand of God herself.

So before my sharpened HB pencil sets fire to the page upon which I am scribbling, best I take a moment to ponder my existence.

Okay, moment taken. Now back to the grindstone. Time to scribble away. Ferociously.

What does Bronchitis feel like?

If I was forced at gunpoint to make a wild guess, I would have to say it feels a little something like this pic.

Today I went to see my doctor. For verily, one goes to see a doctor when one is not well. I am not well. The friendly doctor asked many questions. Some personal, some not so much. Then I was carted off to have an x-ray.

"I fear you may have pneumonia," she said.

"I assure you I do not," I replied with much fervor.

The x-ray came back. I did not have pneumonia. And I asked if I could pick up MY medical degree on the way out.

"Not so fast, slick," proclaimed doctor of false diagnosis as she scribbled impatiently on her little prescription pad. My eyes lit up - much like the eyes of a kid at Christmas time. For in her hand she held the magic book. Would she tell the friendly pharmacist to give poor, sick me some Prozac? Hardly! Her scribble read "Lexapro", but that's good enough I guess. And she also scribbled some more. On this one, she scribbled the illegible name of an antibiotic.

"You have acute Bronchitis," she claimed triumphantly.

"It burns like hell when I cough," I replied. "So trust me, there's nothing cute about it."