I sometimes wish I was one of those Hemingwayian writers who use whiskey to spur their brains to produce resonant novels about terrifying wars, or voyages at sea, and how those things move men to strength and fragility in equal measure. It's a romantic idea.
But there is an insurmountable barrier between me and that vision of the rye-soaked writer. Every time I drink and try to write, this is what happens, without fail:
These are some "ideas" for Brooks running shoes, written at a bar, on the back of a Taco Bell receipt.
I have not been to a Taco Bell in 3-5 years.
It's nearly illegible, but here's a few choice bits:
"Stargate shoe heads.
laser dog / robot legs"
"lazy uprising --> COUCHES"
"emperor shoe head
headdress of smaller shoes"
"Shoe-burning furnace
lights dim - back to work"
"Aushwitz soap on a rope"
Apparently, I thought enough of these ideas to TAPE THIS RECEIPT INTO MY SKETCHBOOK FOR FUTURE REFERENCE.
In other Hemingway news, my very first produced ad was for Northern Marine Yachtbuilders, and directly referenced Hemingway in the headline and the (typically long-winded) body copy. Basically chastised him for making the ocean seem so scary in the Old Man and the Sea, when clearly, in a Northern Marine Yacht, the ocean is a wonderful majestic blah blah wonder land of fart fart splendor, etc. It also contained slyish references to Hemingway's drinking problem and subsequent suicide. I regret ever writing the thing, honestly, and I'd take it back if I could, but it did teach me that my idea of clever isn't necessarily everyone else's:
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