Yeah, I collect toys.

Actually, I get paid to collect toys. Let me explain. I’ll give you a “for instance.” Let’s say you get into trouble with the law. You need a lawyer. You visit a few offices, you meet with a few suits, and then you make your decision on which one you hire. Now, there are many factors that you might base your decision on, but one the obvious factors is their environment. The competent ones happen to have oak furniture, plush leather seats, a conservative color palette, and one of those big expensive globes on a stand. And subconsciously this stuff plays a role in why you chose the lawyer you did.

Let’s take it to the creative side now. See, us creatives work in the (air quotes) crazy part of the building. Clients love coming into the offices and seeing what freaks are pulling their hair out, coming up with the next brilliant idea for their business. They expect music, color, fun and confusion. So I lucked out in that the things that make me who I am (music, color, fun and confusion) only help the persona of the creative. If you work with an agency and the creatives are wearing the same thing your accountant wears, you might be a redneck. No, wrong saying. You might want to tell them that their boss needs to let them wear jeans. You should see toys, artwork, gadgets and cool stuff. You know, stuff that inspires people. After all, any true creative person never actually grows up, they just become a big kid with a mortgage.

Oh, in properly handing out props, the whole top line of figures is from Peter Fowler’s Monsterism Island Tribes & Woodland Series. The bottom line of spray and paint dudes are from the Kidrobot Fatcap Series. And the rest are, you guessed it, F%&#%N’ Micro Machines!  Listen, this is my first entry to the first blog that I have ever written. Cut me some slack.

Che Gorilla.

Plain and simple: my favorite shirt of all time. I can’t find anything that can top this. The bad news: it only has a few years left before it becomes a dish rag. A few holes, fraying at the collar. At this point, those imperfections add character, but at some point I’ll just look like a bum.

A little history. Picked it up two years ago (maybe five) in Ocean City, Maryland. I was on the way out of town and stopped off at a little hole in the wall surf shop. There it was, tucked away in between the Billabongs and Quicksilvers, was this little brilliant shirt made by fuct. I wear it any time I go someplace where I’m supposed to look “cool.” Many concerts and compliments later, people still dig the shirt. Viva La Revolución!

Three hankercheifs.

Call me an old man, but I dig hankerchiefs. Hankercheefs. Hankerchieves. Hankerchefes. I just looked it up. Handkerchiefs. Let’s start over. Call me an idiot, but I had no clue that the word handkerchiefs contained the letter “d.” I digress.

I like hankys because of their many uses. They are great for summer when sweating. I try not to use them for sneezing or blowing my nose — that’s old man style. But for sweating, they are perfect. When I’m outside and I give a small pat to my forehead, letting the hanky go to work, I receive comments like “Man, that’s a good idea.” “Man, I wish I had one of those.” And “Dude, you smell like my grandpa.”

I mentioned many uses but only touched on sweating thus far. Here’s where stories come in. I have given away three hankerchiefs (I’m spelling it my way). The first was to my buddy Raul. We were outside at a Wailers concert. He was dripping. I had a spare hanky, which then became his. He was grateful.

The second giveaway was in Annapolis. We were coming out of a bar and I saw some dude wailing away at another dude. There were punches and screams and I stayed away from the chaos until the one guy left. The other guy was bloody in the face. Before he began to take his shirt to wipe — hankerchief. I told him it was only slightly soiled and that it would be better to wipe with that than ruin his shirt. He was grateful.

The third instance also involved a bar. It was in Blacksburg at a bachelor party. My buddy and I couldn’t fit in the cab so I volunteered us to walk home. 45 minutes later and still walking, I realized that I had a flask of bourbon with one shot left. I offered it to my buddy. He puked immediately. He needed hanky assistance and I was there to help. And you know what? He was grateful.