You never take me dancing anymore.

It was like standing on the brink of a pit full of snakes. You couldn't tell one from another, just writhing bodies--heads, arms, hands, mouths--one blending into another like a huge, rabid organism. And this thing was hungry. Starving. Grooving, spinning, pumping, needing to be fed. You are helpless to disobey. It sucks you in, and your arms, hands, head, mouth become entwined with others. You lose yourself, but gain thousands of mismatched parts. Your left hand, once slim-fingered, now boasts heavy gold rings. Your right leg now wears fishnet while your left is sheathed in shiny black leather. Your torso is hard, black skin, muscles flexing under a straining ribbed t-shirt. Your hair remains your own, now stringy and slick with sweat. A hand constantly moves in front your eyes (you think they're still your own), though they serve no purpose but to spin colors into your brain--a crazed kaleidoscope fucking with your balance. Luckily, hands, biceps, six-packed stomachs thrust against you and keep you upright. Your rhythm is its rhythm, kept going by the master, the man with the music. A pause between songs could kill this thing, so one beat flows into the next, through and around each other, flirting & twisting, so you keep dancing. Though by now, you haven't been dancing for hours. You've been fucking. It's a barely-clothed, sweaty, gleaming, gnashing its teeth & grinding its hips orgy. It doesn't stop until the music stops. And then, not silence...

Breathing. Loud, wet panting. A deep guttural sigh of satisfaction.

Taking Flight

My pits are damp before they even open the door of the plane to throw us pasty white sun worshippers out onto the sticky tarmac. I didn't talk to anyone the past two hours, reveling in the flight's half-emtiness. I am a recluse on an airplane--my aluminum sanctuary. No one can touch me up here. At 30,000 feet, I am unclaimed. Not employee, not girlfriend, not roommate, not daughter.

I could be anyone.
Just Seat 16A.

Romance with a bass beat

How do you spend Valentine’s Day when you’re in your 20s (mid-20s technically…for another 11 days)? You go to the biggest, loudest club in town to see a world-renowned DJ (obviously).

A far cry from last year's candle-lit corner table in an Italian restaurant, I instead ventured downtown to Stingaree to spend the evening grinding to eardrum-busting beats by Paul Oakenfold. Although working in the club has gotten old, the perks do come in handy—velvet ropes mean nothing when the doorman comes over to your house to watch football every Sunday.

At one point during the set, I must have caught Oakenfold's eye because he winked at me. I gave him a slight nod, then walked back to my boyfriend at the bar (as the men and women crushed next to the DJ booth swooned).

It always amazes me how people will drool over anyone with the slightest bit of fame. Oakenfold truly knows how to get a crowd riled up, but unfortunately his talents to not extend to the fashion department. This uber DJ looks like a troll who’s in dire need of a haircut (and a lengthy shower at that). I doubt any stylist received a heart-shaped box of chocolate from this man today.

For Bionda, the beat goes on...nnz nzz nzz.

On hiatus...

For all 1 of you who religiously read this blog (thank you Uncle Carl) I wanted to write an apology of sorts for not contributing to this glorious effort of literary wit more often.

I'm sorry I don't write more often.

There... I hope this makes up for months of vacuous space instead of a fabulous recount of my fabulous life. Like the tale of my redneck Christmas spent shootin' guns and blazin' trails in the woods of New Hampshire. Or tips on how to hypnotize a lobster before murdering it in a fiery pot of death (Maine lobsters, they truly are more delicious!). Or how I should be writing 3 articles for the next issue of San Diego Premier Magazine instead of typing away on this blog as act of attrition to my loyal fan(s).

Until next time, please find the byline in the masthead a stimulating substitute.

Yours,

Bionda

Right for a living

Here’s a quick summary of my morning. I attended a San Diego Ad Club Copywriting Workshop, a session I was more than willing to wake up early on a Friday morning to attend. Sharpened pencils and new notebook in hand, I walked in full of first-day-of-school excitement, ready to glean wisdom from other professional writers in my field.

Sadly, I was rather disappointed to find that so few people have the passion for words that I do.

It seems that most of the people at this workshop were various marketing personnel who are forced to write their company or client copy because said company lacks an actual staff member with any writing skills (or desire).

We went around the room and gave introductions, including what we hoped to get out of today’s session. Most asked to learn how to ‘make copywriting less painful.’ Ouch.

My personal goal for the workshop was to ‘get my press release and email blasts opened, read, and acted on.’ Unfortunately, I think I may have to research this on my own, do a case study, and then teach my own Copywriting for Copywriters seminar in the near future…

In the meantime, I would like to offer advice for you struggling writers out there, or rather, those just struggling to write—anything.

Writing should not be a difficult task if you are writing about a subject you know. So the easiest advice I can give is this: Do your research. Glean as much background information as you can before ever typing one word. Once you have a general—or better yet, a very specific—knowledge of the company, client, product, or subject, the easier it will be to form full sentences and paragraphs.

I find that so many people (including myself) get writer’s block because they are spending all of their time worrying about writer’s block. So once you’ve done your research, stop thinking and just start typing. Get something down. Anything. It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Heck, it doesn’t even have to be legible! Just get it out of you and onto paper (or your Word doc). Then, breathe. The hard part is over.

You now have a ‘rough draft.’ It’s rough for that very reason, because you still need time to polish, and process, and pass it around, then polish it again before you post it (how is that for alliteration?).

So, dear struggling writer, do your research first. Then attack your word processor with reckless abandon. Then pass it onto a coworker, but don’t be afraid if they like to use a red pen.

Happy Writing.