Biscuit

I'm back from Costa Rica, but I'm going to postpone writing about my trip to share some sad news. I just found out that while I was gone, my beloved dog Biscuit passed away. She was 16-years-old. I grew up with Biscuit. When we brought her home from the pound when I was 10, she was diagnosed with Parvo, a nasty disease that typically ensures death. Although all of her siblings were put down due to the disease and the veterinarian assumed Biscuit would be a causality as well, my family decided to treat her, regardless of the cost. She pulled through and lived a long and happy life.

In her youth, Biscuit was prone to perform daredevil-like tricks with tennis balls, leaping into the air sometimes three times her height to catch a ball in her mouth. She was extraordinarily active and fast, but also could be an excellent lap dog, which earned her the nickname "The Sleep Machine" because she could instantly lull anyone sitting with her to sleep.

I didn't get to see Biscuit much in her later years. During college, my visits home became more sporadic, and after graduation, my treks to Texas became annual. I last saw her in late November during Thanksgiving. The pep and energy she once radiated had passed and been replaced with the fatigue of old age. She still had a lot of love to give and continued to give it up to her death. She died in my mom's arms on Sunday. The rest of the family coincidentally happened to be in town to at least see the body. My only regret is that I wish I could have been there to say goodbye.

Rest in peace Biscuit. You led a good life. You were a very good dog, a member of my family, and you will be loved always.

Biscuit Anna Marie Ecker

1991-2008

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Hey everybody! I'm going to be blogless for a little while cause I'm traveling to Costa Rica!

In the meantime, enjoy this video:

CelebriME

Today on CIN there was a post about what celebrity would play you in a movie (presumably based on looks). I was pondering this question and trying to figure out who would play me. I don't really look like anyone famous that I know of, but then again I don't really keep tabs on celebrities, so some look-alikes may have slipped under my radar.

I've used MyHeritage to see what it's spotty software said I looked like. The closest match was Scarlett Johansen. I can't complain.

But after much thinking, I would say I look most like the below celebrity. What do you think?

ME:



Jeff Goldblum:

I Got Some Leads

I don't like conferences. I'm socially anxious to begin with. So why would I want to surround myself with stuffy people in suits talking about business and the weather. In fact, why would anyone want to surround themselves with stuffy people in suits talking about business and the weather.

The more I think about the above paragraph, the more I wonder why conferences exist at all. Or better yet, why can't conferences be what people want them to be. Why can't for once people convene to talk about business dressed in leotards, and instead of sitting and watching a PowerPoint presentation, some dude breaks out a Slip-n-Side and everyone has at it. That's a conference I'd attend. Especially if the Slip-n-Side was covered in chocolate!

The one good thing about the conference today was that it allowed me to get several freelance leads. When I decided to take the leap of faith into the great void that is the real world, a world free of 9-to-5 boundaries and long commutes, I was worried that paying rent every month was going to be a nearly impossible chore. But thankfully it turns out that working hard and gaining experience, especially experience on a topic that is so niche only a handful of people know how to write about it, is extraordinarily valuable. So it turns out I probably won't be too hard up for work when I exit my current position. Go me!

Anyway, I'm meaning to write more about how to establish one's own freelance business. I'll have to get around to that. If anyone has any questions out there about how to become a successful freelance writer, how to become a journalist, how to write an article, etc., let me know. I like to think I have quite a bit of good insight, and I'm always looking to help others regain their freedom.

Just don't ask me to attend a conference...unless you're bringing your leotard.

Shiny Things

According to the medical community, I have ADHD. It's weird because I never was diagnosed with ADHD as a child, nor did I really exhibit any of the stereotypical symptoms, such as running around in circles screaming or swinging off of chandeliers and ceiling fans.

Turns out though there are two types of ADHD, according to my therapist. One is the kind you're born with (see above), while the other is the kind you acquire (see me).

In all honesty, those that acquire ADHD are kind of posers. Whereas someone who is diagnosed with it as a child was likely born with some chemical imbalance, those who become ADHD as adults kind of just picked it up as a bad habit. Acquired ADHD comes from anxiety and stress. Those with anxiety disorders are especially prone to this and tend to get fidgety, hyper and unable to concentrate because of all the crazy thoughts inside their brain competing for attention.

It is my fear that someone who is a born ADHDer will discover that I have merely acquired ADHD and will then recruit a number of other genetic ADHD people to beat me up, all the while being occassionally distracted by a passing car or bird chirping. It's like the nightmares I used to have where I would accidentally stumble upon a gang of monsters in some sort of monster clubhouse cave. And when the monsters spotted me, I pretended I was a monster too by scowling and gnashing my teeth and making animal noises. And the ruse would work, at first. The monsters would all agree that I, my 8-year-old self, was indeed a monster and would invite me to be a monster with them. But then something would happen, like the monsters would break out their dinner of rotting human flesh, I'd scream, and my cover would be blown.

Also, ADHD shows itself differently in differenet people. It's a spectrum kind of disease so whereas some people bounce around uncontrollably, others are reserved and merely fidget occasionally. I'm the type that always has to fidget. My legs shake, I crack my knuckles constantly, I rock from side to side. I also can't concentrate on a single thing without getting distracted about every two minutes (I blame MTV with their fast edits).

As I learn to calm myself down through breathing exercises and self medication, I find my ability to stay attentive to increase. So I suppose there is hope for me to one day shed my ADHD label and become a normal human being again. I just hope those hyperactive, attention deficit monsters don't find out first.

My Kittie!

I'm still learning how to use this blog thing. So bare with me as the color scheme of this page continues to change. It is the "Technicolor Brain Spillage" blog after all.

Oh, and here's my kittie:


Yay for uploading things!

I Bought Me!

I'm not so sick anymore. Thanks pills!

And to celebrate my renewed health, I went shopping.

Did I buy a pair of Gucci, all-leather shiny shoes?

No!

Did I buy a new bike helmet to protect my brain?

No! (But I know I should.)

Did I buy the rights to keithecker.com?

You bet your bee-hind!

So coming soon to an Internet near you is keithecker.com. I don't know how to make Web pages, but I've got some open-source software that promises to make the process fairly easy. My goal with the site is to showcase my comedy and my freelance writing. If I get a grasp on this Webmastering stuff, expect more sites in the future. They're cheaper than a deep dish pizza.

Sicko

Hey people in Internet land! I'm sick!

Yesterday my throat was itchy and sore. So I went home from work early and popped a whole bunch of pills, little candy-like pills. Oh the colors! The beautiful colors!

Now I'm completely loopy and at my desk at work! It's wonderful. Everywhere I look there is a rainbow being raped by a unicorn riding a unicycle. My vision is a non-stop electric cabaret!

I'd write more, but my mind is all over the place. Back to watching that unicorn get some sweet, sweet rainbow ass.

Fuck Me Harder - An Insurance Tale

A tall, shadowed figure approached.

"Who are you?" I, donning a French maid costume, asked.

"I'm your worst nightmare," said the outlined being, the stench of sweat and trouble dripping from his pours.

"You're bad. And you know it," I growled.

"Don't I?" he retorted, the smug bastard. "I'm an insurance carrier, baby. I'm as bad as they come."

He lunged for me. I scurried away, but in my haste I broke off the end of my high heel and fell face first onto my chaise lounge.

"Oh, please, no, please," I pleaded, in part hoping he'd turn around and harass the next self-employed soul that crossed his path, but also secretly wanting him to grab me and have his way with my supple self.

"I thought you liked the group thing. Decided you'd pay the price to have some one-on-one time?" he joked as he ripped my fishnet stockings, clawing at my thighs.

"I don't want you," I yelled. Feeling defeated, I added, "I need you."

"And so you shall have me," he said as he flung off his pants and...

Keith here. I'm going to stop this romance novel rape fantasy from unfolding anymore. There may be children reading this blog...or kittens even! The tale that unfolded before you may seem like some sort of lustful nightmare dreamed up by an oversexed homosexual with a proclivity for Fabio and cleaning ladies. But I assure you, it is only a simple parable (and if Aesop had included a little more steaminess into his fables, he probably would have sold more of them. Did he even sell them? Or did he just walk around telling people how to act. What an ass!)

Insurance is a bitch. And individual healthcare is the head hound of the bitch pack. At least if you huddle up in a group you can negotiate lower rates and more comprehensive coverage. But when you're a lone lad like myself, you may as well be swimming in a pool of sharks after taking a dip in a bloodbath.

I spent literally all day calling various brokers trying to find adequate coverage. And if I'm approved (IF) on the one plan that I thought was reasonable, I guess this post will be moot. But when is life ever that storybook? And if fairy tales of yesterday were rooted in reality, Cinderella probably would have asked her fairy godmother for a good PPO with a low premium and deductible, especially if she's walking around in glass slippers.

So odds are I'm going to have a tough time finding reasonably priced healthcare. It's the price you pay for freedom.

The Wacky World of Job Ads - Part 1

Here's the first installment in what I hope to be a series. I'll occasionally detail the wacky world of job ads, which tend to be really wacky in the freelance biz.

This is one I'm applying to, despite the strange specification (which I've highlighted).

We are an award-winning children’s magazine and book publisher looking to expand our framework of work-for-hire writers and illustrators for possible future projects. Our publications are all animal/nature/environment based, and include Zoobooks (for ages 6-12), Zootles (for ages 4-7), Zoozoo (for ages 6 months to 3 years), as well as e-newsletter and web content writing.

As needed, we assign non-fiction articles of varying lengths, fictional stories of up to 350 words, and illustration. All assignments will have specific individualized criteria as to subject and aim, but we are looking for child-friendly copy and artwork that both educate and entertain. Factual accuracy is crucial, and anthropomorphism is not accepted.

I love this. Why do they have to come out and say it so blatantly? Were they getting too many furry porn illustrations? Do they think the a dog wearing clothing is against God's will? Even if the clothes are tasteful, like a bee suit on a pug? Somebody better not tell them about Disney. They might just keel over and die.

Make It Personal

I have spent hundreds of dollars to learn that at the core of comedy is truth. No matter how funny it might seem to have a fat bald man run around with a salmon sticking out of hit pants (even funnier if the salmon is alive and flopping around while the man emits a high-pitched squeal), it cannot compare to a comedic scene rooted in the reality of the characters and their relationships.*

This is why relationships tend to be great fodder for comedic scenes. And what better relationship to lampoon than your own! (Just make sure your significant other doesn't find out. That's why I keep this blog a secret from him.)

Writing about your own relationship can breath life into two-dimensional characters. Of course this point is moot if you and/or your partner is boring. Most people when it comes down to it are boring. That's why you have to jazz things up with a twist. Like instead of writing a scene about a guy and a girl arguing in an Applebee's why not have them fight on the moon. Could it get any funnier?

Actually, Applebee's lends itself to more comedy because now you can bring in the dopey Applebee's waiter to interject occasionally with some sort of heightening mechanism.

Example:

Girl: I can't believe you said I'm fat.

Guy: You asked me how those jeans look on you, and I said they looked a little tight.

Applebee's Waiter: Could I get you two anything else? Maybe some chocolate cake for the lady?

End

See, great use of heightening. The girlfriend is sensitive about her weight. The boyfriend fucked up. The waiter, oblivious to this or not, just threw jet fuel on the fire. And everyone is happy because this fat, bitchy cow is miserable. Except for the Applebee's waiter because he works at Applebee's and has to serve up the most inanely named appetizers on earth, including (and I'm guessing here, but I bet I'm right), jalapeno poppers.

Of course you don't need to write a literal interpretation of your relationship. That'd be boring. But pulling upon all the countless times you've had your heart broken is a good way to cure the pain of being a loser.

Take me for example. After a rousing argument with my boyfriend, the next day I took to writing a one act about our relationship. I basically documented humorlessly what had transpired. After a couple minutes of writing, I got bored and sad. So I made a scantily clad, muscle-bound angel appear in my characters' living room. Escapism is the best way to deal with your problems!

So as you can see, if this post has taught you anything, it has taught you that your relationship life better be massively peppered with tragedy or else you're probably not pretty interesting, funny or relateable. With that, go out and break some hearts...most likely your own!

*To note, if the fat, bald man and a salmon are dating, I suppose there could be potential for truth in comedy.

Man: Good, heavens! How did you get in my pants?

Salmon: I swam...upseam!**

**Worst example ever!

The Voice

Everyone hates the sound of their own voice. Well, not everyone. Some people don't. But those people are conceited jack offs. I bet they think their poop smells like roses. But most people are taken aback by hearing themselves outside of the comfort of their own heads.

In the same way that we find our audible voices foreign, we tend to have an unclear concept of what our writing voice is.

For those that don't know, a writer's voice is his or her bread and butter. What separates Ernest Hemingway from Charles Dickens, aside from the obvious difference in time periods? Answer: Their voices (and the fact that Dickens sucks balls way more than Hemingway, even though Hemingway kind of sucks balls too, unless you like fishing and six-toed cats, but I digress).

The writer's voice is the unique way in which he expresses himself. Long sentences or short sentences. Adorned or unadorned diction. Comical or dreadfully serious.

Taking my two volunteers, Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Dickens, I shall show you the differences in the author's voices by letting them speak for themselves. Mr. Dickens? I'd like you to go first, if that's fine with you.

Dickens: No not at all my dear foppish lad. Why tis only fair ain't it that I should speaketh first for I, my dapper self, twas bourne ages before sir Hemingway, that gruff and masculine symbol of brazen, bare-chested machismo.

Hemingway: Where's my wine? Get me a boat!

Dickens: Sir Hemingway, please. Do not disrupt a gentleman before he takes the lectern for if there is much delay I shall quickly forget what I wish to say. Why the thoughts will very well evaporate like a sow's milk left out before the orb of Helios.

Hemingway: Where's my gun? I want to hunt! God I hate myself!

Me: Now, boys. Please. We're supposed to be providing examples to the readers about what voice is, and frankly you two fistacuffing isn't really moving things along.

Dickens: I mean no disrespect when I say that is pure hogwash. I think your fair readers can see that my language is ornate, descriptive and unnecessarily long-winded. After all, my payments were based on a pay-per-word scale, as I was a serial writer, mirroring what you contemporary peoples would call a soap opera. Although my tales of love lost and regained and the wicked and the wronged are far superior to anything you bumbleminded heathens can imagine. Why my pieces have more twists and turns than a three-wheeled trolley cart being pushed by a...

BANG BANG BANG

Hemingway: I shot him good.

Me: Well I think that wraps things up. I'm going to go drag Dickens' lifeless reanimated corpse into the closest MickeyDs Dumpster while I keep Hemingway busy here with a snowglobe of Santa's Village.

Hemingway: Pretty!