Down the A1A

***I DON'T MEAN TO MAKE THIS A HABBIT, BUT I WROTE THIS LATE AT NIGHT/EARLY IN THE MORNING. IT HAS NOT YET BEEN PROOFREAD. GO EASY ON ME***

Two weekends ago, I was on Facebook and Twitter. All fucking day long. I could think of nothing in Palatka to do. And the only options that came to mind was spending money that didn't need to be spent on things that didn't need buying. I could get a tattoo, but that's nothing to do on a whim (although I plan on getting it). I could fill my tank and drive to St. Augustine or Orange Park to see a movie I could see in Palatka. Needless to say, by the time I finished deciding, I'd wasted hours online and watching movies with the caliber of Scream 3.

So as a way to both take advantage of my new-found weekends off, and to prevent two weekends' worth of boredom, I decided to have, what Steve Harvey calls, a Wonderful Weekend. I've always talked of taking a road trip, so I figured why not use this weekend to make it happen. It was a spur-of-the-moment trip, so unfortunately it would have to be a solo road trip. But if one can't enjoy oneself alone, how can one truly be happy around others.

I had no idea where my destination lie, but I knew the route. Although I can't swim -- even if it was a means to get to Halle Berry Island -- I have a bizarre love of and appreciation for the beach and the ocean. The sound and force of the waves, the full-body massage given by the wind, the richness of the foliag

e's green, and even the annoyance of the sand lingering to your body even hours after leaving the beach. It seemed like a no-brainer to cruise the pavement along the Atlantic Ocean coast on Florida's A1A. Who cares where I ended, so long as I got to see some sights. But after thinking of a college friend, I settled on Melbourne, Fla. since she always had good things to say about it.

With a limited amount of money to my name, fewer clothes and belongings and a beat up car's tank of gas, I made my way toward St. Augustine and hit the coast. Although going 45 mph for about an hour and a half was about double the time it would have taken on the interstate, the experience was a lot more fulfilling. In the span of 30 seconds, I relived five elementary school grades' worth of field trips when i pass by and took pictures of Marineland. When I passed that spot I think we visited for biology class in 9th grade, I relived how promising life seemed at age 14. I mad a vow to bust my ass as a writer/comedian, earn incredible bank and buy up beach front property after passing expensive house that I can't afford after expensive house I can't afford.

Although it rained intermittently, I made it to Melbourne in one piece. And as soon as I paid for my sub-par, marginally too expensive room, I set off for the beach. The light was fading but I had Eva Mae and I was ready to use her. It's been almost four years since I've used my 35 mm film camera, but I used this weekend an excuse to break out the old girl. The click of the shutter, the winding of the film, the quest for the perfect light. All nuances I had almost forgotten fluttered in my mind like swarm of coked-out butterflies searching for the last bit of pollen. Or whatever butterflies go apeshit over.

And on that note, I can't omit how extremely excited I am about how the pictures will look. The digital age has spoiled us. We've forgotten how it felt to take a roll of photos, drop them off at a photo lab and actually wait two to three days for them to be ready. Forgotten how we didn't know within three second's time how the photo would look. Forgotten that the photo relied solely on our artistic eye and ability with the camera. That once we snapped the photo, it could not be undone. So even tho many of the pictures were taken when the light was low and I had no tripod, or taken while i was driving and

had minimal time to focus, I am literally wet (in the mouth, perverts) with anticipation over the outcome of my photographic endeavors.

On my back home Sunday, I stopped at New Smyrna Beach and relaxed in the sand with a good (so far) book. I figured there was no point in driving up and down the coast without actually stepping foot on it. After getting some sun, and looking at a few big ass turtle, I made my way to St. Augustine to eat good food, watch True Blood and conversed with some great people.

Pulling into my driveway in Palatka at 10 p.m. Sunday, my first thought after "thank you God for not letting me die on the road in Titusville," was that no matter where you go, you always appreciate home when you come back. But as I took the most fantasmic shower I've ever taken, even as my body begged for sleep, my the cogs in my mind began to turn. What will be my next adventure? Although I crossed 2 and a half things off my bucket list by taking this trip, what will I take on next?

Keep an eye out.

B.rand

Giving away movies. Holla at me if you want them

After assembling my new DVD shelf, I came across a few DVDs that either I didn't like when i watched them or the movies lost their appeal in my opinion. So before I just take them to Goodwill, I'm trying to see if any of my friends would like them for free. Please message me and let me know if you want any of them. First come, first serve. The list is as followed...

A behind the scenes look at The Real World: Back to New York (Don't act like you don't remember Coral)

Robin Hood: Men In Tights

Little Children

The Women of Brewster Place

Finding my way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

I'm was lost for quite some time.

There was a time when I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I graduated high school with the intention of spending four years at Florida A&M, where I would become the master of all things journalism. After college, I would move to New York--or any decent-sized city that was a far away from Palatka, Fla. (distance- and remsemblance-wise) as possible--and start my own music or movie magazine. But the more I wrote, came up with, an copy edited stories, and the better I got at it, I knew that I would never have a fulfilling career with it.

As a result, I somehow managed to turn a two-year stint at Winn-Dixie into a nearly decade-long "career." Sans the health insurance and benefits. During the latter half of my money-handling, chicken-frying, bread-baking period at the W/D, my funds dwindled, the majority of my friends moved away and moved on with their lives, and I became satisfied with the meager situation I had worked out for myself. Actually, the better term would be "worked my way into."

It's perplexing and, to an extent, frightening that signs could dangle all around me and friends could throw out all the hints, yet I barely noticed anything. So caught up in keeping or finding a steady eight-hours-a-day job just for the sake of having a steady, eight-hours-a-day job, I didn't realize that I was one of the only people who memorized Saturday Night Live sketches (not the Lonely Island parody song). Never took into consideration that I had movie movies on my shelf than pennies in the bank. That I once took the utmost pleasure in cranking out short short stories every week for my eighth grade peers to peruse. I never put two and two together to come to the conclusion that what I did with blogs and social network status updates, I could expand to larger media.

After intense internal battles, countless previously empty words and one hell of a bombshell dropped in my chunky lap, the urge to write hit walloped me like Gucci Mane wallops hip hop music's reputation. But not only did I get the desire to churn out a screenplay, I got the desire to be funny and finally get paid to do it. I am a funny bastard, and I say that without any traces of ego. Why should I not be SNL's star performer, the creator of It's Always Sunny in Orlando, or Moses in the 2012 independent film Othello 2?

No matter the dream, it can come true if you believe. And know what the hell you're doing. So in order to make a fraction of what many of you might consider my unattainable goals attainable, I have purchased from half.com my first screen writing book. After work tomorrow, I will begin my extensive research of Second City and Groundlings improv comedy troupes. Because although I can write and make people laugh, these skills need molding.

God it feels great to have some focus in my life and to have goals set for myself. I love that I get ideas for stories and scripts from the most random conversations, people and objects. Although I curse this new found canyon of ideas for keeping me awake at 3:13 a.m. blogging, I'm more excited about my future than I have been since I received university acceptance letters in the mail in 2002. It's been quite a long time coming, and I have a feeling it will be a long time going, but I am quite content.

Don't take it the wrong way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

Dear Reader (please don't be so presumptuous as to assume YOU are the person I am referencing),

I hope this letter finds you in great health and spirits. I'm writing to let you know that I have been inspired to write a story. Not a short short story. Not a short story. But a hell of a story that I would like to turn into a script. It would make me the happiest man int he world if this idea blossoms into a story and then a script and then a critical and commercial cinematic gem.

But I have a problem, one which might derail this unstable dream of mine. The story I want to tell is about you. It's about you, me, him, her, and them. Putting this story on paper, I will undoubtedly air some laundry that won't be Gain clean. I beg you to see things from my perspective, though. I don't mean to damage you feelings or our relationship, but the story that's been placed in my heart is far too weighty for me to continue to allow it to be spoken in hushed voices behind everyone's back. Especially when this Everyone is involved.

I apologize if my telling of this story sours your feelings toward me, but please hear my other reason for bringing outsiders into our business. My writing this tale isn't purely for recognition. It's therapy. The best therapy someone with no insurance or money can afford. There was a time in my life when I was confused, hurt and angry. Not many people understood me, so I don't know why I was surprised you didn't either. Although I would consider us friends now, there were times when I didn't like you. I didn't like you, me, him, hear, and I really didn't like them. Because therein lied the source of my confusion, hurt and anger.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I would love it if you were not cross with me once you read what I have to write. This will not be a work of pure fact. There will be embellishments. I will take traits from numerous people and mold them into a character you might mistake as being 100 percent you. I hope you know how solid our relationship is now and how much I treasure you and what you've done for me. I just really need to write what I've been suppressing for so long.

Please stay with me,

Brandon D. Oliver