I used to write a zine (printed, not online) back in the mid-90s called Velocity NYC, and I recently re-discovered a bunch of the stuff I wrote back then on archive.org.

This is one of the editor notes that I liked from back then…

What do we talk about when we talk about our dreams? I checked out my dictionary for a little guidance, and it defined a dream as “a series of mental images, thoughts, and emotions occurring in certain stages of sleep,” or as “a hope or aspiration.”

The first one is the sort that nobody wanted in those Nightmare on Elm Street movies. That kind can range from really great to just plain horrible. In one night you might have a dream about your dog wearing a Richard Nixon mask as he strikes out President Clinton in the kickball championship. That same night you could dream about all your appliances coming to life and attacking you.

These dreams are the type that we can’t really manipulate. I learned that back in 6th grade when they gave us a very clinical sex education class. I remember them taking the girls out of the room to tell the boys about the nocturnal emission (or wet dream) and how that was sort of the same thing as sex.

For years after that, I hoped for a wet dream before I went to bed each night and it never happened. To this day, I’ve never gone all the way in one of my dreams.

These are also the dreams that new age quacks claim to be able to analyze. I refuse to believe that when I dream about monkeys playing football or other non sequitur stuff that it has anything to do with anything. Just random thoughts that our mind makes up to keep from being bored.

The second kind of dream is the one that sends a kid from the ghetto to the batter’s box at Yankee Stadium, the kind that wins a scholarship, the type of dream that actually means something.

After I got out of college, there wasn’t a whole lot going on for me. One summer afternoon, the band Dada (“Dizz Knee Land”) was playing a free show in one of those little parks in downtown Washington. I went there with my friend Sheri to check it out.

On the way there and back, we chatted a lot. We didn’t come out and realize we were talking about our dreams, but we were doing it sort of subconsciously. We talked about what we wanted and hoped for in love, careers and all the other ancillary stuff. Back then, it sort of seemed like dreams were all we had.

That kind of dreaming has the ability to develop into something tangible. By talking about it, it sort of helped us make it happen. I think sometimes we don’t realize we want something until we tell somebody that we want it.

A few years later, we’ve both found the love that seemed so elusive in 1993 and our careers are working out the way that we’d hoped they would. Like so many things in life, it all goes back to Dr. Frankenfurter in the Rocky Horror Picture Show when he sang, “Don’t Dream It, Be It!”

If you’re not where you want to be, wake up from that dream and do something about it!

I used to write a zine (printed, not online) back in the mid-90s called Velocity NYC, and I recently re-discovered a bunch of the stuff I wrote back then on archive.org.

This is one of the editor notes that I liked from back then…

I woke up the other day freaking. The clock mocked me with that green 8:27. How was I going to take a shower, shave, get dressed, eat my Cookie Crisps, read the Daily News, and then walk clear across town to make it to the office before 9:00? My brain was buzzing, my eyes were burning.

Then it hit me. Once again, I was victimized by a local phenomenon known as Vicky Time, where the alarm clock is set at a random time in the future. Having survived that, I crawled out of bed, stumbled into the shower, dried off, then faced the mirror. And I smiled.

The Dead Milkmen once sang, “The secret of life is no secret at all / for secrets hold death and lies only build walls.” Well, that’s not strictly true. There is a sort of secret to life that’s easier than you would imagine. You’ve got to do stuff that makes you happy.

As I sit here today, no one can tell that a seemingly grown man is actually a little boy. What I’m trying to say is that every day, I direct, produce, and edit the sit-com that is my life. I hope it turns out to be a hit, and pray that it doesn’t land me in a Saturday night slot on the WB network.

The show starts out on a happy note. After fastening my daily Windsor knot, I pack away some sugar cereal and orange juice. A seemingly simple pleasure, but it lures me out of bed in the morning.

After the first commercial, we return to the show and I’m pouring over the Daily News. Sure, I could do the erudite pose of so many New York Times readers, but that’s not for me. I go for the candy news. Give me news about what bar Alec Baldwin is hanging out in or a scoop on Darryl Strawberry violating parole. That stuff entertains me, brings a laugh on days of snow and work deadlines.

Once in a while, I punch in a soundtrack for the show. This usually happens in the scenes when I’m strolling along the sidewalk. Today, the episode featured stirring versions of “Creep” by Radiohead and “You Are Not Alone” from Michael Jackson. No, these songs didn’t have anything to do with today, I just like the way it sounds when I sing them.

Sometimes, when I am extra self-conscious – talking to the guy next to me at the urinal, vying against a thug with a boombox for the last seat on the subway, riding the elevator with a curious stranger – I can feel the camera on my shoulder, panning the faces around me, catching every blink and sneeze.

In more relaxed moments, sitting in a pizza parlor booth, I think of how I’d like to paint the grey buildings in yellow, green and blue, or how much better a Rangers game would look in black and white.

I’m sure you do the same, you just don’t realize it. We all oversee our daily sit-com, and to a degree, we have the unyielding power of giving most of our shows a happy ending.

Too often, you needlessly screw up your own episode. Before the cameras begin to roll, you look out to the set and see that it is raining and you left your umbrella at work last night. So what, you get a little wet. Look on the bright side, maybe you’ll see some dope get splashed by a puddle, or you might see a puppy decked out in a slicker and boots.

The trick is to always come back from the commercial with a smile on your face. Yeah, the A/C isn’t working and you’re so poor that you had to break out the Visa to buy Oodles of Noodles. So what, there’s a new Melrose tonight!

Sure, once in a while, there will be a monkey wrench thrown into your plotline. Just remember the immortal words of the King of Stuntmen, Evel Knievel, “For every adversity, there’s an equivalency to benefit. Sometimes you just have to look for it.”

You’re writing the script to your life, so add a few more steamy sex scenes, give yourself plenty of treats, and smile a lot!

I wrote this article for a newspaper in New York City called the New York Press back in the mid-nineties. It was before I came across this whole Internet marketing thing, and I had hopes of becoming a newspaper writer.

It’s some hackneyed link-bait (well, Letter to the Editor bait back them), but also a fun trip back in time to where I learn lots of things that were later applied to affiliate marketing.

My first time, it was an exhilarating combination of anxiety, thrill and guilt. I felt like somebody was playing with a Slinkee in my stomach. Everything seemed as though it was moving in slow motion as I asked them to come with me. It was a mother and daughter. It was Bon Jovi during the “Slippery When Wet Tour” at the Capital Center in Landover, MD where I made my first ticket sale.

The wild excitement of the transaction left me breathless. This was before I assumed a morality about scalping, so I more or less pulled off an underhanded bait and switch on the unsuspecting concert-goers.

As I approached the two, they told me that they were interested in upgrading their tickets, which were located in section 128 (lower level, behind the floor). Quickly viewing my tickets, I told them that I would give them my two best tickets for their tickets, plus $50. Gratefully, they made the deal with me. I neglected to inform them that my two best tickets, section 101 (lower level, behind the floor), were slightly worse than their seats.

That day, I came to realize that I committed a huge faux pas in the ticket industry. It was quickly imparted upon me that it is not only immoral to deceive, but also dangerous. Granted, these two individuals were not likely to seek me out for redemption. But, there are some people that may not be quite so gracious about being duped. After a couple of scare stories, I decided to go straight.

There is a certain honor and mutual respect among the street hustlers, not unlike that of the major business conglomerates. In deference to my fellow “ticket re-sale entrepreneurs,” I engage in a practice akin to the anti-trust laws of big business. Basically, the sellers from the various ticket brokerage houses converge in order to reach common, fixed prices. It is quite improper to undercut a competitors prices.

Die Scalper Scum!
He wore hypocrisy like it were a fire-brand. A misplaced hate was evident in the blood-shot eyes as he charged towards me with a small, frayed sticker. I was startled and uneasy when I finally focused on the profound statement of the mangy waif. The bumper sticker read: Die Scalper Scum!

It was a steamy, mid-summer Sunday in Washington as I peddled my wares in the areas surrounding RFK Stadium. That time of the year, again… the Grateful Dead were in town with their traveling parking lot sideshow – the Deadheads.

It’s funny, you would think that these folks would appreciate me. Hell, the concert was sold out and here I was bearing the precious tickets. Such was not the case. Not only did these Bohemian strays fail to exhibit any respect towards my trade, they had a downright disdain for me.

Perhaps I just do not understand. On one hand, they embrace the capitalist spirit. The parking lot scene is a marketplace with every conceivable item for the modern nomad: Guatemalan blankets, import beers, kind bud, t-shirts, and humus. All available in exchange for cash-money.

But then on the other hand, there is deep-seeded hatred for the scalper. It truly escapes me, these Deadheads assault me with epithets and beer cans because I dare make profit in their sanctuary. Then they turn around and charge a buck or two for some anti-scalping bumper stickers that cost them a few pennies each. What’s the difference, brother? All people are equal, but Deadheads are more equal!?

Moonlighting as a Scalper
Scalping. I worked for a licensed ticket broker when I lived in Maryland, but that wasn’t my only job. Like many “20-somethings,” I was also working a straight, 40-hr week office job. But, since the grind of pushing paper in an entry-level position doesn’t pay the salary to support my wants and needs, I found it necessary to supplement my income. Hence, my second job in the entertainment business.

I’m sure you all remember the scene from Fast Times at Ridgemont High where two kids are trying to buy some hot Van Halen seats from Damone. When one kid states that he doesn’t want to pay the increase in price, his pal states, “C’mon Arnold, all the other scalpers are sold out!” Damone quickly retorts, “SCALPER! Did you call me a scalper? Listen gentlemen, I perform a service here, and this service costs money. Now, do you want the tickets or don’t you?”

The point here is that the broker, hustler, scalper or whatever is providing an invaluable service to the consumer. As with any other marketable commodity, a subsequent “convenience fee” is passed along to the buyer. Those who invest time and money in the ticket business are on a roller coaster ride, and depending on the whim of the fans during a particular year, a perennial seller could be a bust.

Why Don’t Some People Like Scalpers?
Oddly, there is an anti-scalping contingency out among the teeming masses. Sure, there are plenty of sensible consumers out there, but for every good American, there is a societal tumor… the guy who doesn’t tip the bartender, he sneers at children and puppies, and he hates scalpers. As I would ply my trade, I had come to expect a portion of the population to attack me with various indignations. Over time, I managed to develop a thick skin and tolerant nature towards the frustrated and ignorant.

A couple of summers back, I was dealing my tickets at the annual Jimmy Buffett shows. The rains poured down in a non-stop deluge. Under the guise of a dedicated “Parrothead” (Buffett fan), I roamed the parking lot with a water-logged sign which read, “I need two tickets . . . PLEASE!” As you may imagine, people were anxious to get out of the rain, so they were giving me their tickets for $5 and $10 each. Being that it was a sold-out event, I quickly parlayed the tickets for prices up to ten times what I had paid.

After a short term of observation, a few rain-soaked alcoholics had caught on to my financial capers. As they considered Buffett some sort of twisted religion, they viewed me as the anti-Buffett; some type of man/monster that would openly engage in commerce to directly profit off of their obsession. Suddenly, this legion of furious drunks confronted me and mumbled, among other things, that they were going to kick my ass. Fortunately, some more sensible drunks came to my defense before I was attacked by the vigilant “Parrotheads.” Thus far, I have managed to rely on my quick wit to fend off the occasional misanthrope, but my mace is ever present.

Another risk of the buyer/seller is the possibility of cancellation for a concert or sporting event. A perfect example is the Great Baseball Strike of 94/95. Do you think the fans were the only losers in this whole debacle? Think again. Brokers have damn near drowned in all of the lost revenue. Sure, the tickets could be refunded, but that is minus the service charge. While the lost surcharge may not affect Joe Average, it certainly adds up when your coffers are filled with tickets numbering in the thousands.

And then there is the topic of how the ticket seller obtains the tickets. Quite frankly, they get them the same way that everybody else does… they sleep out for them.

The Price I Pay
In my quest for the golden ticket, I have put up with all types of hell and circumstance from New York to South Carolina. There have been occasions (U2, Stones, Springsteen, Dead) when my friends and I would go out for up to five days straight, so that we could secure the front spots in line at multiple TicketMaster locations. I wouldn’t figure that the average fan would care to embark on one of these adventures. Fortunately, the homeless folk are generally willing to work for an evening or two in exchange for twenty bucks and a bottle of Cisco.

Through my countless ticket buying trips, I’ve slept on many a sidewalk. Of course, when it was raining or snowing, the front seat of the car has been a more appropriate alternative. Bear in mind, the majority of these waits have occurred in the inner-city. Actually, I am able to claim the dubious honor of having slept on the streets of two American cities which were the per-capita “murder capitals of the country” at the time of my visits (Washington, DC & Richmond, VA).

Fighting chronic back pain and boredom, the diet generally consisted of cold pizza and hot Coke. This combination is not very pleasant when you figure that there usually aren’t any 24-hour rest rooms at the local TicketMaster. Just imagine for a moment… you’re squatting in the marvelous ambiance of a dark alley, a marinate of garbage and urine hangs heavily in the air.

The Charmin is squeezed firmly in your left hand, while your right hand is for balance, the only thing between you and the toilet. The longer it takes, the more your legs shake from balancing in the odd position. Not too many roaches, that’s because of all the hungry rats that infest your living quarters. Yet some characters, in their glorious sanctimony, have the gall to complain about a mild mark up?

When I think about it, I always wonder why the act of marking up the price of a ticket breeds such intense hatred in both people and Deadheads. The logistics of the market are quite basic. So long as there is a portion of the population that would rather pay a graduated price than wait out for tickets, there shall remain a seller’s market. To seek the bastards that perpetuate the continuation and livelihood of the scalper, you invariably need not look farther than your best friend, your cousin… your hypocritical mirror.

What it all comes down to is that the guy on the street that is hustling tickets is providing a service, and as Damone from Fast Times said, that service costs money. Most assuredly, there is a reasonable degree of overhead in this business and the cost is inevitably going to be passed on to the consumer. In the immortal words of U.S. economist Milton Friedman, “There is no such thing as a free lunch.”

Affiliate Summit ran a free webinar featuring Hunter Boyle on the power of list building, and it’s now available to watch on demand.

Watch this webinar for several ways to quickly and easily optimize your marketing efforts with email, from opt-in forms and autoresponders to social media tie-ins and landing page tweaks.

These proven tactics and tips will help you build up your email marketing list and increase retention for greater overall profitability.

I recently had a nice chat with Ken Evoy, founder of SiteSell and creator of SBI!, and we discussed the differences between blogging vs. building a theme-based content site.

I’ve known Ken since the 90’s(!), when I read his book “Make Your Site SELL!” (MYSS!), and it was fun to catch up and talk about creating affiliate sites.

Some things we touched on…

• The changes in the affiliate marketing landscape from 1997 to today
• What you need to know when starting an affiliate business now
• Who blogging is for (and not for)
• Who theme-based content sites are for
• What happens when you take a break from blogging
• What happens when you put a content site on auto-pilot
• Socialization of the Net and how it augments your business
• Which platforms deliver a complete package of process-and-tools for building a successful e-business

Enjoy the chat and if you haven’t gotten your first affiliate site up, yet, get it going.

Anybody can do it – it just takes patience, diligence, and a unique idea.

I have long admired Tim Carter and his success in monetizing video at his Ask the Builder site. He puts together high quality, well packaged content, and his audience keeps coming back.

And now Tim has put out a sharp Ask the Builder Christmas Gift Guide, and his visitors can download it to make purchases later.

The items in the guide all include links to purchase products on Amazon, and Tim’s introduction note shares that he’ll earn a commission if his audience clicks through and makes a purchase.

I’ve seen plenty of other affiliates put out similar Christmas gift guides, but this one stands out with a really nice job on the design, as well as great content.

Tim tells a story with each product he’s endorsing, which provides a nice connection to the reader.

This past weekend marked the final game of the regular season for me as a rookie soccer coach, and I am proud, because we finished with a record of 6-0-1.

I am proud of these kids and our success as a team. They worked hard in practice and in games and earned that standing.

But I got an email about the playoffs that bugged me. In part it read…

“ALL teams will participate in the end of season tournament. ALL players will receive trophies.”

I have a problem with both of these items. The tournament (playoffs) should only be a portion of the teams that had the best records in my opinion.

And the team that wins it all should get trophies. Participation trophies? They get a shiny award for showing up and picking their nose? That’s crap.

Yeah, they’re five, but I think it’s a good lesson to learn that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.

I was there once. I started playing soccer in first grade and we won the championship in my first season.

That was the last trophy I saw for a few years. Playing and not winning humbled and inspired me.

The empty spots on my trophy shelf pushed me to get better by working harder.

Back then, you either won the championship or you were on one of the teams that didn’t win. Only the winners got trophies.

Over the years, I collected a decent amount of trophies, but didn’t win that last one.

We lost in the state semi-finals in my senior year of high school. I still think about that game. We didn’t get a trophy for almost winning the state. We didn’t get a trophy at all, because we didn’t earn it.

It sucked, but we don’t always win. That’s how life is. There will be lots of losses personally and professionally.

Those wins are so sweet. We appreciate them, because they are special and rare.

Mark Twain once said, “The secret of success is to make your vocation your vacation.” Thanks to affiliate marketing, I’ve am always on vacation… or on holiday if you prefer.

But first we have to define vacation, and my definition is probably different from yours.

My vacation is more of a state of mind. It’s a place of self-actualization.

I am relaxed and satisfied when I get to conceptualize and execute ideas, accomplish things, help people, make change.

Today was something of a typical day for me. It started with taking a walk with my dog Mattingly and a couple of my girls to school.

Then, I had a little breakfast, as I caught up on email, published a couple blog posts, and worked on editing articles for this issue of FeedFront.

Next, I went out for a run and worked up a nice sweat. When I got home, I jumped in the pool to cool off. After a quick lunch, I ran out to the bank and some other errands.

Back to the office for some more article editing and other work. Around 3:30pm, I switched into my soccer gear and took my son out to run practice for his team at 4:00pm.

When I got home, I cleaned up, did some more work, and had dinner with my family.

There was some email checking and other work on my computer, iPad and phone between then and going to sleep.

This is all in stark contrast to the day job work I did from the time I graduated college through 2004. That was a time where I’d leave home before 7:00am and return home after 8:00pm, due to a long commute and working hard to get ahead.

Back then, I’d look forward to treats like casual Friday. Hooray – jeans at work. It was fairly common that “urgent” meetings would suddenly come up around 6:30pm, as I was finishing up my 10.5 hour day.

On Sunday nights, my stomach would be in knots in anticipation of a week of office politics, busy work, meandering meetings, and feeling like a trapped rat in my cubicle.

That was the work life I watched my father experience and endure. He dreaded work, and he frequently spoke of how it would all be worth it when he retired.

He would take that vacation to Ireland, he’d do things on his own schedule, he’d be content. My dad never really splurged. He’d do that in retirement.

But there was a hitch. He died less than a year before retirement. Two years later, I became my own boss and started working for fun.

So, I sort of work seven days a week, but I don’t feel like I work at all. I’ve been on vacation for years.