Monthly Archives: December 2009

Dec 30 2009
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I should've gone into HVAC

“My kid thinks he’s Martin Van Buren” (and other weird shit heard around the office).

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“I had to call 911 last night after I super-glued one of the wise men to my thumb.”

“Step aside, here comes spittle.”

“For the first time in a while, I won’t be going home and fanning my fungus.”

“I think stinky is an evolutionary term for possibly dangerous.”

“Spray happy on me.”

“I’m ready for another day of compulsive eating.”

“Lizard head is probably number 657 on the list, somewhere above moldy radish and way below snotty tissue.”

“I am the ecologically sound bike messenger from the future.”

“One: Ba Ba, Two: Ti Ki, Three: Di Do.”

“Well I’ll be a fucking druid.”

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Dec 29 2009
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Psychiatrists would have a frickin' field day

Just one more reason I’m no Lloyd Dobler.

• I can’t pull off the trench coat look.

• I haven’t figured out how to kick while boxing.

• My arms cramp up when I hold the boom box way up there.

• And I’ve yet to be invited to hang outside the Gas ‘n’ Sip with Jeremy Piven, even though we share the exact same birthday.

Then there’s the whole working-in-advertising thing:

“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.”

•••

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Dec 28 2009
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Talking shit

Godless Russian Cybercriminals Celebrate Birth of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Apparently.

ImageIt’s December 28th, and I miss my Free HD/DVR upgrade plans starting at $19.99.

You?

Have you seen your in-box this week? Where’s all the crap? The cure-your-wrinkles emails? The sell-your-timeshare-for-cash offer? When’s the last time you were asked  if you’d like to further your education? Or Работы your адекватной?

(Personally, I haven’t had an opportunity to “Enl@®gE” my “pEn1s” since around the 23rd or so. It’s weird.)

Just like anybody else, I have to dump a dozen or so emails from my spam file every morning. Big picture, I know it’s not a lot. But they’re always, you know, there. It’s almost comforting. Makes you feel wanted.

So when I came into the office this morning, you can imagine my surprise at having received only about 3 or 4 unwanted messages… over the past FIVE days!

The only thing I can guess is that the guys who do this sort of thing — the Uzbekistanian hackers and rogue Chinese engineers and, apparently, Midwestern Conservative Christians — they must get the holidays off.

No?

•••

BONUS QUESTION: What do you get your office “Secret Santa” when you work by yourself in your mom’s basement?

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Dec 22 2009
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Well that's just good stuff right there

I’m glad you’re not.

ImageI’m glad you’re not a lawyer. I’m glad you’re not the kind of person who would – and probably should – laugh at me behind my back because I still want to be a goalie. I’m glad you’re not any one of those people on the third floor of the mall near the foodcourt outside Lids.

I’m glad you’re not a writer, mostly because I know you’d be better than me, and because I’m way too competitive, I’d have to become something other than a writer, although I can’t think of what right now because, see? I suck at this.

I’m glad you’re not behind the backstop with the hand-clapper thing (you know what I mean). I’m not glad you’re still a Yankee fan, but I’m getting past that. I’m glad you’re not all mopey and passive-aggressive and poor-me. And at the same time, I’m so very glad you’re not “Mister Sun, Sun, Mister Golden Sun…”

I’m glad you’re not stubborn. I’m glad you’re not Stanley’s (you’re so Johnny Rocket’s). I’m glad you’re not Staten Island. Or Rhode Island, for that matter.

I’m glad you’re not on stage. I’m glad you’re not on drugs (though on a weekday afternoon around 4, I’d be good with it).

I’m glad you’re not personal-trainer-pilates-platinum-blonde-and-primrose-hill.

I’m glad you’re not Ellen, (even though no matter how much I think of myself as Michael, we all know I’m Elliot).

I’m glad you’re not impatient and unkind and unfunny.

I’m glad you’re not anything that you’re not, you know?

I’m glad you are.

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Dec 21 2009
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Stuff I shouldn't be saying out loud

A Little Film Festival (and, very likely, a big lawsuit).

ImageSo Sal and I are working on this idea. With little more than an iPhone and the family room, we’re re-shooting great scenes from some of our favorite movies – but in this case, with the Fisher Price “Little People.”

In “Little Pulp Fiction,” for example, Jules and Vincent sit in a purple plastic minivan talking about the metric system and the concept of mayonaise on fries.

Coming Soon to a Little Theater Near You (just before the cease and desist) –

Little Pulp Fiction

The Little Lebowski

Scent of a Little Woman

When Little Harry Met Little Sally

Little Snatch

Good Little Fellas

The Usual Little Suspects

Little Reservoir Dogs

9 1/2 Little Weeks

The Little Pope of Greenwich Village

Little Midnight Cowboy

The Little Graduate

A Few Good Little Men

Sexy Little Beast

An Officer and a Little Gentleman

Little Taxi Driver

The Little Postman Always Rings Twice

Dude, Where’s My Little Car?

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Dec 21 2009
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Nice ego

What’s with all the unhappiness? This is supposed to be a funeral.

Here’s a story. Years ago, I had to go to this funeral. Beautiful ceremony. Somber, sweet. Quiet, respectful. Everything you’d expect. Then about ten minutes before the thing wraps up, this girl who couldn’t be more than six busts out the theme from the movie Fame.

“FAME! I’m gonna live forever!!!”

Yep. She went there. Sang those exact words. At a funeral. I am going to live forever. Now, I haven’t been to a lot of these things, but I’m pretty sure that one isn’t exactly your off-the-shelf bereavement selection.

Thing is, what that kid did for the mourners that night was something else. The whole ceremony took a turn. A fog was lifted. Old ladies started telling stories. Men laughed. Hell, everybody laughed.

Is it okay to laugh at a funeral?

The passing of a loved one is obviously a difficult time for all involved. Many tears, for sure. But shouldn’t there also be weird, inappropriate anecdotes? Flat-out funny stories? Shouldn’t there be music that reminds you how she couldn’t frickin’ dance if you paid her, but, oh, how she tried?

My neighbor owns a funeral home. And as far as funeral homes go, it’s pretty great. A comfortable, modern, not-even-a-little-intimidating place run by kind, honest people who are very good at what they do.

And then they all start singing Fame.

Not literally, but you know what I mean. They tend to turn tradition on its ear a bit. Bob says it’s all about laughter, love… and stories. He wants to see the club soda shoot out your nose, you know? He encourages you to choose the music that’s best for you, whether it’s some concerto in B-minor or Raspberry Beret. Really.

And he truly believes that children should be seen and heard. Bring them. Let them be there with their crayons and tape and magic markers. Let them sing. Let them feel the love. Let them remind you about the time you and your dad got the “shhhh” in church from the minister.

And let them hear your stories.

The way Bob looks at it, the whole thing will make for another great story one day.


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Dec 16 2009
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Well that's just good stuff right there

Stars. At 1:40 in the afternoon.

ImageEverything I know about ideas and writing and advertising and trying to be unique and stuff I learned from my son that afternoon he lay on the floor of his room in front of his window asking me to “come see all the stars, daddy” over and over even though his oh-so-wise father kept telling him (say in deep, authoritative voice) “there are no stars during the day, son” and then I got down on the floor with him in that sunbeam coming through the window and the two of us spent the next ten minutes brushing our hands back and forth through all those sparkling little dust “stars.”

Thank you, boy.

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Dec 15 2009
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Talking shit

Tell them how you really felt, with a free e-card from beyond the grave.

I never really liked you that much.

A surprisingly high percentage of those orgasms were fake.

You know how I said I sent the dog off to live on a nice farm out in the country? Yeah, I had him put to sleep.

That whole embezzlement thing? My bad.

Your favorite t-shirt you were looking for? I threw that shit out.

I loved your brother. No, really. I loved him. Well.

I always hated the way you high-fived.

You know all those Sunday mornings I blew off church? Big fucking mistake.

Your baseball card collection you thought you lost? Yeah, I threw that shit out, too.

I never told you this but, you walk really fucked up. But it’s okay. Try not to think about it.

I wish I’d taken the time to tell you I love you. And that you almost always have some green shit stuck in your teeth.

This card isn’t recyclable. And I don’t give a fuck. Seriously. Look at yourself in a mirror sometime.

I often threw cans in the trash rather than walk all the way over to the recycling bin. Sorry.

AND IF YOU ACT NOW, YOU’LL ALSO GET:

Half the stuff on my Facebook page was a lie.

Think this is weird, wait ‘til we get Twitter down here.

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Dec 14 2009
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That's really embarrassing

I want to be like you, Mickey Drexler.

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Here’s the kin: http://bit.ly/5EVy5u It’s an old article, but a good one. The one that inspired me to send JCrew CEO Mickey Drexler a quick thanks-for-the-goosebumps email. An email to which he responded with a phone call. Yes, he actually picked up the phone and called some random guy to say thank you. And then he asked about me, about the agency. He wanted to hear my thoughts on design and ideas and inspiring others. We back-and-forthed. And then he said another thank you. I don’t remember what I said. I hope to hell it wasn’t, “I want to be like you, Mickey Drexler.”

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Dec 04 2009
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I should've gone into HVAC

Why not a blog about advertising (or whatever we’re calling it these days)?

ImageThey say, “write what you know.” I know advertising. I’ve been doing it for a decade and a half now. Thing is, there are a whole lot of people out there who know a whole lot more than me, know more people, have worked on bigger accounts at bigger shops, have won shinier hardware and have their own Franklin Mint commemorative plate.

If you do this for a living, you’re way more interested in what ClowBoguskyHogsheadLubarsMonahan has to say. Or some kid at Arnold. Or just about everyone in New York. Ain’t nobody coming here on the DL to talk about who’s next to walk at Chiat, or find out  who won the media chores on AT&T. And I sure as hell can’t imagine some dude at McCann giving a shit what’s going down in the Sweet P on a Thursday afternoon.

So we’re all in agreement, advertising’s out. At least as an overall blog-type theme. But that’s the thing, when you do a thing like this, the thing should probably have a theme, right? A concept? An idea? Especially if you want people to seek it out, maybe come back occasionally with offers to write for the Onion or Archer or It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia or whatever else we’ll all end up doing after crowdsourcing makes mediocrity acceptable and agencies are just a bunch of AEs huddled around the Rolodex. (Or should I say the Rolodex app.)

So my big idea for this thing? Against my every instinct to try and be original, I’m going to lift this one from a line in the movie Singles.

Maybe not having a thing is your thing.

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