Part One: Oh, it Hurts!
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
So, I’m meeting with these two advertising guys who are in our office for a while (occupying the empty office in our little agency) over lunch. I’m trying to act reasonably professional — as professional as people in creative professions get — to give myself some kind of credibility.
It’s taco salad today in our café downstairs, so that’s what I’m eating. So, I’m representing to these two ad people and a shard of nacho drives itself between two teeth and into my gum like a railroad spike. God, the pain! I kept my composure and I don’t think anyone noticed, but I’ve been trying to dislodge this thing for 10 or 15 minutes. What I wouldn’t give for some floss right now!
And then I changed the magenta cartridge in the color printer. What a busy day!
Part Two: I Can’t Take Much More of This
Thursday, October 20, 2005
… I’ve been listening in on a creative session for the past four hours. How you take Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, throw in Nazis and a spider, call it an African parable and make it come alive dramatically, I can’t fathom. I think they’re going to blindfold the audience, too.
And these guys are taking it all far too seriously. What gets me is that if I were part of the project team, especially in a creative capacity, it would have my buy-in, too. I’d be all about it. Blindfold the audience? Sure! Illustrate the African parable with a poem read in French and Chinese? You bet! Back it all up with an hour-and-a-half PowerPoint presentation to tell the audience why what they just saw was so important? Of course! (Now, explain the Nazis again ...?)
Ahhhh ...! Experiential Marketing at its finest. My head hurts.
Part Three: How to reframe the current paradigm into a new model ...
Friday, October 21, 2005
Those guys from yesterday are back again with their jargon and buzz words. I can’t type fast enough or I’d tell you what they are saying. I have learned that, “[Atlanta] is a radically different world in terms of ethos …” Which appears to be a way of saying we have more black people here than Minnesota.
I hate this project and all it stands for. I want a drink.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
Feeling a Little Queasy
We walked across the 17th street bridge today to go to that new FOX Grill that just opened.
Big space, kind of slow service. But that’s not my point. The point is, I ordered the calamari. This was not your chewy, rubber band kind of calamari, but sort of a breading-falls-off, slimy calamari.
About half of it was the part with suckers. I don’t like the part with suckers. The sucker parts were kind of purple, making it look not so much cooked as bruised. No, sir, can’t eat squid suckers that look like victims of domestic violence.
All this would not have been so bad if I hadn’t topped it off with a huge slab of carrot cake and two generous dollops of ice cream. So now the cake, ice cream and squid is not sitting well. Especially after the walk back across the bridge.
Big space, kind of slow service. But that’s not my point. The point is, I ordered the calamari. This was not your chewy, rubber band kind of calamari, but sort of a breading-falls-off, slimy calamari.
About half of it was the part with suckers. I don’t like the part with suckers. The sucker parts were kind of purple, making it look not so much cooked as bruised. No, sir, can’t eat squid suckers that look like victims of domestic violence.
All this would not have been so bad if I hadn’t topped it off with a huge slab of carrot cake and two generous dollops of ice cream. So now the cake, ice cream and squid is not sitting well. Especially after the walk back across the bridge.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Bald-Faced Lie
I was trimming my beard when my beard trimmer seized up on me and was ensconced in my facial hair like a tick on a dog. The only thing for it was to go for the clean-shaven look again. It took off ten years!
The bad news is that it also made me gain 25 pounds. I look like the bloated carcass of a drug dealer who has been badly beaten, strangled and thrown overboard from a drug-running ship after a deal gone bad, washed ashore and sat in the sun for two or three days. Yes, sir, that fat. I’m just afraid some seagull is going to see me and come peck my eyes out.
The bad news is that it also made me gain 25 pounds. I look like the bloated carcass of a drug dealer who has been badly beaten, strangled and thrown overboard from a drug-running ship after a deal gone bad, washed ashore and sat in the sun for two or three days. Yes, sir, that fat. I’m just afraid some seagull is going to see me and come peck my eyes out.
The Ballad of Louis LaRue
This is a tale of the Old Wild West when the century was fixin’ to turn,
And an old vagabond with a watch on his vest and a face both weathered and stern.
Louis LaRue was the traveler’s name, and medicine his trade and his stock.
He came from New York with his charlatan’s game, and everyone just called him “Doc.”
He rolled into town on an old sorrel mare and a wagon with tonic and salve,
An old bowler hat o’er brown thinning hair, to see what the locals would have.
“I’ve nostrums and cure-alls and snake-oil galore! Elixirs — all bona fide!
“I’ve linaments, powders not seen before,” A crowd gathered, eyes growing wide.
“Step right on up!” was the mountebank’s call, “Tell me your ills and I vow
“I’ll cure you right here before God and all with what’s in these bottles, right now!
“Your hair’s falling out? Your bowels are loose? No wonder you’re miserable sore!
“Set it aright with Kick-a-Poo Juice — If it don’t work, come back for more!”
The townsfolk came on with ache and with ill, with disease and sickness and hurt.
And Doc took ’em on with luck and with skill, or left ’em to die in the dirt.
“A liver,” “a spleen,” “a stomach ache,” “a horse hoof right to the head.”
“A bunion,” “a boil,” “you are a fake,” “and you are better off dead.”
He took lots of cash and passed out his brew, his pockets grew full with the coin
But even dispensing the tonic, he knew that by sundown he must be a-goin’.
For he knew that he was a fraud and a fake, his medicine — sugar and booze.
And if he stayed on, more money to make, in the end, he’d more likely lose.
He knew all of the folks that he’d treated were blind with belief and with trust
And once they found out they’d been cheated, he hoped all that they’d see was his dust.
But each single case he promised he’d cure with his potions or poultice or pill.
“My word is my bond, it works, yes, I’m sure — why look at me! Do I look ill?”
Word spread, his remedies grew in renown as a cure for sickness and cares.
The folks came in droves from all over town to sample his full-bodied wares.
Everyone tried it, man, woman and child for ailments they were trying to lick.
Even the parson’s lips were defiled, and some people weren’t even sick.
So, he stayed in town a day and a half, lured by gainful acclaim,
And greedily, then, he worked at his graft and continued to wildly declaim:
“Influenza,” “measles,” “croup,” “la grippe,” — no condition too big or too small.
“Whimsy,” “dropsy,” “broken hip,” Doc LaRue’s remedy treated ’em all.
And, lo and behold, they were willing to pay, all those people he thought he had rooked.
For, he had stayed on that extra half-day, and now the whole town, it was hooked.
Folks would all guzzle it down then come back more likely than not,
For the treatment was like a night on the town — and ’ol Doc got a dollar a shot.
And, to his surprise, people got better as they greedily soaked up his cure.
That little dry town was a little bit wetter, the folks more besotted for sure.
And Doc was not run out on a rail, instead he was invited to stay
And sell his potion by bucket and pail for as long as his patrons could pay.
So, his remedies did have the power to heal — and the scoundrel got rich to boot.
Folks kept on drinking, they got a good deal, and Doc came away with the loot.
But Doc was amazed, “This isn’t a cure! Why would anyone drink it?”
The truth is just a little obscure: to get better, you just have to think it.
Let these words be a lesson to you if you’ve goods of your own to flaunt,
If you want to get rich like Louis LaRue, give folks the dope that they want.
’Cause in the end, despite all your twaddle, most folks are still a bit blind.
It doesn’t matter what’s in the bottle, it’s only what’s in the mind.
And an old vagabond with a watch on his vest and a face both weathered and stern.
Louis LaRue was the traveler’s name, and medicine his trade and his stock.
He came from New York with his charlatan’s game, and everyone just called him “Doc.”
He rolled into town on an old sorrel mare and a wagon with tonic and salve,
An old bowler hat o’er brown thinning hair, to see what the locals would have.
“I’ve nostrums and cure-alls and snake-oil galore! Elixirs — all bona fide!
“I’ve linaments, powders not seen before,” A crowd gathered, eyes growing wide.
“Step right on up!” was the mountebank’s call, “Tell me your ills and I vow
“I’ll cure you right here before God and all with what’s in these bottles, right now!
“Your hair’s falling out? Your bowels are loose? No wonder you’re miserable sore!
“Set it aright with Kick-a-Poo Juice — If it don’t work, come back for more!”
The townsfolk came on with ache and with ill, with disease and sickness and hurt.
And Doc took ’em on with luck and with skill, or left ’em to die in the dirt.
“A liver,” “a spleen,” “a stomach ache,” “a horse hoof right to the head.”
“A bunion,” “a boil,” “you are a fake,” “and you are better off dead.”
He took lots of cash and passed out his brew, his pockets grew full with the coin
But even dispensing the tonic, he knew that by sundown he must be a-goin’.
For he knew that he was a fraud and a fake, his medicine — sugar and booze.
And if he stayed on, more money to make, in the end, he’d more likely lose.
He knew all of the folks that he’d treated were blind with belief and with trust
And once they found out they’d been cheated, he hoped all that they’d see was his dust.
But each single case he promised he’d cure with his potions or poultice or pill.
“My word is my bond, it works, yes, I’m sure — why look at me! Do I look ill?”
Word spread, his remedies grew in renown as a cure for sickness and cares.
The folks came in droves from all over town to sample his full-bodied wares.
Everyone tried it, man, woman and child for ailments they were trying to lick.
Even the parson’s lips were defiled, and some people weren’t even sick.
So, he stayed in town a day and a half, lured by gainful acclaim,
And greedily, then, he worked at his graft and continued to wildly declaim:
“Influenza,” “measles,” “croup,” “la grippe,” — no condition too big or too small.
“Whimsy,” “dropsy,” “broken hip,” Doc LaRue’s remedy treated ’em all.
And, lo and behold, they were willing to pay, all those people he thought he had rooked.
For, he had stayed on that extra half-day, and now the whole town, it was hooked.
Folks would all guzzle it down then come back more likely than not,
For the treatment was like a night on the town — and ’ol Doc got a dollar a shot.
And, to his surprise, people got better as they greedily soaked up his cure.
That little dry town was a little bit wetter, the folks more besotted for sure.
And Doc was not run out on a rail, instead he was invited to stay
And sell his potion by bucket and pail for as long as his patrons could pay.
So, his remedies did have the power to heal — and the scoundrel got rich to boot.
Folks kept on drinking, they got a good deal, and Doc came away with the loot.
But Doc was amazed, “This isn’t a cure! Why would anyone drink it?”
The truth is just a little obscure: to get better, you just have to think it.
Let these words be a lesson to you if you’ve goods of your own to flaunt,
If you want to get rich like Louis LaRue, give folks the dope that they want.
’Cause in the end, despite all your twaddle, most folks are still a bit blind.
It doesn’t matter what’s in the bottle, it’s only what’s in the mind.
Thursday, October 6, 2005
Why I’m the Perfect Guy
Please indulge me as I reveal my answers to a certain person’s requirements for the perfect guy. (I hope she’s not reading this!)
_____________
Somebody who has imperfections and knows it.
I’ve got plenty of imperfections. I’m 39 — I’m getting more imperfections every day. I could enumerate them, but I don’t see why I should; I have imperfections, but I am not defined by them.
Somebody who likes to fly by the seat of their pants and take life by the balls.
I don’t plan ahead and I scratch a lot, does that count? No, really, I take what’s thrown at me and solve the problems as they arise. In general, I’m not the kind of person who is given lemons and makes lemonade … I’m the kind of person lemonade happens to.
Somebody with a kind heart, compassion for those
less fortunate and the desire to be a better person.
I’m a pretty good person, but who couldn’t stand a little polish? I think I have compassion for those less fortunate than myself, but for people of equal fortune, I won’t spare the sarcasm if they deserve it.
Outdoorsy is good, but don’t be over the top about it.
I like the Botanical Gardens and Stone Mountain. I like camping, but not hiking. I don’t fish. Fur kills.
Dressing well is a plus.
I clean up nice but I believe in comfortable footwear.
Chivalry is good.
Of course it’s good. I was brought up to be a gentleman. But, this is the 21st century. If a damsel is really in distress, she should call 911.
Oh, above all, you must love animals!
I like most animals. I’m not crazy about fish or birds. I am well loved by dogs and cats. I have two cats myself. I am also loved by kids and old people. Parents like me and I could talk for hours with your grandparents.
_____________
Somebody who has imperfections and knows it.
I’ve got plenty of imperfections. I’m 39 — I’m getting more imperfections every day. I could enumerate them, but I don’t see why I should; I have imperfections, but I am not defined by them.
Somebody who likes to fly by the seat of their pants and take life by the balls.
I don’t plan ahead and I scratch a lot, does that count? No, really, I take what’s thrown at me and solve the problems as they arise. In general, I’m not the kind of person who is given lemons and makes lemonade … I’m the kind of person lemonade happens to.
Somebody with a kind heart, compassion for those
less fortunate and the desire to be a better person.
I’m a pretty good person, but who couldn’t stand a little polish? I think I have compassion for those less fortunate than myself, but for people of equal fortune, I won’t spare the sarcasm if they deserve it.
Outdoorsy is good, but don’t be over the top about it.
I like the Botanical Gardens and Stone Mountain. I like camping, but not hiking. I don’t fish. Fur kills.
Dressing well is a plus.
I clean up nice but I believe in comfortable footwear.
Chivalry is good.
Of course it’s good. I was brought up to be a gentleman. But, this is the 21st century. If a damsel is really in distress, she should call 911.
Oh, above all, you must love animals!
I like most animals. I’m not crazy about fish or birds. I am well loved by dogs and cats. I have two cats myself. I am also loved by kids and old people. Parents like me and I could talk for hours with your grandparents.
Our Visitor
We have a guest in the office for a couple of days. An old guy who makes more bodily noises than anyone I’ve ever heard in the workplace. He makes the same noises I make after eating a big Thanksgiving dinner, but he makes them all the time.
Noises he makes:
Hup!
Hoop!
Uunngh!
Urp!
Aahhgh!
Hhuuhh!
He also talks loudly and refers to women as “gals.” I can’t take him much longer.
Noises he makes:
Hup!
Hoop!
Uunngh!
Urp!
Aahhgh!
Hhuuhh!
He also talks loudly and refers to women as “gals.” I can’t take him much longer.
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
Correspondence: October 5, 2005
I haven’t heard from you since my last scary e-mail (a friend of mine said I came across as too psycho), so I thought I’d holla.
I’d love to write something comical and entertaining here, but my brain is numb with ennui from the complete and utter lack of work we have right now. Another day in paradise.
So, instead of holding forth on some obscure, yet amusing, topic, I’ll invite you to tell me about you. How do you like being 32? Have you stumbled into any unexpected maturity? How inopportune to become encumbered by maturity just when you’re old enough to start enjoying yourself.
I remember when I was 32 at the end of the 20th century. Wait … no I don’t. I was drinking pretty heavily in those days. I remember a blur of proposals to fast-food restaurant chains, doing work for a major soft-drink company in Atlanta and an all-around sense of job security that seems to be lacking now.
How’s California these days? Are you near the fires? What’s the worst thing you’ve seen today? The best? If you were a kitchen appliance, which one would you be?
… Sounds like your date was more disastrous than my last date. On mine, after 45 minutes she said she had to go get something to eat, but, “good luck in the future.” That means I’m not going to see her again, right? At least there was no vomiting involved.
Ahh … where do I work, you ask? I’m in the struggling Atlanta office of an agency based in St. Louis. It’s not quite advertising, not quite PR, not quite a production company, but has elements of all of the above. We produce large meetings which may include video, live entertainment and the like. We also produce Mobile Marketing programs.
I’ve been in this job for two years. Before this, I was an Associate Creative Director for a similar company. I was there for seven years before they downsized and, ultimately, closed the office.
How about you? Have you recently gone from freelance to a staff position? That would explain your new regimen. What do they have you writing?
… I believe I already expressed our curious lack of work at the office. I spent my day working on a poem and eating an apple. Hard to say which one was more invigorating.
I’d love to write something comical and entertaining here, but my brain is numb with ennui from the complete and utter lack of work we have right now. Another day in paradise.
So, instead of holding forth on some obscure, yet amusing, topic, I’ll invite you to tell me about you. How do you like being 32? Have you stumbled into any unexpected maturity? How inopportune to become encumbered by maturity just when you’re old enough to start enjoying yourself.
I remember when I was 32 at the end of the 20th century. Wait … no I don’t. I was drinking pretty heavily in those days. I remember a blur of proposals to fast-food restaurant chains, doing work for a major soft-drink company in Atlanta and an all-around sense of job security that seems to be lacking now.
How’s California these days? Are you near the fires? What’s the worst thing you’ve seen today? The best? If you were a kitchen appliance, which one would you be?
… Sounds like your date was more disastrous than my last date. On mine, after 45 minutes she said she had to go get something to eat, but, “good luck in the future.” That means I’m not going to see her again, right? At least there was no vomiting involved.
Ahh … where do I work, you ask? I’m in the struggling Atlanta office of an agency based in St. Louis. It’s not quite advertising, not quite PR, not quite a production company, but has elements of all of the above. We produce large meetings which may include video, live entertainment and the like. We also produce Mobile Marketing programs.
I’ve been in this job for two years. Before this, I was an Associate Creative Director for a similar company. I was there for seven years before they downsized and, ultimately, closed the office.
How about you? Have you recently gone from freelance to a staff position? That would explain your new regimen. What do they have you writing?
… I believe I already expressed our curious lack of work at the office. I spent my day working on a poem and eating an apple. Hard to say which one was more invigorating.
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