Blue Ribbon Symphony

I’m not a beer guy, it all tastes like sh*t to me, like coffee. I think it’s the genetics of my tongue. My tongue was born not liking bitter disgusting beverages I guess.

But there’s a certain Je Ne Sais Quoi about Pabst Blue Ribbon. I like the brand, only because it’s so old now that I don’t think about men beating their wives with a thick leather belt behind closed doors the night before Christmas or West Virginia house parties. Now I think about hipster dudes that fit into Ben Sherman shirts I could swear are tailored to small Asian women, sipping on PBR’s pretending they like the taste but really just liking the can’s label. So that’s an improvement I guess.



To class it up even more, though, I have an idea. It’s called the Blue Ribbon Symphony. First we hire YoYoMa (One word? Is “Ma” his last name? Who names their fricking kid YoYo?) and the London Symphony Orchestra to perform a night of classics at the Gehry Disney Hall. Btw here’s me and the Yo.

But FIRST we hold a cocktail party before the concert, sponsored by Pabst. I’m talking unlimited free Pabst for everyone. I’m talking YoYo and the first chair violinist playing beer pong. I’m talking a make-out sesh between two tuba dudes. After the orchestra is completely shnockered, everyone takes their seats for the concert.



Who wouldn’t want to hear Beethoven, Mozart and Bach that way? The classics, finally palatable. If only I could say the same for the beer.

George Michael Has Curves

This was a tough week. As everybody knows, Curves’ (Curves’s? Where do I put the apostrophe?) long-time agency of record, Goodby Silverstein, had to bow out of the account after securing another wellness-related piece of business. I heard Jeff Goodby himself is penning the new print work. Here’s a sneak peek.

Look at all those benefits down there in the body copy. Nicely done, sir. Plus I don’t know if you can make out that she’s actually hula-hooping. If this woman can hula-hoop right after laparoscopic gastric band surgery, I’m sold. Note to self, send Jeff one of those fat jiggling machines for his office, he’ll get a real kick out of that.

So needless to say, after Curves’s’s RFP every agency was hungry to get a piece of that two million dollar a year piece of action. Sorry, Mother London. I got it. I sat down with Gary & Diane Heavin, co-founders, in their home office in Waco, TX to discuss how they wanted me to approach their upcoming Christmas promotional.

“Have a seat, son,” Gary said.

He pointed to an ornate plastic-covered divan. “The wife doesn’t like spills. And I don’t like surprises. What’ve ya got?”

I murmured something off to the side.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh nothing,” I said. Just some- careless whispers.”

At which point I spun around my iPad and said “Wham!”

Gary looked scared. His wife, however, was smiling.

“See, Gary, ladies between the ages of 34-50 love George Michael. What’s your key demo?”

He begrudgingly admitted it was ladies between the ages of 34-50.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. This Christmas we’re remaking “Last Christmas” by George Michael. It’s a new video, same music but new lyrics. George, seductively welcoming all the moms up to his Curves Cabin for a good workout and some hot cocoa. We’re talking millions of hits.” I showed him a mock-up.

Gary grunted with a nod. “It makes me uncomfortable with my own sexuality but I gotta admit it’s genius.”

I barged ahead. “The video will lead traffic to a personalized microsite where King George himself will instruct all of the classes you currently teach at Curves. At the end of each session, George’ll hand out virtual coupons so potential members can try the clubs for real.”

Diane Heavin let out a little squeal and squeezed the bejeezus out of me. “Do I get to meet him? Do I? Do I?”

I winked at her. “You just gotta have faith.”

Yosemite

I can’t lie. I am not a hiker. Hiking bores me, unless there are stunning waterfalls at every step, glaciers, fireworks, a strawberry daiquiri cart and/or a large plasma with a PlayStation 3. So last year, when my brother and girlfriend convinced me to hike to the top of Half Dome, I wasn’t too sure. “It’s so easy,” they said. “Will take 5 hours max.” Yeah, bullsh*t. That hike took EIGHTEEN HOURS round trip and I almost died from hysteria on the way back down. This was the hike in a nutshell.

See? I told you it was treacherous. So I wasn’t too surprised to learn that Yosemite National Park was hurting cash-wise. You mean people don’t want to go out and see grass? They don’t want to have grizzly bear encounters? Weird. You’d think that would be a peaceful moment they’d have with the bear right before it rips off their legs with its razor sharp claw paws. Hey I have an idea. Instead of Smokey the Bear as the forest spokesperson-

-we enlist the aid of Gary the Gay Bear.

A. I can guarantee there would be no more forest fires. You wouldn’t find me anywhere NEAR a match if I thought a large Gay Bear might come out of the woods and have his way with me. There is no B, A is enough.

But that’s silly. As adventurous as The Ad Agency In My Mind is, we’re not that irresponsible. Besides, gays don’t hike- they wouldn’t be caught dead in camo. So let’s venture back to my earlier idea. I would TOTALLY go to Yosemite more if they had a hike like this.

The Plasma Hike, sponsored by ABC Disney. Families would bring their kids, there’d be something for everyone. And while we’re on the subject, why not just open the whole park up for advertising revenue?

I think that’s quite beautiful, as a matter of fact. Imagine, Half Dome brought to you by Ticketmaster.

Make it to the top for a chance to win VIP tickets and a brunch date with Usher.

Advertising to the rescue yet again.

Skittles Got Me Thinking

I’ve never tasted a rainbow. “Taste the rainbow” sounds like something a mulatto gentleman would tell me in prison. I’m not sure if there would be a pot of gold at the end of that one, but post-rainbow tasting I would probably be walking like a dwarf.

Skittles is without a doubt one of my favorite brands out there. In some advertising circles, it’s not cool to say that- “Skittles is played out” is a likely retort. But I can’t help it, I’m tired of apologizing for the kind of work I like, and that includes, yes- Snickers, Old Spice, even HORROR OF HORRORS, ie DON’T admit this in a job interview- some Budweiser spots. Okay maybe not the one where the horse farts in the woman’s face, although who wouldn’t laugh if that really happened, but swear jar? Come on.

See, in advertising we’re jaded man (says as he sucks on a hand-rolled cigarette then flicks away ash from a straight arm down by his side with the other arm crossed over it). Entertainment is easy, we want something cereeebral, perhaps a useful social engagement tool or something REALLY cool like Chalkbot which admittedly is a dope idea but 10 ppl know it exists.

I’m tired of that argument. What’s so wrong with entertaining people? The problem is we’re not only jaded we’re too smart for our own good. We’re a gazillion dollar industry that needs to justify every move we make with multi-colored psychographics and consensus thinking. Let me tell you something, broheim, if Michaelangelo had to run the Sistine Chapel through as many hoops as the ordinary creative does it would have looked like this.

It would have looked like the goddamn ceiling from The Cheesecake Factory, and I don’t go there for the Renaissance artwork. I go there for the Bang Bang Shrimp because they’re downright delicious. And if Steven I-Can’t-Stop-Executive-Producing-Everything Spielberg had let a focus group approve the one-sheet for his first summer blockbuster it might have looked like this.

Enough already. Let’s cut down on the cooks in the kitchen. Let’s trust the people we’ve hired. Let’s make people laugh again. Let’s have ‘em grab popcorn for the commercials. But alas, most clients are quick to tell us-

And THAT my friend, is why I started my own agency. To work with the clients that are cool with full retard. Hey, I’m an entertainer at heart. Good instincts don’t need psychographics to back them up and they certainly don’t need a committee to approve them.

That said, I’m proud to announce my latest commercial for Jamstar, the cell phone content company. I got the brief, bought a costume and had some fun.

Full retard and proud of it.

Unamerican Apparel

I am not a parent, although I do enjoy the process of making children. I am not a church deacon, because I think you have to be black for that. What I AM is a responsible member of the 4 A’s, and as such, I must bring to light something that has been sticking in my craw.

If Jesus came down to earth his first order of business would be to severely reprimand American Apparel. And not just because they have created a generation of smelly hipsters. How could you not agree with me, just take a look.

I can’t believe I reposted them, I’m going to eat a communion wafer as soon as I hit “publish”. As an imaginary winner of several regional Effie’s, a D&AD pencil, 4 Green Clovers, 3 Purple Horseshoes and a Silver Diamond, I felt the urge to contact Dov Charney, owner of American Apparel. This is Dov, on the phone with a hooker.

Needless to say, he wasn’t receptive. So I took it upon myself to rebrand AA. I’m sure you will find their new styles way more appropriate yet still in touch with the young lady who’s looking to catch a gentleman’s eye.

Now I can go to sleep tonight.

Pedigree Presents Hat Dogs

Those in the know, know that Margaret Keene & Chris Adams, under the watchful eye of zen master Leeland Clow-

-turned Pedigree into an iconic brand. “Dogs Rule” is right up there with the best tags in the biz, and the matter-of-fact vocal stylings of David “I Wanna Sex You Up” Duchovny assure the brand’s place among Chiat’s top tier success stories.

So why then did Mars, Inc., parent co to Pedigree, call me on my private bathroom line?

“We want more YouTube hits,” said Paul Michaels, global CEO. “I saw what you did with Pringles, I think YouTube is hot right now, and did you just flush the toilet?” I quickly coughed to cover up the flush, agreed to give it a shot and hung up.

See, this didn’t really surprise me. Clients want YouTube hits. For some reason, they think it really amounts to something. Largely, though, I’m not sure that staggering numbers translate to much. Case in point. Even had Charmin sponsored the video in question, they’d still probably have remained in the #2 market position. (Get it? GET IT??)

I’m not here to rebrand Pedigree, that’s a fool’s errand. My agenda is to deliver the hits. So without further ado, may I present Hat Dogs.

Just Do What, Exactly?

I recently had a sitdown with Dan Wieden of Wieden & Kennedy, the ad agency that is so amazing you can’t request to work there, they find you Men in Black style, basically an eyeball pops up in your Cheerios and blinks then scans your retinas and all of a sudden you live in Portland and out of nowhere you have 17 more comments on every status update.

He admitted to me he was growing fatigued with Nike, and would I mind taking it off his hands? He wanted to get back to tilling the earth, or some such hobby, he had recently purchased a monastery because that “fucker Bogusky” had purchased some “woodsy cabin foundation” and he wasn’t to be outdone.

Now I’ve known Dan for several years, he’s a big fan of Fortune Bananas and he knew that my imaginary ad agency would be the perfect fit for the famous shoe peddlers. It’s not like I needed the billings but I agreed. “What are you going to do with them?” he wanted to know. “Well the first thing I’m going to do is find that poor design student who’s probably 75 by now and pay her some decent money for that swoosh. Not that a three year old couldn’t make a lazy check mark but still.” “Fair enough…” he said, pouring me two fingers of Glenlivet, “Tell me more.” “Well, I have to be honest, Daniel, I’ve forgotten what Nike is all about. Am I supposed to be a rugby player, a 5am jogger, a World Cup striker, a cancer surviving cyclist?” He set the bottle down harder than perhaps he meant. “All of them.” He looked me dead in the eyes and said “You’re supposed to be all of them. You ARE all of them.”  “No, D, I’m not.” I sighed. “Look. I’m a pudgy Jew who likes comfortable shoes. You’re overselling me. You’re the new salesguy at Nordstrom’s promising me the Perry Ellis handkerchief is going to up my pussy quotient. All I want to know is that it’s got a decent thread count for occasional nose blowing.”

At that point his shoulders slumped a bit. “I’m an ad man. I, I- “

I put my arm around his shoulders and gave them a light squeeze. “Shhhh… you don’t have to try anymore. Who’s my soldier?”

He remained immobile. I asked again.

“Who’s my soldier?”

He lifted his arm up just the tiniest bit.

“That’s right, you’re my soldier. Dan Wieden is my soldier, my very best man. The front lines have been rough, but you’ve done so well. It’s time to let go, and let me, your very best friend in the world, take over Nike.”

We hugged then, a short, staccato burst of machismo, and just like that, the torch was passed. I realized then holy crap now I have to advertise for Nike.

Well at least it’s a start.