Man In A Panic

Bum Deal

This all-agency email caught my attention.

Don't forget, this year we're gonna do what we can to help Glide get the S.F. homeless community feeling and looking a lot more bright and shiny.

Believe me, after what I saw this weekend, this is quite a task.  So bring on your toothpaste, lotions, glueguns, shampoo, conditioner, soap, toothbrushes, steelwool, shaving foam, anything that hasn't been used, that will make a homeless person feel fresh as a daisy, and sparkle like they were just hosed down from the tops of the heads to their itty bitty crusty toes.

They are also in bad need of blankets (which by the way can be found at Ross for $5.99 ) So come on, help with what ever you can.  I will be more than happy to come by and collect all items.

Many Thanks,
Steffan

At first I thought this was an attempt to break the world record for 'most tasteless branding opportunity ever'.  I can see the brief now - 'Demonstrate the power of Glide cleaning products by scraping clean the fetid homeless dudes of San Francisco'.

Thankfully, it turns out that Glide is, in fact, a 'benelovent church without walls'.   Still, the thought of steelwool as a 'cleaning product' scares me, even if you're a bearded crack whore with walrus skin.  I wonder though - is this how the gayers get themselves so shiny?

Sideways

Breakfast on a snowy mountain, lunch and wine-tasting in sunny Sonoma, dinner in foggy San Francisco.

Enough to send you Sideways.

I was going to blog the comedy that is wine-tasting, but you all know the deal.  Overtones of sophistry, a hint of embarassment and a long lingering after-taste of pretence. 

That said, I've got a big nose and I'm pretty full bodied, so I must be doing something right.

Mountain Rescue

Hmmm - I spoke too soon about the lack of snow.  And I've angered the Gods.

Today's Plan A – Air & Nature:
Bounce out of bed early; cruise around the lake; gasp lungfuls of crisp mountain air; marvel at clear blue skies; retire to bed early, happily exhausted by Mother Nature.

RUINED by horizontal sleet and head-numbing gales.

Today's Revised Plan B – Meat & Boobs:
Watch mind-numbing TV in hotel room all day; drive across the mountain to South Tahoe for a meaty dinner and a fishy show – namely 'Lipstick', ‘a smokin' erotic rock extravaganza'.  Retire to bed late, happily exhausted by Cheri, Mercedes, Angel, Juanita etc.

RUINED by…

Not Something I Would Plan At All:

Set off on Plan B, slightly freaked by orange flashing lights advocating ‘snow tyres or chains’.  Get a flat at the State Line; spend two hours trying to call breakdown services before the cell runs out of batteries, having left one hopeful message with a man in Las Vegas called Bruce who sounds like a drunk 5 year old. 

Wait two more hours shivering in the now snow-capped (leaking) convertible before curmudgeonly ‘rescue dude’ turns up and tries to pretend that we don’t have a flat tyre at all, preferring the warmth of his tow-truck to the polar conditions.  Use dollars intended for Californian strippers to persuade him to get out his jack and crank it up.  Crawl back to base on perilous roads at 5mph, Sandra mumbling all the way home about being eaten by a Yeti. 

Retire to bed hungry and cold, two soggy ‘Lipstick’ tickets crumpled by the bed.

Happy Thanksgiving Y'All!

Inspired by my Go Car skills, I’ve hired a gleaming gold convertible and am now gazing over Lake Tahoe from the Cal Neva Lodge Casino Resort.

“Be part of history at this truly rustic spot (with a real log exterior and huge boulders in the lobby) that opened in the 1920s and was owned in the 1960s by Frank Sinatra" (Road Trip USA:  California and the South West)

Who could resist?  Well, boys and girls, I present Ole Blue Eye’s palace of fun in all it’s rustic glory:

This place is ‘undeniably one of North America’s most romantic honeymoon locations’ (Cal Neva Guest Welcome Pack) unless, that is, you have the rare gift of sight.

Actually, that’s not quite fair – the views are absolutely stunning but the décor is more Sealink Ferry than Schraeger.

Of course, Tahoe is designed for skiing and we should be knee deep in white stuff right now, but my exuberant use of Right Guard in the mid-1980s means it’s as warm and dry as Ghandi’s flip flop. 

With the snow-no-show, not many people have made it up here.  Well, not many normal people anyway.  There’re plenty of razzmatazz gambling grannies but not many folks who could carve on the slopes as well as the dinner table.

Tahoe is a mini Vegas and I’ve already dropped a whole three bucks on the slot machines.  I’ll try again tomorrow when I’m feeling sharper, less full of festive cheer. 

Bullit

So, with Sandra in town, we became mobile figures of fun for the locals, a Go Go Team in matching t-shirts and silver crash helmets.

You'd have had to be quick to catch us though.  The no no part of the Go Go is that they cost 40 bucks an hour.  And the 'guided GPS tour' is supposed to take 3 hours.  That's a lot of dollars to be folded into a petrol-fumed, ear-rippingly loud yellow twat-mobile with Stephen Hawking as a 'local guide'.

Of course, life is never about having fun - it's about saving money - so Sandra was treated to a World Record Go Tour Attempt.  Readers, I burnt the hell out of that baby's 30cc engine.  We were airbourne down Pine Street, on two wheels through China Town and the bird tasted tarmac in Nob Hill. We definitely had the wrong robotic guide...we needed Murray Walker to screech about my vicious cornering and deft overtaking manoeuvres.  In the Panhandle, I sliced up a Porsche and a Mustang V6 in a couple of blocks....

Actually, we did learn something from our GPS friend.  I think he said...

"And to your left...famous....park...OJ Simpson....gay...slow....look up....look down....house on the corner...pilgrims...victorian brick....golf course....Robin Williams...hairy bisons.....wrong way....wrong way.....wrong way"

....but we lost the boring bastard at warp speed down Van Ness.

Oh yeah - and it's my birthday today.  31.  Yikes.  Burning the candle though, eh?!

Wet Dreams

Working at the BBC, I used to have wonderful dreams - there I was, dancing with yellow midgets, swimming naked with Paul Daniels (magic!), a masquerader with good hair.  My REM was a delightful sensory playground.

Now that I'm back in advertising, I dream in flawless Powerpoint logic.  Last night, I drifted off to some Business Objectives, rolled over at some Initial Strategic Offerings, hugged the pillow during Consumer Insights and, when the clip art banana ‘dissolved in’, the nightmares began.

Sometimes advertising is accountancy in silly t-shirts. 

Rifle Trifle

"EUREKA!" he thought "I've spotted a niche....this time next year I'll be a millionaire".

And then he opened a 'US military memorobilia shop' in one of SF's leafier neighbourhoods.

And now his windows are covered in cappuccino sputum, his dog is hanging out with a pink poodle and he sleeps with a gun under the bed, in case the 'loonies' attack him with daffodils.

He sounds angry, doesn't he?

(the pics get bigger if you click on them)

Hair By Fairy

I won't be writing much for the next couple of weeks while I try to find a new apartment in San Francisco.  This is a 24 hour a day dance that requires physical strength, manipulation, wit, bribery and flirtation (and a lot of bullshit).  A lot like advertising then.

However, I thought I should document my first haircut in America.  In words only.  Cameras, quite frankly, can fuck off for at least two weeks.  I look like a twat - not metaphorically....I quite literally look like a twat.  Indeed, I'd be wearing a balaclava if it wasn't so goddam sunny and I didn't think it would scare potential landlords.   

SF is not awash with visibly trendy barbers.  You see the odd hairdressing shop, but they're just for old ladies to sit in, hardwired to giant vibrators.  Bizarrely, even the Castro - the World's Gayest Neighbourhood - seems to be without mincing scissor twirlers.  Instead, individual 'stylists' work at locations throughout the city - usually hidden away in an office block, so you can't judge who the clientele might be.

Well, via the miracle of the world wide interweb, I happened upon Enrique.  I was encouraged by his inability to speak English and his lispy high pitched Spanish - he seemed just gay enough to cope with my unchallenging barnet.  So I made an appointment and set off to see him, downtown...

The next hour was surreal.  He was a little Mexican fella, about as tall as his hair.  Nodding and smiling as I said hair-related words like 'textured' and 'natural' and 'choppy' and 'NOT TOO SHORT', I felt in safe hands.  But then, armed with giant scissors and a razor, those 'safe hands' started visibly shaking.  And then a very strange thing happened.  As he snipped away, a little here and a little there...at random, it seemed....I saw my hair morphing into Enrique's hair.  And as he kept looking in the mirror, I realised that he was using his own locks as a template for mine.  There was magic happening in Enrique's shaky hands.  He was cutting away but my hair was getting BIGGER.  And, when he was done, we smiled at our reflections in the mirror...and as i looked from me to Enrique and Enrique to me, I couldn't work out who was who, what was what, the me from the him.

The spell broken, I asked him to try again.  To make my hair shorter.  And, boy, did he go for it.  But then another strange thing happened.  Having finished the cut, he worked some wax in, enjoying my head with his strokey fingers.  And then, to signal that his artistry was done, he poured two cups of water over my head with a great flourish...and motioned me out of the door. 

So I left with a sodden twat on my head and a soaking wet back and face. 

SEVENTY DOLLARS!   I'm growing a mullet.

Magic Numbers

I, along with AT LEAST a few others, saw The Magic Number's first American gig at Popscene last night.  Very good they were too – sunshiny pop to brighten up a wet, foggy evening.  Much better than the strumming misery of Calexico/Iron & Wine last week.  And they clearly like a burger which is important here.

Popscene hosts lots of 'British Indie' acts - it's a club as well as a live venue and it was fun to bob along to The Stone Roses, The Smiths and Saint Etienne.  Lacking a tattoo on my forehead saying 'I'M FROM LONDON', I tried to emit a knowing and embracing smile to these New World Anglophiles.  A few more pints of freezing cold Bass and I'd have been initiating sing-alongs and giving instruction for the shoe-gazing shuffle.

Isn't patriotism a strange beast? Chuck and Camilla's presence here hasn't stirred my Marmite at all, but I was nearly toppled with nationalistic fervour when I saw a local in a 'Just Say No' Zammo t-shirt.  That really is class.

Less Magic Numbers

Less magic are the numbers I have to deal with at work.  American clients just love to quantify their advertising.  I'm not sure any of it really makes sense but, now that I'm up and running, I've decided to avoid brand and planning issues on this blog.  Suffice to say that, above, you can see the notes I made in today's 3 hour 'Brand Metrics' Presentation.

One thing though - the 'can do' attitude at Goodby Silverstein is unlike anywhere I've ever worked before.  Two examples:

1.  Yesterday, we pitched for a Big New Client.  And as our 'crack team' skipped off to the meeting, the entire agency gathered on the pavement and cheered them off, the Rocky theme tune stopping traffic..

2.  To deliver a 'big idea' to a client a mile across the city, the agency formed a human chain from our door to theirs...(will put link up later)

As cheesy as a Jumbo Wotsit Fondue, yes...and terribly un-British...but it makes a change not to be understated and ironic. 

Just sometimes, of course.