My Early Alzheimers

I can sometimes be absent-minded.

My wife keeps mentioning early Alzheimer's. Maybe that's so, because much like someone with Alzheimer's, I can't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday, but I have no problem at all remembering small details from nine or ten years ago.

Which is why, when I saw this spot, I thought "RockyMortonFoxSportsNet". (I really thought it like that... one long word with no spaces.)



But the spot was not directed by Rocky Morton, and it is not for Fox Sports Net. This one was...



...and so was this one.



The first spot, for the Game Show Network, is Shoot Online's "Top Spot of the Week".

By the way, is "Spot of the Week" not superlative enough that it needs to be modified with "Top"? Are there other spots of the week? I never got that.

Anyway, is it just me, or is this "Top Spot of the Week" really, really similar to the other (funnier) work?

I wrote a post in July about two spots with strikingly similar creative, wondering if it was possible that the same basic idea could be developed independently, without the second agency being aware of the work another agency had done before.

I guess it is possible.

This, however, is a blatant rip off, and it is executed in a painfully clumsy way. The tag line is exactly the same. I mean come on, at least change the words around a little.

What makes this even worse is that in an effort to make the plagiarism less obvious, the very thing that makes the joke work has been changed so that now there is no joke at all. In the Fox work, the protagonist is saved from a compromising situation by a sports question, hence the line, "If only every question was a sports question".

If only indeed. The sports question just saved a hapless slacker from explaining why Fluffy is licking his nipple and there's a boner in his pajamas.

In the GSN spot who would want the question to be a Newlywed Game question? The boss? Why? The employee? I don't think so... in the next scene she'll be getting written up by HR, wishing she'd never opened her mouth.

When you change the structure so that somebody doing something ordinary is asked a funny question the construct falls apart. Plus, the question isn't funny anyway.

So tell me, please, is there something about this spot that I am missing which makes it the "Top Spot of the Week" ?

No, I didn't think so.

For the love of God, if you're going to steal someone's creative, at least don't fuck it up.

Updated: Creepier than creepy

Updating this post to showcase a longer version of this spot, which is even more unsettling than the one I originally posted:

This is the creepiest commercial I have seen in a long time, which is appropriate, because it's about the creepiest subject I can imagine.



I first viewed this on the company reel of Absolute Post. On DVD the detail is incredible and this posting comes nowhere near doing it justice.... the texture of the skin, the veins, the hair, even a mole or two... this disgusting cock/snake/tentacle looks absolutely real.

It's only missing a glans and a urethra, and that probably only because even in Germany the line about what is suitable for broadcast must be drawn somewhere.

Somehow that makes it even more loathsome. The way this blind meat snake appears to almost sniff its way forward. It has no eyes yet you know it sees without seeing. It has an intelligence.

It is completely and utterly malevolent and evil.

Scent of a Hobo (or Minnie Mouse and the Astronaut)

At 4:52 this morning I sat down to watch Sunday's episode of Mad Men.

I'm not a masochist. I don't enjoy rising at 5AM.

Well that's not entirely true. I leap straight out of bed at 5AM when I'm going to catch the 6:35 American flight from JFK to LAX.

But it ain't the 6:35 to Los Angeles that gets me out of bed these days. No, I crawl out of bed between 5 and 6 every morning because that's when my daughter wakes up. And since you can't explain to a 15 month old that Daddy really needs another couple of hours of solid sack time, when she's up, I'm up.

While the rest of the house is sleeping, while there is a chill in the air because we're trying to wait as long as possible before firing the furnace up for the season, while she drinks her bottle and I make coffee, those hours between 5AM and 7AM are time we get to spend together. We spend that time talking (although I have no idea what she is saying) or playing or, like this morning, catching up on TV.

That's how I came to be watching Mad Men in the wee, small hours.

As the show opens, Don is in the kitchen talking to his kids about Halloween. Sally wants to be Minnie Mouse and Bobby wants to be an astronaut.

Sally says to Don,

"...they sell it at Woolworth's.. There's a section that says "Halloween costumes.""

To which Don replies,

"You'll wear it once. Plus, its made out of plastic and it's crap."

Thanks, Dad.

I knew exactly what Sally was talking about, and immediately I was 6 years old again.

Before you could buy a Buzz Lightyear costume on the Internet that was made of fabric and padding and actually looked like Buzz Lightyear, if you wanted to purchase a costume from a store, you'd head to Woolworth's or your local five and dime.

Do you remember these costumes from the five and dime? They came in a box made out of thin cardboard, with a cellophane covered cutout in the lid where the mask was displayed. The mask itself was a piece of molded plastic painted to look like Batman or Aquaman or Mickey Mouse... whatever. Two staples fastened a thin piece of elastic to the mask, and this slender, stretchy lifeline clasped the mask to your face. The rest of the costume was a plastic jumpsuit, that tied in the back, printed with the uniform or outfit of whoever you had decided to be.

The one size fits all-ness of the mask made it impossible to get it positioned just right, and by just right I mean with your nose in the nose part of the mask so you could breathe, and the eyeholes in front of your eyes so you could see.

In the choice between breathing and seeing, I usually chose seeing. Which meant, on a cool October night the mask would quickly become moist inside, as the vapor from my exhale built up on the inside of the cool plastic. And so, clad in a plastic bag, half blind, with a cold, wet plastic shell pressed up against my face I'd run from house to house, pillowcase grasped in a candy fueled death grip. Trick or Treat!!!

God, that was fun.

We almost never got our costumes from Woolworth's. Mostly because they were made out of plastic, and they were crap. And partly because we would only wear them once. But the real reason for our family, I think, was a money thing. It's not like we were poor. We weren't. But a Halloween costume from the store must have seemed like a frivolous expense to my parents when a perfectly good one could be made at home.

So usually, we'd end up making our Halloween costumes. Sometimes my mom would sew them.

Sew them?

Who the hell knows how to sew anymore? Not put on a button or repair a hem. Shit, I can do that. I mean really sew. Cut out a pattern and pin it to some fabric. Stitch the whole thing together on a sewing machine. Who even knows how to operate a sewing machine? Who even owns a sewing machine?

But sew them she did.

At the end of the day though, Sally Draper doesn't go trick or treating as Minnie Mouse, and Bobby Draper doesn't go as an astronaut. She's a gypsy and he's a hobo.

A hobo.

I'd often thought that a hobo and a tramp were the same thing, but apparently, hobos are drifters who work, and tramps are just drifters. Both, apparently, are higher in stature than a bum, who neither drifts nor works.

When I was a kid, a hobo was a perfectly legitimate Halloween costume. Get an old shirt and pair of pants from your dad. Stuff some newspaper into a bandanna and tie it on the end of a stick. Set a cork on fire and rub the burnt end on your face for that authentic hobo five-o-clock shadow. Simple.

You don't see many hobo costumes these days. I suppose this is because it's no longer politically correct or desirable to dress your kid up as a homeless person for Halloween.

I'm just wondering how it was ever desirable or acceptable to dress your kid up as a homeless person for Halloween.

You Can Make Movies!

Here's a charming little video about the vendor/client relationship.



I came across this gem while perusing the Denver Egotist. If you're not familiar with the Denver Egotist, you should check it out. It's a great blog about advertising in general, and the Denver ad joint specifically.

Anyway, at the end of the video it says "if you can type, you can make movies. Xtranormal.com"

I can type, so I went to Xtranormal.com to check it out. Here's a little something I rustled up first time out of the box.



It was fun to create and the site is super-easy to use. Just pick a scenario, then type in your script. If you select "MagicCam", the site will even pick the camera angles for you.

But we're not going to let the site pick our camera angles, are we?

Because deep down inside, the director in us knows that we could do a better job than the website. After all, we're artists, right? And here's our chance to make our commercial the way we want it, without account people and clients and directors who just don't get it sticking their noses in and fucking everything up.

Uh, did I say commercial? I meant to say video.

Heh. Yeah.

Video.

So, um, as I was saying, there are animations, expressions, sound effects and camera angles you can choose to make your film everything you want it to be. Just pick what you like and then drag and drop it in the script where you want it to be.

Then hit "preview" and viola! Your own little creation.

But wait a second, wouldn't it be better if you cut to a close up for that line?  Ooh, a fart sound effect. That would be funny.

Ok, hit preview again.

Just want to make that expression happen a word or two later.

Hit preview again.

Maybe a different music track.

Preview again.

What?  How could I possibly have been tweaking this thing for 3 hours already? 

Didn't I have some work to do today?

I hate you Xtranormal.

I love you Xtranormal.

Worth $1

I think there's probably a guy like this in every city in every country in the world. You know, the oddball you see strolling down the street with a snake draped around his neck?

I came across this pet lover a few weeks ago outside the Coffee Shop in Union Square.



Aaaah, the Coffee Shop, where tourists go to eat Cuban sandwiches, and models go to become waitresses.

Anyway, I snapped a couple of photos of this guy before he noticed me and hit me up for a dollar. Hey, if that's how this dude makes a living, that's cool with me. I was happy to give him the buck. At least he's providing some entertainment for it, more than the garden variety NYC panhandler. And it looked like he could use the single more than me.

For the most part though, I find the panhandlers in NY to be pretty low key. They understand the nature of the transaction. They ask you for some dough, and you either give it or you don't. The business ends there and they understand that the transaction is over.

There are some gambits that I hate, though. Like the guys who hit you up on the subway between stations. Look if I'm walking down the sidewalk and you ask me for a handout, it's easy to just keep walking if I choose to. There's a whole lot of room on the sidewalk. But the subway is different. I'm already making some sizable concessions to my personal space to begin with, locked in that tiny metal box with a couple hundred close, personal friends.

So the doors close and then, the pitch. Someone at the head of the car begins, in a loud voice, to make his case. Sometimes it's entertaining, like the guy who used to ask if anyone could spare $100. His reasoning being that he could do a lot more with $100 than $1, and why not aim high, anyway? I had some respect for that guy because he wasn't gaming anyone. He knew he was begging, I knew he was begging, there were no secrets, no made up sob stories. I used to drop him a buck or two.

After the pitch, the speaker will walk the length of the car, cup in hand. On most lines in midtown, it doesn't take very long to get from one station to the next. Usually it's under a minute. And I'm always sure that this is the time he'll time it wrong, that there's no way he'll finish talking and walk the whole car before the doors open again. Like I'll be able to escape at the next station before he makes it to me. But as always, he's timed it perfectly and reaches me before the doors have opened to vomit out the current human cargo, and swallow up the next batch of meat.

Come to think of it though, these guys would make great ad men. Consider it. They have perfected the art of the elevator speech. I know some highly paid people who could take a lesson or two from their subway brethren.

The other scheme that really irks me is the "I just need $xx.xx to get home" game.

There used to be a girl who sat outside of Grand Central station with a neatly lettered sign that read, "Please help. I need $12 for a train ticket home". The sign was very nice. She'd obviously put a lot of time into making it. Like she was going to be using it for a while.

She was there every day. Could it be taking her this long to collect the twelve dollars? If she didn't yet have the money to get home, where did she go every night? She was always neat and clean, sporting a different outfit every day.

After about a week, I felt like just giving her $12 and ripping up her sign. I mean, after she got the money she wouldn't need the sign anymore, right?

Elsewhere in the city...



I thought this little bit of street art was pretty cool. The paper on the floor says something about Twitter... I didn't get a great look at it.

This reminded me just a little bit of the Black Cherokee. If you've ever driven south on the Harlem River Drive, just before it turns into the FDR Drive, right by where the traffic slows up for the Triboro or RFK or whatever the fuck that bridge is called now, there is a triangular bit of pavement off to the right.



And here, on this little Isosceles island, maybe you've noticed something something unusual. Perhaps a shopping cart turned upside down with a watermelon perched on top. Maybe the detritus of the highway, discarded tires and mufflers and side view mirrors, collected and piled haphazardly yet carefully into a sculpture that defies logic, and sometimes gravity.

If you have noticed these unusual assemblies, you have viewed the art of Otis Houston, the man who calls himself Black Cherokee. Sometimes you will even see Otis himself, sitting or standing, motionless, a part of his own art.



Check out Otis next time you're in the neighborhood.

I don't know what half his art means.

But I know it must mean something.