Tag: advertising

COMMERCIALS ARE THREATENING OUR LIVES!!!

OUR WORLD:

When did television decide that 98.91% of all commercials should serve to scare the ever-loving shit out of the viewers?  I was watching the boob tube (cool guy term for “television”) with my Dad last night and a commercial came on featuring a home video of a guy singing karaoke.  Immediately, I knew this guy died.  How did I know that? (Because…YOU KILLED HIM AND HAVE BEEN CARRYING A HEAVY CONSCIENCE EVER SINCE BUT IT’S TOO LATE TO CONFESS NOW, SO YOU’VE DECIDED YOU WILL BE BURIED WITH THIS SECRET!!!) No, I knew this guy died because the stakes in so many commercials have been raised so high that if you don’t do the thing that said-company wants you to do, then the penalty is death.

Yes, they’re normally for good causes.  It’s not like “Hey, if you don’t use these Clorox Anti-Bacterial wipes, we’re going to have you put on our secret serial killer’s ‘who’s next?’ list.”  It’s ads like this one where Joe BlueCollar is singing karaoke until the screen goes black and we read that “This is Joe B.”—more singing, then black again, “And he was struck by a car and killed in a work zone.”  I think it was like the Illinois Department of Transportation trying to get people to drive more cautiously around work zones.  Listen, I, too, am against innocent road construction guys getting murdered by cars but…does that mean I was pro-car-murder before seeing this ad?  And that’s not even the point, I know, because it raises awareness subconsciously and blah blah blah.  I KNOW!  But, I’m trying to make a joke about how fat I’ve gotten to my Dad, in between innings of a Cubs game, and now I feel like a dick for using this poor guy’s eulogy as the soundtrack to my “boy, is my tummy big”-bit.

Now, if this were some rogue “let’s make the viewers think about death in a jarringly real manner”-ad, then maybe I’d have more tolerance.  But no, it was followed by a commercial starring a smoker in a hospital bed, with a hole in her neck talking about how she regrets ever starting smoking.  After that, while praying for some lightness with one of those fucking “can you hear me now?” spots, you’re uppercut with a ‘Cancer Centers for America’ commercial telling you that they’re “here for you” when that stupid fucking disease knocks on your door.  WHAT THE FUCK EVER HAPPENED TO THE BOWLING CAVEMEN TALKING ABOUT INSURANCE?!?!

Again, these are all great causes; that is impossible to dispute.  But, are we not allowed to just…I don’t know, escape the real world for a couple hours at the end of the day?  It’s not like I was tuned in to the “Get Ready To Be Freaked-The-Fuck-Out About Everything In The World”-channel (GRTBFTFOAEITW isn’t quite as catchy as NBC).  Can there be an option put into our televisions that allow us to opt-out of these incredibly heavy commercials that make us think about the very things we’re trying to forget for a few hours before we go to sleep?  (Hey Zenith, want to become a relevant television company again?  INVENT THIS!)

You know where I don’t see all of these “careful, an invisible murderer with a big, sharp knife is under your bed”-commercials?  Instagram.  Facebook.  Twitter.  Maybe that’s why we all find ourselves staring at those screens instead of our televisions?  Sure, it’s easy to make fun of Big Brother and those personalized ads, but wouldn’t you prefer seeing an ad for a watch you were talking about 6 seconds prior to seeing an ad reminding you that jumping off a tall building without a parachute usually results in death?  Tapping into my phone’s microphone > Tapping into my worst fears.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving for the six-bajillionth time in a couple weeks and I’m already regretting it.  A few months back, it rained really hard in Chicago and the window frame in our living room started leaking like crazy.  Brown water came through and ruined some shit we really don’t care about, but, when it happened, we both acted like that water landed on our life savings and then burst into flames.  We sent picture texts to each other of stained curtains and lamp shades and side tables like “HOW WILL WE EVER PROCEED WITHOUT OUR BLUE CURTAINS?!?!”  It was all dramatic and we probably got wrapped up in the moment because it’s really exciting when you’re presented with a legitimate opportunity to get mad at someone other than yourself.

So I got really mad at our buildings management company.  I demanded being reimbursed for damages and when they pushed back in the slightest, I lost my brain and threatened legal action.  (The only thing I know about legal action is that you “threaten” it when you’re really, really pissed off and don’t know what else you can say to back up your argument.)  At the time, I’m sure our 39 year old building manager read my e-mails like “do they think I ordered God to send the worst rainstorm in Chicago history?  They’re aware they rent a dumpy apartment in a mediocre neighborhood, right?”

The VP and I continued along with our misdirected-anger rampage until we reached the very measured, logical conclusion that the best way to exact revenge on our management company was to move out at the end of our lease in July.  (Good luck finding tenants who never clean the inside of the oven and have a dog that tries to bite neighbors!!!  THAT’LL SHOW EM!)  Our management company probably held a company-wide champagne toast when we notified them we were bailing.  While mid-level employees that we’ve never met were getting champagne-drunk on some random Tuesday, The VP and I were busy patting ourselves on the back for standing on principle and volunteering to do one of the most stressful things someone can do: move.

Since we made this principled decision, in between shaking hands at the rallies held in honor of our courageous stance, we’ve found other “back up” reasons for why we had to move.  These included things like: needing to be walking distance to a Dunkin Donuts; needing to have an office that allows us to escape each other under the guise of having to “work”; and, cuz.  A comprehensive list it was, tough to argue with the logic there.

So I picked out all of the other neighborhoods we’d prefer living in, looked at Zillow and Craigslist on my phone until my eyes stung, and….quickly realized that we couldn’t afford to live in any of those other neighborhoods.  (Um….management company? ‘Member all that stuff I was threatening?  That was just like a goofy laugh-joke.  Hahahahahahahahaha help me I’m in too deep now.)  It was too late, so I checked out an apartment about 6 blocks from our current place, walked through it one time without paying all that much attention and said “clean wall! shiny floor! sign lease!”  (Master Negotiator Jimmy up to his old tricks!)

Two nights ago, we got the keys to our new place and walked through it with our still-not-calm dog.  It’s a fine apartment, that’s bigger than our current spot, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t go home after, think about the reality of moving, look into the mirror and dramatically whisper “what have we done?”  Since maybe sharing my anxiety will help me cope with it, here is what I’m MOST not looking forward to with regards to this move:

  • Talking to Comcast for no less than 9 hours and, somehow, ending up with a cable/internet package that costs exactly the same as the one we have now.
  • Doing the whole “I know I’m never going to wear this again, but I’m still going to pack it because this moving box is closer than my garbage”-thing.
  • The VP sending me an endless stream of texts about new couches that she wants to get and then ignoring my texts asking her “have you Venmo’d me your share of next month’s rent, yet?”
  • Having Belle snap at our new downstairs neighbors and me trying to laugh it off while saying “she’s such a fake tough-guy!”
  • Trying to assuage the guilt I’ll feel watching movers by offering them Gatorade…then realizing that the Gatorade I just bought for them was off the shelf, and not from a cooler, so I’m handing them room temperature Gatorade and they’re pretending to be grateful.

I can’t wait.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Still, the “Most Annoying Commercial of All-Time” GOAT

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My all-time favorite commercial

WAIT, SO YOU DO STILL GAMBLE, RIGHT?

Yes, and I need to pick out my British Open winners soon SO LAY OFF!

K, bye.

 

 

Mondays and Oscar Recap

MY WORLD:

I think companies should have “Monday rooms” in their offices.  They should with big bean bag chairs and mirrors so you could go in, dramatically drop to your knees, curl up and watch yourself gently cry as old Carole King songs played softly over the speakers.  Mondays really are for the birds and, guys, I am no bird.  I’m a man!  A HUMAN MAN! (If my brothers are who I think they are, they better text me a socially unacceptable joke about me being a man.  Clock’s ticking, fellas.  Also, if they don’t text me, I will convince myself that they don’t read my blog, hold it against them and probably tell my mom that it bums me out that they can’t find the time in their day to support a brother-me-WHO HAS BEEN NOTHING IF NOT SUPPORTIVE OF THEM SINCE THEY WERE BUT A TWINKLE IN MY PARENT’S EYES!!!)

At least I’m not starting a new job today, though.  Aside from a Hangover-Monday, Starting-A-New-Job-Monday is mos def the worst version of this wretched wretched day.  I don’t have an absolute nightmare story of a Starting-A-New-Job-Monday (thought about making one up but I respect the 18 readers of this more than that) but I’m going to do my best to remember as much as I can about the first Mon-Fri job that I had.  I’m hoping that remembering this day will put today’s Monday in perspective so that I won’t be a pouty baby at my desk and say things like “I said I’m fine!” later.

I was 28 years old when I started my first 9-5, Monday through Friday job.  (See?  You’re better than me!) Now, chill out.  I’d had jobs since I was like 13, but they were all restaurant jobs that didn’t make a day of the week feel like a 9-5 Monday.  Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of I-hate-my-life moments when working in restaurants, but there isn’t a whole day where the entire staff returns after getting 3,2,1 BLASTOFF DRUNK for the past 60 hours.

So I was 28 years old.  Restaurant jobs, grad school (cue the crippling debt tremors) and a general fear of well dressed people in tall buildings kept me away from the 9-5 path up until then.  I had been dating the VP of Ops (known then simply as “Hot Fire Sexy Baby”)  for about 4 months and was beginning to feel…feelings…oh boy oh boy oh boy!  (Hey Erin,  that was cute, right? Pay rent today. K, Thx)   The sting of having dissimilar hours as HFSB along with the paralyzing insecurities associated with being a grown man whose work uniform consisted of a t-shirt reading “Fresh Pasta & Seafood” had pushed me TOO FAR!  It was mostly the insecurities.

I thought I should work in advertising because I live in Chicago, had a lot of good friends who worked in advertising, and I had seen commercials before.  That, my friends, is what you call a Natural Fit!  My good girl friend, nicknamed “Trone”, had become kind of a big-wig at one of these agencies, and posted something on Facebook about how her agency was looking for people for some entry-level position.  In my basically empty head, working at an ad agency probably consisted of me getting to write commercials for major companies who were too busy doing those secret hand-signal things on Wall Street.  Business stuff.  So I e-mailed Trone and probably made her cry with my well-worded, deeply personal plea for help.

She set me up with an interview, and I went shopping.  I had to buy cool, business pants because the loose, pleated khaki look that I had been NAILING on Easter Sundays for years just felt a bit pedantic (callback joke.  Comedy term.  Comedy mind.)  So I went to The Gap.  I think that’s supposed to be embarrassing, but once a Gap kid, always a Gap kid.  So shut up.  I nailed that fucking interview in those cool pants and proved, once and for all, that lying about being excited to work for a company you’d never heard of before getting an interview with them, WORKS!

I was hired to be a “Search Analyst” for an advertising company that I’ll call “Buttlicker Digital”.  (Good luck getting that burn to heal properly!)  I started in 3 weeks…on a Monday.  Would have been cool if I started on a Friday at 3:45PM, but GAH FUHBID A COMPANY DOES SOMETHING THAT CREATIVE!

The 3 weeks leading up to this career change were V scary for me.  I quit my restaurant job in a professional way because I was about to be professional and that’s what professionals do.  I went to the J.Crew outlet mall with my parents so my mom could help me pick out cool clothes like any mother would with their 6 year old.  I paid for these clothes by opening a J.Crew credit card because that I figured I’d have to be in J.Crew a lot going forward to keep up on hot trends.  (Instead, I paid off that initial $350 spend like 3 years later after making minimum payments until I got a bonus big enough to cover the remaining like $307.  I make money, guys).  Clothes bought, restaurant job quit, hair cut.  All that was left was this fuggin’ Starting-A-New-Job-Monday.

I drank more than I had planned in the weekend leading up to this SANJM because I was supes nervy and drinking’s fun!  Thankfully, my constant state of worry, kept me up most of the night, so getting up was not an issue.  I was thinner than I am now (we’re all doing our best here) so I looked pretty sah-weeeet in my new clothes.  Before I left, The VP wished me luck and was encouraging and comforting and…DEAR GOD, JUST GO FOR ME ERIN!!! YOU DO IT!!!

I took an Uber because I was paranoid if I took the train I would immediately black out and somehow end up at a Cracker Barrel in Southern Arkansas.  (I’m also the guy who has to get to the airport like 9 hours early just to be sure we have enough time to get through security.  This is not the VP of Ops’ favorite quality of mine.)  I got to Buttlicker Digital plenty early and took the elevator up to my floor.  Real talk, I went to the building the day before and mapped out where I was going to go so I wasn’t having a panic attack searching for an elevator on THE Monday.

I was starting with like 8 other people that day, so we gathered in the lobby together and said stuff like “I’m excited” and “I hear good things about this place”.  We met our new boss, an absolute self-centered douche who enjoyed flirting with me and wearing suit jackets that were 2 sizes too small.  But, I didn’t know that yet as he led us to our “pod”.

I was put in basically a large cubicle with 3 other nubes.  I had my own desk, nameplate, laptop and…wait for it…CHAIR!  I was given a schedule of “webinars” to take for the next 3 hours, until we would meet for lunch.  I remember ABSOLUTELY ZERO of the skills these webinars were supposed to have taught me.  I put my headphones in, went to the websites and thought about whether there was a military job looking for a scared 28 year old who DID NOT want to see combat, but did want to tell people, years later, that he was a “military man”.  Webinars are cool though.

After kinda doing what I was supposed to for 2 hours and 38 minutes (subtracting 22 minutes for at least 4 trips to the bathroom where I’d sit in a stall, take deep breaths, go through Twitter, and text the VP so she could remind me how brave I am.  I’m so brave.) AND THEN IT WAS LUNCH TIME.  Douchey flirty boss was taking us to PF Changs because midday diarrhea is even more fun when it’s the first day at a new job!  Bossman ordered like 19 apps for the table to show us that he was important enough at the company to waste their money.  V chill move.  I ate practically nothing.  I think I had a lettuce wrap with some chicken because brave boys like myself do need protein for their brave boy big muscles.

After we finished, Bossman let out a lot of deep sighs and eye-rolls as he typed on his phone.  This, kiddos, is a passive aggressive way for insecure people to remind you that they work hard and are constantly insulted because they are smarter than everyone who has ever sent them an e-mail.  I don’t like people like this (even though I’m sure I’ve pulled a move like this to impress people younger than me but…ME! ME, DAMNIT! ME!)

The day continued with my 36 other bosses calling us in to big empty conference rooms for meetings that didn’t really have to happen.  They’d talk about goals and synergy and Excel and, surprisingly, not why the Bears couldn’t find a franchise quarterback in the 30 years since their only Super Bowl.  I went to the bathroom so many times that I’m sure my co-workers thought I had IBS or a coke problem (IBS.  Come on, Jimmy, you’re not cool enough to pull off the “coke problem?”-look).  

5 O’Clock came and we all had to play the game where everyone knows it’s 5, but doesn’t want to be the first to leave so you pretend to type e-mails while praying to the Lord Our Savior that you hear someone drop a “see you guys tomorrow!”  Months later, I had learned to leave my jacket and bag in an empty conference room so that I could walk away from my desk at 5 (ON THE DOT!) and my co-workers wouldn’t know I was leaving for the day.  By the time I got to leave on the first day, I knew I was going to get many promotions during my sure-to-be-long-and-impactful stay at Buttlicker Digital.  Jk lol guys, I hung on by my fingernails and ended up quitting in a very cowardly way.

Really, in hindsight, it was a completely normal, not-that-bad day.  (Whoops).  BUT!  It was a worse Monday than I am going to experience today, and I ate a bunch of bread and pimento cheese yesterday so there. will. be. stomach. issues.  Which reminds me that a close third to Starting-A-New-Job and Hangover-Monday’s is the, all too familiar, I-Ate-Like-Absolute-Shit-All-Weekend-Monday.  Tell the people my story.

 

OUR WORLD:

The VP of Ops and I were driving back from Nashville all day yesterday, so we only got to see the final hour of the Oscars.  “The Shape of Water” winning for Best Picture is something I want to get angrier about, but we’re in the honesty business on this blog and, honestly, I’m not mad, just disappointed.

If you haven’t seen it yet, don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin it for you.  “The Shape of Water” had Michael Shannon and his big chin doing big chin things and a secretly V sexual mute woman who develops feelings for a fish that, no lie, was a pretty hot fish.  I’m guessing hot fish guy goes to an underwater gym for at least an hour 6 days a week.  You’re not just born with pecs like that.

This movie wasn’t one where I was excited to text my dad abut after, or one that I brag about seeing to people who doesn’t see movies as often as I do.  That’s the “Best Picture” test.  Are you excited to text your dad about it?  Are you telling your co-workers that they’re basically uncultured neanderthals for not having seen it yet?  (The only reason I’ll ever go to a museum is just to then have the ability to tell people that I went to a museum.  That’s a fun thing to say, but you have to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal.  Like, “yeah, I went to The Art Institute because it was a Saturday and that’s a thing we do on Saturdays.”)  

In the final hour of the show, the Frances McDormand speech is what stands out to me cuz she had a hairdo that I had never seen before and said a thing I had never heard before “inclusion rider”.  I’ve come to learn (shoutout google.com) that an “inclusion rider” basically says moviemakers can’t be racist/sexist dickheads when staffing their movies.  This sounds reasonable.  Her hairdo, along with Christopher Walken’s high-waisted pants were off-putting though, right?  I can say that, right?  (Why are my female co-workers glaring at me?  Is that a knife?  Seriously Keli, why do you have a knife?)

Real talk, my favorite part of the final hour was that you could feel how uncomfortable white, American males in the audience were.  That’s fair.  The rest of the audience has had to have that feeling on movie sets, in conference rooms, at award shows, and everywhere else for the past very long time because those white dudes and their dads were too busy being cocky to realize that the rest of the room felt lesser than.  Fuck having to feel like that.  I’m a white dude, but I’m poor so I don’t get lumped in with the bad ones, right? (Being not-rich but not-actually-poor is the best!)

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Omarosa

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

I made a $50 deposit on Saturday night while secretly vaping in a bathroom stall.  I then IMMEDIATELY bet on 3 NBA games that included a parlay.  I won 2 of the 3 games and lost the other and the parlay.  Overall, that means I lost $5.72, but it’s basically even which is basically a win so….I AM SO FUCKING BACK IT HURTS.  GET ON MY BACK PRETTY BABIES CUZ WE ‘BOUT TO GET DAT PAPER!!!!!

Tonight’s sure fire lock of the century is Milwaukee (+2.5) over Indiana.

(My account currently at $44.28)

K bye.