Best Theme Song Ever

Has there ever been a better theme song?

No. No, I think not.

Music's The Answer

After writing in advertising for a long time now, I've learned that sometimes a track speaks better than any line of copy or slogan. If the music works, sometimes the best thing the writer can do is stay out of the way.

But it's much more fun finding tracks that solve social problems than ad problems.

So today I'm gonna drop adspeak and let a couple music tracks answer bigger issues...

Question: For years America had been boring and predictable. Then suddenly, the bottom fell out - and everyday feels like a constant freefall. How are we supposed react?

Answer: Bright Eyes "At the Bottom of Everything"


Question: It's pretty much universally understood that Bush was the smallest, most petty President in history. So what's he gonna do after he and his posse "roll out of office" and head back to Crawford?

Answer: Dead Kennedys "Rawhide"



Question: Go Bankrupt or get Bailed Out? What's the bottom line for Detroit?

Answer: Liam Lynch "This Town Sucks"





Wow these are fun. You may see more of these in the future.

Toys!

John made these toys of McCain, Barack, and Hillary and I told him I'd tell all my friends, so here - Friends!

All John's toys are really high quality, so expect that. But also, if you buy one, and take a picture of yourself with the toy, he'll post it on his blog. A little reminder of who the REAL Patriots are!

Buy em' here.

http://rfxtoys.com/

Look! They're great little Rubbers!

Rawhead Rex

There was something so great about the horror movies of the 80's. They were intentionally hokey, and that was the joke. They stuck with that joke for the entire movie. Nowadays, we have slasher movies like "Scream" that mimics every other slasher movie in history - nothing truly original. Or we have horror comedies like "Scary Movie" that makes fun of every other horror movie in history - nothing original there either.

What's wrong with an ill produced horror movie, that's obviously a joke, but the characters all play it like they're trying to win Oscars?

Although I liked "American Movie" by Chris Smith, the postmodern slant of a horror filmmaker trying to make a great movie but it turning out crappy is funny, but untrue. Those guys who made the 80's horror movies weren't so disillusioned that they thought they were making something great... they were in on the joke.

Take Rawhead Rex.



If you think the people behind this thought they were making anything other than a comedy, you're crazy. It's a sendup, and an original one at that. Even the name "Rawhead Rex" is so much better that "Scream". How boring.

Don't believe me? Look at the trailer. You'll laugh harder than you did at any point in "Scary Movie"

Labatt 50 In Your Underpants

We all went to John K's house a few weeks back for a George Liquor production kickoff party. I would have posted this earlier but in my drunken stupor I left my camera at his house and I had a...um "difficult" time getting it back.


Anyway, the story behind this pic is this. John thinks Labatt 50 is the only real "manly" beer out there. Real Canadians get hammered on the stuff daily. But John's problem is he can't find it anywhere in LA. So he realizes, guess who's flying in for a production meeting from Detroit, the city so friendly with Canada we share not just bridge, but a tunnel? Yep, yours truly.

So I run around on a wild goosechase trying to find the crap, ultimately locate a case...of bottles! Hmm, a case of glass, checked onto a plane sounds like a bad idea for umpteen reasons. So I call John and ask him what he thinks.

ME: I could only find bottles man, let's just drink somethin' else, PBR or somthin'.

JOHN: No! I pack 50 all the time! Just wrap the bottles in socks and shirts and stuff. It'll be fine!"

O-Kay!?

So I'm checking in, and guess what? My suitcase is 80 pounds! Because of the beer, and the extra crap surrounding it.

I strip 10 pounds out of it, get it to 70 pounds. That's still overweight, but they allow it, for a 50 dollar fee...

So I board. From the plane I see some 80 year old luggage handler struggle to get my case on the plane. He can't! Suddenly an ex-NFL lineman appears out of a delivery truck hoists it up onto the conveyor belt. Whew!

We land. I wait at the luggage pickup really expecting to see my bag dripping wet and stinking like Canadian swill.

It drops down, perfect! No problems...

Until I get to the hotel.

I unpack and as I peel layers of clothes away from the case, things are getting damper and stinkier. And what's this... glass! Yay!

$75 for a case of beer. 2 broken bottles. Stank clothes.

Drinking Labatt 50 doesn't make you more manly. The shards of glass that make their way into your underwear after traveling with it, does.

S.I. Shoot

Some of my dirty pervert friends have asked me for pictures from the S.I. shoot I did a while back.

Well, here ya' go, dirtbags!














Oh, who am I kidding. I just wanted brag about being surrounded by hotties!

Road Kill

Here's an excerpt from the book I'm working on.

Slowly but surely...

“C’mere Bitch!”. He pours a few cups a dry kibble into a bowl and a spasmodic mutt jumps to attention. Her original name was Harlequin, but in hindsight seemed too pompous for such a dirt digging creature, so now he just calls her Bitch - with the utmost endearment. Sam has a thing for animals.

Shower. Work uniform. Coffee. Ignition. The Dodge chokes to life under the still starry skies. Bitch jumps into the flatbed. Secadas are firing like muted bottlerockets and Sam already swabs the sweat from his brow. Feels like it’s going to be a muggy one today.

Sam drives slow through the trailer park careful not to hit anything. Lawn chairs, garden gnomes, bikes without kickstands, hosemobiles, old ladies who can’t sleep. He loves this place. He’s not afraid to admit he grew up here and doesn’t want to, no refuses, to leave. He has so many good memories. Swinging on a tire swing with Nayla Peterson over there. Kissing Nayla Peterson over there. Getting married to Nayla Peterson over there. Getting hit by a can of corn thrown by Nayla Perterson over there. Getting the papers for a divorce from Nayla Peterson over there. Oh, well. Not all good memories, but memories nonetheless.

The gravel crunches under the trucks tires as it stops in front of a municipal building. Sam gets out and walks in while Bitch stays in the flatbed, watching him with one ear up.

Inside the building the flourescent lights cast no shadows. Sam couldn’t hide if he wanted to. He walks up to a utility closet and grabs a bunch of burlap bags. He shuts the door and Earl, an older black man with a pock marks on his face suddenly appears.

“Hey Sam. Ya hear from Bean lately?”

“Yeah, I did got her credit card bill yesterday. A $350 charge from somewhere in Spain is her little way of letting me know she’s alive.” Sam folds the bags under his arm.

“College is a selfish time for kids. She’ll come back. Both my girls did.” Earl smiles a smile that seems friendlier than others. Maybe its because he doesn’t have canine teeth.

“Sure - she has so much to come back to…” Sam turns and walks away. A trail of dirt falls from his workboots onto the ceramic floor.

Sometimes all Sam needs to recalibrate is the cosmic din of driving fast with the windows rolled down. For some reason that seems to set him straight. It clears away how things could be with his daughter Bean, how things could have been with his ex-wife, Nayla, and how things are – no fences, no order, everything just getting run over by powers beyond his control. It’s like fate needs to happen for the better. It’s been happening for the worse for too long now.

But wind, blowing wind clears that up. At least temporarily.

When blood seeps into fur, cools in the night air, then heats up in the morning sun, it forms a consistency almost as sticky as the hot tar road it needs to be scraped off of. For this – scraping road kill off of the highway - Sam has found that a regular garden hoe works best. But that’s only if the asphalt it’s caked onto isn’t too jagged. Sometimes you just have to start one end and, put on the old rubber work glove and peel it off. Hopefully it all comes up clean. No eyeballs or entrails left behind to monkey with.

This first one today is a cat. A clean hit, just blood from the eyes and mouth. Pretty easy. Peel it up. Toss it in the burlap sack, and into the flatbed. Bitch sniffs the bag with her ears back, hoping she doesn’t meet the same demise. You never know around here. This is the only county Sam’s ever heard of with so much road kill they actually had to hire someone to dispose of it.

The county prison won’t do it anymore after a child molester turned into road kill himself, falling backward and getting taken out by a semi after heave-hoeing a deer onto a truck. Now, you need to follow the strict protocol in the city charter of “Animal Cadaver Management” when disposing of a dead animal.

Chapter 13, section 2 clearly states, ”As of July 1st the city shall always have at its employ at least one Animal Cadaver Manager to properly acquire, ship and dispose of any deceased animal on or around the tri-city road system. When any animal over 6 ounces has been properly placed in a county issue burlap sack, it must then be transported to Messotia incinerator for prompt disposal. The following animals must be picked-up and disposed of: Dogs, cats, skunks, raccoons, opossums, ground hogs, rabbits (over 6 ounces), squirrels, beavers, otters, large turtles, large snakes and deer. Frogs, no matter what the size, may be left for nature to take its course”

Section 2.2 then states. “As of September 1st any escaped animals from Messotia Zoo shall not be under the jurisdiction of the Animal Cadaver Manager. Please contact Zoo officials during such an occurance.”

Now, Sam has a thing for animals. Sure he’s happy to have a job that pays the bills and has meager benefits. Sure Messotia may be the only place in the world this job exists. And sure, god turned his back on this place letting these animals emerge from their holes, muck, nests and caves, only to be smacked into oblivion.

So isn’t it curious they don’t build a fence?

Sam would help built it. Hell, he’d kill his own job, just to save a few of these poor little bastards. He’s seen enough maggot riddled brains, heads-over-here-legs-over-there explosions, and gut skidmarks to stop thinking about his own well being and help. For all he knows he’s gonna come back as one of these pea brained fur balls and he’s gone get plastered.

Oh, well. He’s brought it up the city counsel time after time. And they shoot it down again and again. Too much money. Too much planning. Too little manpower. So Sam scrapes. A cat now. Something else next. It never stops.

Ad Rage

I was going through some old junk and unearthed this little puppy.

It was an internal vid I made for a Leo Burnett office party.

It combines Advertising and Grand Theft Auto...a few of my favorite things!