Breadlosers

Every family thinks they need a breadwinner, someone, who not unrelatedly must bring home the bacon. In our age of widespread gluten-intolerance, this is now an outdated mode of thinking. What our domestic lives need are no longer breadwinner, but breadlosers.

People who come home after a long day at the office, open the fridge and recreate a giant bowl of veggies with the occasional dropping of quinoa. An homage to the fast casual chain focused on all things green. When family time inevitably comes and a discussion of one’s day must by law commence, the last thing needed is a giant piece of sourdough staring back at them.

It was common for our parents, who despite their uncritical bread worship, warned us time and again about filling up on dinner rolls before a fancy meal. Whenever a restaurant gives food away, it should give every diner pause. They are essentially tossing out their trash on the table for the mindless to lap up. 

Wild religious expectations have confused people for generations. Daily bread without any discussion of feeling a bit bloated afterwards? I understand that deities tend to have certain digestive advantages, but come on, we’re only human. God might be wise to offer a salad every once in a while. Otherwise, you can't punish us for loafing around. 

(Stop) talking ‘bout your generation

 

The thing about generational cohort is that they are artificially created by bar graph enthusiasts and pencil chewing professors. It’s a way to divide people. There’s nothing inherently interesting about you because you’re boring during a certain date range. I don’t know anything important about you. It’s a modern-day form of astrology, only less scientific. 

 

Generations aren’t earned. You shouldn’t even ridicule someone for the generation they are allegedly a part of. It’s akin to making fun of someone because of the state they’re from. That’s a no-no, unless it’s Florida. 

 

It’s not a part of your identity. Labels should be grounded in evidence, as opposed to the roulette wheel that is the rotating cosmos. Your personality shouldn’t be dictated by the calendar. You’re not a baby boomer, you’re an aging hippie. You’re not a millennial, you’re a juice cleanse workout obsessive. You’re not a Gen-Zer, you’re a moron. These are labels I or anyone else can support. 

Neverheard in New York

The trouble with eavesdropping is that we’re not living in an Aaron Sorkin show where witty banter is as prevalent as the air we breathe. That’s just not how it works in the real world. Our job is to get to the deeper, cleverer truths within the mundane asides of average schmoes. Here’s how it works. You hear something like what’s below. 

I’d go on a date with anyone at this point. 

Uh huh.

 

This is a typical conversation between two friends. Happens every day on the subway. This is when we go to work making magic from nothing. 

I’d go on a date with anyone at this point. Except a Nazi.

Uh huh. What?

I’d date basically anyone but a Nazi.

Your last boyfriend was a literal Nazi.

Much Like France, I’ve learned my lesson.  

 

So this is great. A perfect, realistic conversation. But what if it took place in LA instead of New York? 

 

I’d go on a date with anyone at this point. Except a drug trafficker.

Uh huh. What?

I’d date basically anyone but a cocaine kingpin. 

Your last boyfriend is serving a life sentence. 

It was fun while it lasted. And I’m a much better actor because of it. 

 

For Chicago, just add a few passing references to pizza and you should be good to go. And for Florida, change any words to grunts. 

Traffic jamming

 

I’ll admit that when I first read about environmental activists tossing paint on precious Van Goghs, I didn’t get it. Were they commenting on the artistry? Or was it more technical than that. An attack on some obstinate museum curators’ refusal to use picture frames with protective glass? I failed to see their angle. Then again, some didn’t understand Jackson Pollock when he splattered onto the scene. I still don’t get it. However, after seeing the traffic these rebels caused out to Burning Man a couple weeks ago, I think I know what they’re after. 

There is lot to disagree with Burning Man. For one thing, why isn’t it Burning Person? For one person, why isn’t it Burning Thing? The endless serpentine line of cars headed out to the desert gave me a fuller sense of the point. You see, traffic is a multi-sensory experience, far more intense than your average psychedelic. I’ve seen God more than a few times while stuck on the BQE. Much like the stylings of Jerry Garcia, it’s called a traffic “jam” for a reason. The standstill should give everyone ample time to learn the best licks for a 10-hour version of Brown-eyed women. For those one their way out of town, the traffic has only gotten worse. Or, if you’re paying attention, gotten better. 

Space cowboys should realize that you don’t need to take something special to achieve insight, meaning, or clarity. Sometimes, all you need is to take a wrong turn.  

Mug shoot

One of the few perks of getting arrested is being photographed. Or it should be. Unfortunately, many of the creative people working within the criminal justice system exist on the fringes of the artistic community. It’s why the work of courtroom sketch artists is rarely seen anywhere else. No in the New Yorker and not in the pages of a middling college quarterly.

But sketches are an accepted medium. Mugshots, with their awful lighting and bland background, have little to no artistic value. Why isn’t there a movement to welcome professional photographers into the pre-trial fold?

Most things have gotten better over the years. Food, medical care, transportation. But when you look at mugshots from a century ago they have a certain indescribable charm. Perhaps it's the black and white, or maybe it was the fact the person behind the camera had respect for the subject and their craft. Whichever it was, it shows. At some point in the 90s, the mass production and the ballooning of prisons led to boring conformity. You could see it in the faces. They began to blend together. The individual appeal was lost. Frankly, the same thing has happened at the movies. Here though, we have no superheroes to save us. 

The arrested ought to look their best before their day in court. Innocent until proven guilty pales in comparison to ugly until proven attractive. This can only happen with the keen eye and expensive equipment of the pros. How about makeup or more wardrobe options? The price is film is irrelevant when digital cameras have made shooting more significantly easier. 

In the age of social media, it’s much harder to take a mediocre photograph than a decent one. That’s why mugshots are such a remarkable achievement. They have stood still as technology marches forward, adding more and more pixels each year. Not in front of the gray walls. Depth of field was something Renaissance painters latched onto hundreds of years ago. Yet some still haven’t learned their lesson. 

This isn’t about guilt or innocence. It’s about giving the public something of aesthetic value. We deserve mugshots that could hang in a museum one day, not a bathroom wall. Remember, we brought a Hasselblad to the moon.

Grass Warfare

It’s understandable that people believe I, as a city dweller, have little to no appreciation for grass. Too bad it isn’t true. I’ll admit that my relationship with grass is a complicated one. Complicated by the fact that I don’t see much of it anymore. However, I remember. Boy do I remember. 

I am not someone who approves of all types of grass. What I like is freshly cut grass. The humbling act of mowing does a whole lot of good for yards and homeowners everywhere. I don’t want it too short. Golf courses should not be emulated by the general population. I happen to give the Saudis a break when it came to their foray into the stupid little game with tiny balls. Why would I do such a thing? Because they don’t have much grass where they come from. Sand doesn’t stir up the same emotions as a verdant expanse of rolling green.  

Here's where things get tricky. Some heat-addled brains may have forgotten the havoc wrought by snow each year, but I haven’t. I like snow. I like the way it looks. I like the way it falls. I like almost everything about it, including its ability to disrupt entire communities at the drop of a flake. What I don’t like is when it melts across suburban yards and muddy blades of grass begin to peek through. 

Like many Americans, I prefer strict binaries only. Coffee or tea. Baseball or soccer. And yes, grass or snow. I can't hold both thoughts, these dueling emotions together. There's a time for grass and a time for snow, much like food courses or seasons. When they mix, we're lost. You don't add ice cream to a burger and think everything is will be fine. 

Toro Toro Toro

 

Sir Alistair Ogilvy Goodby Crispin Bernbach Kennedy IV doesn’t write anymore. That’s something he did plenty of in his former life. For now, he watches people. He insisted I call him “Al” or simply, “The Creative Director.” Despite his obvious lack of output, he has an entire floor in his villa devoted to not working. That intrigued me. The heavy door was propped open by old Art Director’s Club annuals. 

 

I wanted to know what he thought of advertising. Why he left and what he hoped to accomplish with this interview. Though he hasn’t been inside an agency in decades he still dressed like he went into work with everyone else. Black blazer. Graphic t-shirt. Expensive sneakers. Quirky frames. Trucker hat. The uniform of a certain creative mind at the dawn of the Internet. 

 

He lives in an ordinary European town, far away from the nearest city and any reminder of the world he once occupied. Or, in his words, ruled. His bedroom his faces west. He spent too many years rising with the sun that he insists on lounging in bed until noon. At his peak he worked on some of the biggest brands. Toilet paper, candy, soda, beer, feminine hygiene products. You name it, he’s probably written a pithy, inane headline about it. 

 

I met the Creative Director alone, arriving shortly after 1 PM. I wheeled in a case of champagne and thinly sliced ham, as he requested when he first spoke. 

 

MTP: How is your day shaping up?

 

TCD: I’ve been awake for nearly an hour. So it’s mostly downhill from here.

 

MTP: Do you feel this way every day?

 

TCD: Pretty much. 

 

MTP: Is that different than when you were running your own agency?

 

TCD: In a sense, yes. But I haven’t changed. When I got here, I could only speak in slogans and taglines. It took a year of silence to be able to form a complete sentence. I still remember the moment I knew I had to leave advertising.  

 

MTP: Oh yeah? Could you tell me that story.

 

TCD: It was right after Cannes. We’d won a boatload of awards. I don’t mean that figuratively. We had to use a boat to bring back all the hardware. No airline would accommodate that much weight. I knew I would have to move offices to fit them. And this was right at the beginning of the open plan craze. Where was I supposed to put them? In the bathroom? On the floor of the lobby? It felt like the right time to exit stage left.  

 

MTP: Incredible. Have you ever thought about making a comeback? 

 

TCD: I’d consider working in advertising again if it was on a planet with a different gravitational field. While those trophies were weighing me down, their mass never bothered me. 

 

MTP: I hope for our sake, that happens. Pluto sure could’ve used someone like you when it got knocked down a peg.

 

TCD: No kidding.

 

MTP: I want to dig into how you pass the time. 

 

TCD: I am the same person. I just don’t attend meetings, do timesheets, or get a salary. But I do go down to a little café around the corner and cut it up with the locals. 

 

MTP: Go on. 

 

TCD: The government is cracking down on it for the first time in years. Though it makes up a substantial portion of national identity. Everyone does it. From corporate executives to cab drivers. It’s called “bullshighting.” I was a natural, of course. The people of this village have been doing it right here for centuries. I sometimes even learn from them, watching as regular folks pontificate on subjects they have no knowledge of. It's the sort of performance that purely for the love of the competition. No accolades besides a firm backslap and a round of drinks. I was lucky getting to make a career out of the same skills.

 

MTP: What’s it like exactly?

 

TCD: Basically, you say whatever is on your mind at the time. You argue a point to its absurd conclusion. It’s not fair for someone of my stature to duel with rank amateurs. I do it nonetheless because I can’t help it. Plus, I don’t know if “bullshighting” as an institution will be around in five, ten, fifteen years. 

 

MTP: That must disturb you, the prospect of it going away. 

 

TCD: Not really. Every great account you lose eventually. Every great job you wear out your welcome. It’s the natural cycle of things. It’ll always exist in the hearts and minds of average people. Of which, I am hardly one, but who have adopted me as a quasi-leader.

 

MTP: Last question. Why do you still dress like this?

 

TCD: Two reasons. If some kid sees me on the street, I want him to know that this is what a creative director is supposed to look like. Secondly, I thought there was going to be a photoshoot in tandem with this interview.