They're spoiled kids from Midtown! They can barely even play! Julian only ever sings about booze and girls! I'm so over "The" bands! They don't even have the word "wolf" in their name!
I realize admitting you like the Strokes was acceptable for only about 14 minutes six years ago, but fuck it — I think the Strokes are rad. Is This Itwas released during a really forch time in my life and hearing it make me feel good. Simple as that.
Obligatory disclaimer: I didn't upload this file. I only found the link. This ain't stealing.
Working in print for the better part of 10 years, I've had my hand in the design of countless cover, feature, and column layouts. I love editorial design. Love the creative freedom it allows. Love helping the writer tell his or her story. Love putting something pretty out in the world.
On the flip side, at none of my previous or current jobs have I enjoyed separate editorial and advertising design departments, which means I've also created gobs of ads, fliers, posters, banners, buttons, billboards, and other sales and marketing tchotch. It's not terrible, but this side of the creative department doesn't appeal to me as much as editorial design for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I'm essentially helping to persuade people to spend more money on more shit — usually shit they don't need.
But beyond my weariness and wariness of a society of consumers on overdrive or the sketchy ways advertisers take advantage of this (calculated "viral" marketing, ambiguously labeled print advertorials, et al.), advertising also bothers me simply for the fact that it costs so much to do and recoups little, beyond padding pocketbooks of already-rich corporations. 30 seconds during last year's Super Bowl cost $2.6 million (up from $1.2 in 1997 and $600,000 in '87) and it's sure to exceed that this February. Heinz is six years into a 20-year, $57 million deal to slap their name on a football stadium in Pittsburgh [What are you trying to say, Heinz? That you don't think your name is ubiquitous enough? Steeler fans need to use more ketchup? That there are no homeless shelters or women's organizations or children's services in Pittsburgh that could have used fifty million dollars?] And Michael Jackson once famously funded a $7 million music video, which is basically a marketing tool to help sell an album (or CD MP3 playlist, kids).
And what's even worse than such wasteful spending are the messages some ads present. I've got a friend who crusades against marketing campaigns that perpetuate antiquated gender roles or sexist stereotypes. One of her favorite examples: Jif Peanut Butter's slogan, "Choosy moms choose Jif." Are mothers really the only parent capable of buying groceries and preparing meals for their families? No boys allowed, sez Jif? Only in the U.S.A., it seems, as the Canadian version of the Jif website makes no such proclimation, and dads, too, are free to feed their kids peanut sweepings-flavored spread.
Then there's this TV commerical that's got me all riled:
Can you believe that?! If you're not sharing my ahj, imagine that the voiceover at the end says, "You're not a fag, so throw some diamonds at your old lady to shut her up long enough for your to watch the game. Hey, jewelry ain't cheap, but it's better than plying her with gay shit like being kind or helpful or attentive, right?" because it basically does.
It's not that I think the advertising industry is inherently evil, not on it's own, anyway. The person who wrote the Helzberg spot was probably only thinking it'd elicit a chuckle and subsequent cash register ring from the viewer, and Super Bowl ads cost what they do because Budweiser and Doritos are willing to fork over that much in order to keep their brands on the tips of the tongues of their fatass target market. So it's not advertising's fault when it gets unforch, but rather the honchos greenlighting the shit; the dustdick who thinks only women should shop for peanut butter (following an afternoon at the beauty parlor, with a pot roast in the oven, home in time to greet her breadwinning husband at the door after work with a martini and the sports section, no doubt), or the fratty meathead who insists men be macho, whether they're replacing the spark plugs in their Hemi or considering a gift for their SO.
It's not so hard: A little bit of personal and social responsibility could go a long way toward making the world we see between segments of Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader more forch. I've reconciled my own relationship with advertising — I'll risk rankling the suits in the front offices when I felt the "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" Christmas card isn't the smartest choice to mail out to the company's entire mailing list — and I feel I've struck a balance between the ads I'm helping to create, the paycheck I get from that, and the products I buy with said paycheck.
I feel good about the messages I'm sending out. Do you?
Yes, I know the archive links are fubar. No, I don't know what the deal is. Yes, I'm working to fix them. No, I don't have any idea how long that will take. Yes, it's stupid and annoying. No, I'm not going to stress over it.
Listened to this one a lot in the last week. I just love how it sounds feels. So... elliptical. And, gosh, that Will Shef sure can pen a lyric. DO check it out.
Gimel, Mothefucker! Pass Me My Ch-ch-ch-chocolate Coins.
Wow, what a fun, great, perfect weekend.
Friday kicked it off with the aforementioned suit snoop, and things went nearly exactly as I predicted (bless that Güth for her patience and forch fashion eye). The day of shopping was such a good time, despite the fact that outdoor malls in Chicago make as much sense as indoor pools in Miami, but whatevs. We shopped and shopped and ate and shopped and I met a real tiny baby wearing the raddest little tracksuit ever. I nearly shitcanned our adventure, however, after a stop at the Men's Wearhouse on Clybourn. The dude there, gruff as he was stuffy, nearly pushed me to spend my wardrobe budget on vodka and attend my remaining holiday parties in Baby Gabe's velour tracksuit. Oh, man, that guy was a dickweed. Luckily, my man Corey at Joseph A. Banks pulled me out of my retailspin with his good taste, sympathetic ear, and top-notch customer service. (Plus, the tailor there, a hunched oldtimer who didn't seem to give two shits about me but was way into suits, has me completely confident that I'll be pleased as punch when I pick up my new threads later this week.)
Saturday was a Chanukah féte with Ames and some of her friends. The food was great, the wine flowed, and everyone was really fun and funny and had a great time. Here's what I learned: (A.) I'm wicked good at dreidel. (B.) I'd eat caramel sufgaiyot and gourmet latkes every day if I could. (C.) Latke leftovers make for a really stellar breakfast. I wound down Sunday with the deslish latke brunch, list fun with Amy, and a little freelance and football to cap the weekend.
Back at work now with an empty inbox, several Amazon wishlists getting crossed off one by one, and the blueprints of a site I'm designing rolling around in my head. Things are good. Really good.
They're spoiled kids from Midtown!
