Animal Style

In the few weeks I've been in LA, I’ve been making a game out of trying not to seem like a tourist while driving around in a car with Virginia plates. If I mistakenly get in the lane for an exit I didn’t mean to take, I take it anyway. With confidence. 

Yes. I did mean to wind up in Compton. Thanks for your concern.            

I even went to In-N-Out Burger (A California institution) for lunch today and ordered my burger “animal style.” What is animal style? I have no idea, but on previous trips to CA, I remember hearing people order their burgers that way. Like a secret code. It’s not on the menu and the employees never mention it; you only know about it if you’re in the loop. So, in a desperate attempt to squeeze into that loop, I boldly ordered something that sounded as if it were made of raw meat. And I ate it. 

I still have no idea what animal style means (pretty sure it's not "raw meat" though), but the burger was good and I received a little nod and a smile from the cashier when I ordered as if to say, "Welcome. You’re one of us."

This feeling of inclusion, after making wrong turns, getting honked at and feeling like a burden to society in general, is absolutely necessary. Especially in LA, a place where no one is from, but where everyone wants to belong.

Today's thoughts while in traffic: Apparently, all you have to do to run a successful business in LA is add the words "to the stars" at the end of whatever it is you do.

New Territory

While searching for a client on Ogilvy's intra-web, I received this response:

"Your search is too granular. Please be less specific."

I have never in my life been asked to be less specific. Big day for me. Big day.

A Pedicure in Hell

This weekend I participated in my fourth Relay For Life, a 24 hour event that raises money for the American Cancer Society. The cause is great, the event is fun, but the after-effects of walking the same dirt path over and over again in too-small shoes until the only sensation you can feel in your lower body is the searing pain radiating from the freshly popped blister on your left toe (formed on lap #53)...are awful. So, after a little nap and some research on hip replacement surgery, my next move was clear.

Pedicure.

My sister-in-law and I threw our broken carcasses into the car and headed for the local nail salon called Fashion Nails, or, as the sign said, Fa shi on Nails. After my experience there, I am quite certain that "Fa shi on" is Vietnamese for "welcome to hell."

My pedicure in hell began as I sat down and put my feet into a pot of boiling water. I could have sworn I smelled lobster cooking. I kept picturing this little Muppet lobster popping up between my feet and crying "help me!" in a tiny lobster voice. I closed my eyes and tried to adjust to the scalding temperature, convincing myself that my feet had been through much worse the day before. I even tried to pull a Mark Avnet and tell myself to take a deep breath and listen to my surroundings, but it was then that I realized that my surroundings were filled with the commentary of a UFC fight.

UFC. In a spa.

Ok. Fine. Whatever. So there are people beating the living crap out of each other while I'm trying to relax. I can handle it.

Then she got out the clippers.

Never have I had someone go at my cuticles with such anger. It was as if my toes had personally offended the woman working on them. My foot kept involuntarily twitching as she hit (and probably destroyed) delicate nerves. It was almost as if it were trying to kick her in the face without my knowing about it. I kept having to get it under control. In the middle of willing my foot not to attack its assailant, I heard the UFC fight end and this come on the TV:

"How much force can this guy's nuts take? Let's find out."

The next 30 minutes were filled with a show about a guy getting hit in the crotch over and over again and not reacting. He was hit with bowling balls ("Right in the kahones! Let's take a look at that again!"), sandbags ("He took that right in the plums, Jeff. Let's see it in slow mo."), and the knee of a 6 foot 7 martial artist ("No cup and all nuts! This guy's made of steel!").

The content on TV would have actually been pretty funny 1. if I were not trying to relax at a spa, 2. if I were a 12-year-old boy, and 3. if the woman working on my feet had not just started hitting me. No wait, punching me. In my shins. On the sides of my legs. Right on muscles that were a little too sore and angry to be messed with at present. I think she saw me grit my teeth and then resorted to slapping the tops of my feet. My red, lobster-cooked feet. At this point, I figured it couldn't get any worse. 

And then someone changed the channel to Fox News featuring an interview with Ann Coulter.

Today's thoughts while in (people) traffic: The backs of people's running shoes get overlooked by designers. In situations when you're running in a large group of people, that's sometimes the only thing to look at. And half the time, there's nothing very interesting to see on there. Maybe Gatorade should sell ad space on the back of people's sneakers.

Wow. I need to take a break from advertising.

House of Worship

Ogilvy smells like church. 

But instead of Bible verses displayed prominently on the walls, there are quotes by David Ogilvy.

Kinda makes you wonder.

Today's thoughts while in traffic: Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooove! Drive for the love of sweet, sweet Nancy!

Dreaming of Dinos

About 2 years ago, my friends Ann Marie, Emily and I came up with Dino Week: a celebration of all things dinosaur that takes place each year the week after Shark Week. In fact, our tagline for Dino Week is: "Dino Week. You know, the week after Shark Week." I'm pretty sure we are the only three on the planet who celebrate Dino Week, but it has gotten some outside attention as of late and plans for Dino Week 2009 have grown to include more people and places (the La Brea Tar Pits and the dinosaurs in Pee Wee's Big Adventure are only a few of the week's planned festivities.) 

With our biggest Dino Week ever approaching, it's easy to have dinos on the brain. But when dinos start to take over your dreams, it's probably best to take a break from DW planning for a little while. 

The following is a dream that Ann Marie had not long ago. Here, she recounts her dream for me via g-chat. It's classic Ann Marie:

Ann:  (This was the best dream ever because i often have crazy and even sometimes awesome things happen to me in dreams but So seldom follow a cohesive story arc)

 Sent at 5:55 PM on Tuesday

 Ann:  I was shepherding a flock of dinosaurs from the North Pole to South America because the North Pole was too cold for them.

 me:  i already love it

Ann:  I even had a sheepdog dinosaur that looked kind of allosaurusy but was very docile and had a whole saddle/bridle setup deal

(I know! I knew you would!)

Additionally, on our journey i had to collect all these knowledgeable persons to complete the story of the herd of dinos, like a historian and an archeologist and all sorts of folks

 Sent at 5:57 PM on Tuesday

 Ann:  At the end of my dream, i had assembled all these people except one ~ Professor Thomas G. (i forget his whole last name) and we were in a soup pub in Bolivia which was kind of rustic and mysterious but not scary, and everyone had these big steaming mugs of hot soup (The soup pub, incidentally, is a totally money idea, i'm convinced)

 Sent at 5:59 PM on Tuesday

 Ann:  And there was one shadowy figure who i was sure was Professor Thomas G., but he tried to outwit me, but then i outwitted him! (i have no idea how) so he nodded solemnly and said "well done" and opened his jacket and showed me his badge that said he was Professor Thomas G!

 Sent at 6:00 PM on Tuesday

 Ann:  Then i woke up!

So i ask you...best dream? Or best dream ever?

I think the answer to that is pretty obvious.

Roommates

I live with robots. 

And I’m not talking about my brother and my sister-in-law. They’re quite animated. I'm talking about real I'm-made-of-metal-push-this-button-to-hear-me-talk-I-can-destroy-you-with-a-single-laser full-on robots. I'm literally surrounded by them. And Will Smith is nowhere to be found. 

But I don't think Mr. Smith's services will be needed this time around. I'm pretty sure they're not aiming for global domination. Or even Burbank domination. They belong to my sister-in-law Heidi and are occupying the guest room where I'm staying this summer. Each robot in the room has a different task to carry out. One holds my Kleenex Box; two of them tell me what time it is; two keep the bed warm while I’m away all day; four see me off each morning as I leave; and twenty-seven watch over me as I sleep. 

All in all I feel pretty secure sleeping amidst this robotic bunch. However, should things get ugly, I feel a little better knowing that on the bookshelf, nestled between Bukowski and Chabon, is the manual How to Survive a Robot Uprising. So yeah, I'm all set.

 

Today's thoughts while in traffic: Blue is just about the worst color for a Smurf. When you live in the woods and are only 3 apples high, being the color of a blueberry isn’t going to protect you from much. Especially not birds...who like blueberries. Had smurfs been green or brown or some kind of fungus-y color, they probably wouldn't be extinct right now. On the other hand, if Smurfs weren't blue, would they be Smurfs at all?

I've Arrived

When people say they’ve “arrived” in Los Angeles, it's usually said with gusto and a hand flourish and implies that they’ve made it, that they’ve had their big break. 

Not me. I literally just arrived in LA, meaning that I was not here a week ago and now I am.

That's the thing with LA. Everything here has a different meaning; a more dramatic, more interesting meaning. Words and phrases I’ve been using my entire life are suddenly being twisted and turned and redefined. 

Everything else is spoken in code: “Talked to the DP today. He wants a CU on the two-shot and wants to see the dailies when they’re in. Also, tell the PA to get a handle on the demos.” I’m not sure if that guy was making a movie or ordering a sandwich. Either way, it sounded more complex than it probably needed to be. 

            But I suppose it’s the same way in advertising. We’ve got CDs, ACDs, CMOs, AEs, ECDs and ADs. I go about my days as a CW, which is fine. But out here, that's just the network that shows Gossip Girl.

            Today's thoughts while in traffic: I hate it when people try to sound profound but end up making no sense at all. After Radiohead's Creep finished playing on the radio, the DJ on some Emo Rock station said: "I'd love to die and come back as a Radiohead song. Just think of the life you'd have." Um, no. First off (and let's begin with the obvious), you wouldn't have a life if you were a song. You would be the same song with the same lyrics and the same melody sung over and over again. Even if you were covered. No soul. No life. Now don't get me wrong, I love Radiohead. There is a spot reserved for Radiohead in my top 5 bands of all time list, but really, DJ? Did you have to bust out the 'life is better as a reincarnated Radiohead song" bit? And Creep of all songs to come back as. Not even Thom York would approve of that.