The Don Rickles Pillowfight
Sorry everyone for being away so long, I’ve been waiting for a bailout. And while the hope is still strong, the fires of American Patriotism and Oh Shit Rescuism burn just as brightly in my chest as they ever have. I have been doing my fiscal end of year numbers in order to accurately report my figures to the bailout commission and I have come up with the following:
"This blog has suffered cutbacks in 85% of its sweat equity and 100% of its income. While 2008 is financially secure with this ultimate or penultimate post, I will need $87 billion to survive the 2009-2010 fiscal calendars."
I am cautiously optimistic about receiving this influx of cash and have outlined the re-structuring of this blog to incorporate an all-green approach to more or less cracking wise in a semi-public arena. I pledge, with my $87 billion gaining interest in the federally insured banks . . . wait, maybe I’ll put it in a tequila box under the bed instead. . . anyway, with that money taken care of I won’t have to worry about any of my more financially ambivalent choices and I’ll be able to write a blog every day instead of, I don’t know, working to earn a living wage. Because the level of my financial ambivalence will increase 600%, I will in turn be stimulating the economy and helping the local restaurant and bar infrastructure largely by overtipping my former restaurant-mates who are still trying to earn a living wage.
Speaking of working to earn a living wage, the increasing difficulty of serving people food and wine that they can’t afford has become a daily issue.
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
"No," they’ll say, patting their pockets, "recession and all, maybe a few more lemons for my water."
"I understand what you mean," I say, patting my own pockets. "While we appreciate you still coming in, I can’t let you have the table much longer unless you order something other than bread and sugar packets."
"Oh."
"I know, it’s kind of a bad rule, but I’ve been here since 9:40 this morning and as it rolls into the three o’clock hour I’ve got twelve dollars in tips in my pocket, five of which go to the restaurant’s other employees."
"I see. Well, we’ll finish up our budget meeting here and we’ll get out of your way, sorry about that."
"Wouldn’t it be easier to order lunch?"
"No, no. Who can afford to do that? Geez, we don’t work at Ford, we’re bankers over at Wachovia, or Chase. It’s Chase now, I’m sorry I keep forgetting."
The credit card rich of Scottsdale have also run to the hills and are no longer slapping their plastic down on the bar top for their $10 Grey Gooses. I imagine somewhere that they are slapping that same weathered credit card down on linoleum for a Moons Over My Hammy instead.
"How much for a full plate of extra hashbrowns?" these young, power-dressed Scottsdaleys might say.
"Extra hashbrowns are seventy cents. We are running a special on scrambled nest eggs though."
"Seventy cents? Geez," looking around the room, patting their pockets. "Just a few extra packets of jelly then."
"Of course."
Enough of this recession depression around Christmas time, let’s talk about a brand new prison I’d like to invent. I have been dipping my toes briefly into the world of corporate advertising/marketing. The joys of freelance writing mean that I get to do that kind of thing. One week I’m doing marketing pitches for tw telecom and the next I’m editing text in a self-help book dealing with auto-erotic asphyxiation and making sure that it’s spelled correctly in its twenty-three occurrences. What I’ve learned from this foray (yes I know, we’ll get back to prison in a minute) is that the corporate world loves, simply L-O-V-E-S their meetings.
"Bob, we haven’t had a meeting in at least an hour, why don’t you grab Tina and Fred from accounting and we’ll have a meeting about this lack of meetings."
"I was just about to schedule one with you to talk about this very thing. Do you think we should have a bite to eat at this meeting or should we go out for lunch?"
"Jesus, Bob, I don’t know. I think conference room four is open, I’ll have my secretary set up a quick meeting about whether or not our meeting on meetings should be a lunch meeting or a catered meeting."
"Whew. Should we conference in Tina and Fred to get their input?"
"Yes, we should. Send them meeting invitations on their blackberries to have a conference call during our meeting about our lack of meetings meeting."
"I’m calling my secretary right now, she and I will meet, we’ll get those invitations over to their blackberries."
"Good."
"Good."
What I have also learned is the cunning genius that is involved in advertising, both print and television. Each word, each image, each font, each pixel is scrutinized at a three-tiered level before showing the "product" to the "client" or even the head of the creative department. It is with this new knowledge of the red tape and endless meetings that I will announce my dumbfounded joy at the following advertising campaign.
"Five."
"Five-Dollar."
"Five-Dollar-Footlong."
This is why we need a prison. It wouldn’t be a normal kind of prison. It would be pretty silly, actually. If you are the lead creative director on an ad campaign like this one from a sandwich company which will remain nameless you will be sentenced to up to two years AWAY from the advertising world. During this two year sentence, you will be required to drink heavily and watch your own commercials for several hours each day. You will also be subject to group therapy where you will jingle-sing in the round with the other inmates, perhaps after which you will be encouraged to work as a group to sell American made products to the rest of the world, things we can definitely make in abundance, like say housing developments with parks and swingsets and community centers - - and make them attractive financially to third world countries who can’t afford them like, say, Turkmenistan. The whole prison will be funded by bailout money and upon release from prison the advertising executives will be encouraged to find work in another field to pave the way a new generation of jingle-makers.
It sounds more like rehab than anything else, but if we could get some positive exporting dollars from it - not enough to make money, because that’s not the American way, just enough to write it off as a loss - and we could take a few of these jingle-masters out of the game for a while. Think of it though, all those wonderful used-car-salesmenesque people in one room at one time, working together to sell Tract-Shax in beautiful Turkmenistan, and likely doing such a good job that there would be a noticeable outflux of wide-eyed expatriate consumers.
"Look at that community pool with the decorative fire-spires! Those grills at the community center can fit twenty kabobs! It says that each three bedroom space can hold four families, that keeps the rent cheap! Let’s go, Millie, let’s move to Turkmenistan!"
What else is going on that I should make known. I’ve hired an accountant to help me write off what seems to be an ever-increasing addiction to Starbucks pumpkin loaf. I am continually impressed with the wonderful world of music that exists at Pandora.com. For what might be the sixth year in a row, despite the begging from my family members, I am unable to devise a proper Christmas Wishlist. This happens for three or four reasons. First, I never know what I want and when I sit down to think about it I go partially braindead. It is on par with looking for ones glasses without ones contacts in.
Secondly, when I finally do sit down and put words to paper, I end up asking for things winning lottery tickets, the opportunity to bash Don Rickles with a pillow, publishing contracts, new cars, increased height - and (because I have been in Scottsdale too long and am reluctantly soaking it up like a image-driven teabag) wristwatches I can’t afford and shouldn’t own.
"Is that a Cartier Roadster?"
"It is actually."
"That’s what, five grand?"
"Seven."
"What do you do?"
"I make about 9k a year doing odd writing jobs. I also bartend."
"Hmm."
"Yep."
"Is that your ‘96 Ford Explorer with the chipped bug shield?"
"Yep."
"Looks good, man."
"Runs good too."
Thirdly, and this I’ve adapted from Ms. Krissy, I feel strange asking people for specific things because it takes the mystery out of opening gifts and giving gifts. Santa Claus didn’t get his bailout check this year either, so instead of making him feel guilty by asking for directions to Don Rickles’ house or an expensive time piece, I’ll ask for the same good things I do every year. Quality time with people I like, a few extravagant occasions that feel more poetic than ordinary, gift certificates for music and steak, and a new bug shield for my ‘96 Ford Explorer. Image isn’t everything, but it IS important when it comes to the quality of one’s bug shield.
"This blog has suffered cutbacks in 85% of its sweat equity and 100% of its income. While 2008 is financially secure with this ultimate or penultimate post, I will need $87 billion to survive the 2009-2010 fiscal calendars."
I am cautiously optimistic about receiving this influx of cash and have outlined the re-structuring of this blog to incorporate an all-green approach to more or less cracking wise in a semi-public arena. I pledge, with my $87 billion gaining interest in the federally insured banks . . . wait, maybe I’ll put it in a tequila box under the bed instead. . . anyway, with that money taken care of I won’t have to worry about any of my more financially ambivalent choices and I’ll be able to write a blog every day instead of, I don’t know, working to earn a living wage. Because the level of my financial ambivalence will increase 600%, I will in turn be stimulating the economy and helping the local restaurant and bar infrastructure largely by overtipping my former restaurant-mates who are still trying to earn a living wage.
Speaking of working to earn a living wage, the increasing difficulty of serving people food and wine that they can’t afford has become a daily issue.
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
"No," they’ll say, patting their pockets, "recession and all, maybe a few more lemons for my water."
"I understand what you mean," I say, patting my own pockets. "While we appreciate you still coming in, I can’t let you have the table much longer unless you order something other than bread and sugar packets."
"Oh."
"I know, it’s kind of a bad rule, but I’ve been here since 9:40 this morning and as it rolls into the three o’clock hour I’ve got twelve dollars in tips in my pocket, five of which go to the restaurant’s other employees."
"I see. Well, we’ll finish up our budget meeting here and we’ll get out of your way, sorry about that."
"Wouldn’t it be easier to order lunch?"
"No, no. Who can afford to do that? Geez, we don’t work at Ford, we’re bankers over at Wachovia, or Chase. It’s Chase now, I’m sorry I keep forgetting."
The credit card rich of Scottsdale have also run to the hills and are no longer slapping their plastic down on the bar top for their $10 Grey Gooses. I imagine somewhere that they are slapping that same weathered credit card down on linoleum for a Moons Over My Hammy instead.
"How much for a full plate of extra hashbrowns?" these young, power-dressed Scottsdaleys might say.
"Extra hashbrowns are seventy cents. We are running a special on scrambled nest eggs though."
"Seventy cents? Geez," looking around the room, patting their pockets. "Just a few extra packets of jelly then."
"Of course."
Enough of this recession depression around Christmas time, let’s talk about a brand new prison I’d like to invent. I have been dipping my toes briefly into the world of corporate advertising/marketing. The joys of freelance writing mean that I get to do that kind of thing. One week I’m doing marketing pitches for tw telecom and the next I’m editing text in a self-help book dealing with auto-erotic asphyxiation and making sure that it’s spelled correctly in its twenty-three occurrences. What I’ve learned from this foray (yes I know, we’ll get back to prison in a minute) is that the corporate world loves, simply L-O-V-E-S their meetings.
"Bob, we haven’t had a meeting in at least an hour, why don’t you grab Tina and Fred from accounting and we’ll have a meeting about this lack of meetings.""I was just about to schedule one with you to talk about this very thing. Do you think we should have a bite to eat at this meeting or should we go out for lunch?"
"Jesus, Bob, I don’t know. I think conference room four is open, I’ll have my secretary set up a quick meeting about whether or not our meeting on meetings should be a lunch meeting or a catered meeting."
"Whew. Should we conference in Tina and Fred to get their input?"
"Yes, we should. Send them meeting invitations on their blackberries to have a conference call during our meeting about our lack of meetings meeting."
"I’m calling my secretary right now, she and I will meet, we’ll get those invitations over to their blackberries."
"Good."
"Good."
What I have also learned is the cunning genius that is involved in advertising, both print and television. Each word, each image, each font, each pixel is scrutinized at a three-tiered level before showing the "product" to the "client" or even the head of the creative department. It is with this new knowledge of the red tape and endless meetings that I will announce my dumbfounded joy at the following advertising campaign.
"Five."
"Five-Dollar."
"Five-Dollar-Footlong."
This is why we need a prison. It wouldn’t be a normal kind of prison. It would be pretty silly, actually. If you are the lead creative director on an ad campaign like this one from a sandwich company which will remain nameless you will be sentenced to up to two years AWAY from the advertising world. During this two year sentence, you will be required to drink heavily and watch your own commercials for several hours each day. You will also be subject to group therapy where you will jingle-sing in the round with the other inmates, perhaps after which you will be encouraged to work as a group to sell American made products to the rest of the world, things we can definitely make in abundance, like say housing developments with parks and swingsets and community centers - - and make them attractive financially to third world countries who can’t afford them like, say, Turkmenistan. The whole prison will be funded by bailout money and upon release from prison the advertising executives will be encouraged to find work in another field to pave the way a new generation of jingle-makers.
It sounds more like rehab than anything else, but if we could get some positive exporting dollars from it - not enough to make money, because that’s not the American way, just enough to write it off as a loss - and we could take a few of these jingle-masters out of the game for a while. Think of it though, all those wonderful used-car-salesmenesque people in one room at one time, working together to sell Tract-Shax in beautiful Turkmenistan, and likely doing such a good job that there would be a noticeable outflux of wide-eyed expatriate consumers.
"Look at that community pool with the decorative fire-spires! Those grills at the community center can fit twenty kabobs! It says that each three bedroom space can hold four families, that keeps the rent cheap! Let’s go, Millie, let’s move to Turkmenistan!"What else is going on that I should make known. I’ve hired an accountant to help me write off what seems to be an ever-increasing addiction to Starbucks pumpkin loaf. I am continually impressed with the wonderful world of music that exists at Pandora.com. For what might be the sixth year in a row, despite the begging from my family members, I am unable to devise a proper Christmas Wishlist. This happens for three or four reasons. First, I never know what I want and when I sit down to think about it I go partially braindead. It is on par with looking for ones glasses without ones contacts in.
Secondly, when I finally do sit down and put words to paper, I end up asking for things winning lottery tickets, the opportunity to bash Don Rickles with a pillow, publishing contracts, new cars, increased height - and (because I have been in Scottsdale too long and am reluctantly soaking it up like a image-driven teabag) wristwatches I can’t afford and shouldn’t own."Is that a Cartier Roadster?"
"It is actually."
"That’s what, five grand?"
"Seven."
"What do you do?"
"I make about 9k a year doing odd writing jobs. I also bartend."
"Hmm."
"Yep."
"Is that your ‘96 Ford Explorer with the chipped bug shield?"
"Yep."
"Looks good, man."
"Runs good too."
Thirdly, and this I’ve adapted from Ms. Krissy, I feel strange asking people for specific things because it takes the mystery out of opening gifts and giving gifts. Santa Claus didn’t get his bailout check this year either, so instead of making him feel guilty by asking for directions to Don Rickles’ house or an expensive time piece, I’ll ask for the same good things I do every year. Quality time with people I like, a few extravagant occasions that feel more poetic than ordinary, gift certificates for music and steak, and a new bug shield for my ‘96 Ford Explorer. Image isn’t everything, but it IS important when it comes to the quality of one’s bug shield.
Merry Christmas
(Except for you, Don Rickles, you’re still in the penalty box. Bah humbug to you, sir. I kid, I kid, you know, I don’t know Don personally or his wife Barbara, but I mean this from the bottom of my heart, with the most sincerest sincerity, it’s over. You’re washed up. Let me inherit your kingdom, stop stealing my ideas. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.)
posted by Snapp @ 12:10 AM
3 comments
