The Bare Bones of the Matter

Weird days are par for the course. 

There are days where very woman seems about to give birth. 

Days when you see hundreds of vertically challenged individuals. 

Days when obesity seems to be the norm. 

Today took weird and shot into the stratosphere.  

I’ve worked in advertising for longer than I care for, over 15 years. During this time I’ve had my fair share of strange clients, terrible briefs and bizarre requests. I should be fairly inured to strangeness. It turns out I am not.

The illustrious owner of the agency I am contracted to, made a rare visit to the office this afternoon. Showing an unbridled enthusiasm that always make me reach for a Xanax, he invited me into the boardroom.

IO: Come and meet our new client. I’ve got a fabulous brief for you, it’s going to be a lot of fun!

This sort of comment makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. His brilliant briefs are inevitably nightmares waiting to be born. Instead of an Armani wearing BEEntrepreneur I found a large, sunburnt Afrikaans man in situ. He was also over-excited. The blood drained from my head.

Do you want to know the brief? You know you’re dying for it.

Caskets and coffins.

This one gives you wings

Coffins and caskets are not the same. They differ in shape. Coffins have the tapering end, caskets are great big boxes. 

Apparently it is a growth industry, although I found it a little crass to show such avarice in the face of the Grim reaper – tempting fate you might say.

IO: Hah! This must be a first for you.

Yup. It is. Although I quickly got into the swing of things and regaled them with the tale of my Great Uncle Wilsie who built wagons and made coffins at Keiskammahoek in the Eastern Cape. 

Coke is it!

He is, of course, best known for getting his big toe stuck up the hot tap during a bath, but that is entirely beside the point. Having established some common ground we got into the bare bones of it.

Sometime in the recent past this man’s son came to him with the idea of tapping into the only industry not really hit by the recession – death. 10 000 people a day die in Gauteng alone. He reckons on a profit margin of over R6 million a month. 

I was told with a great deal of paternal pride that this particular offspring was extremely creative. In fact he designed and built a coffin in the garage and they were off. Today they assemble a coffin or casket in under 7 minutes.

24/7 connectivity from beyond the grave

I thought I’d better some details on the job and proceeded to ask what wood he used. He doesn’t, not really. These are non-biodegradable coffins. They have wood in them, sort of – it’s a 3 ply wood and plastic mix I gather. In desperation I asked about the handles and gold embossed lions. Not brass. Genuine plastic brass.

Keeping a straight face was becoming harder and harder, but I maintained a corpselike demeanour of polite interest throughout. He was very impressed and apparently I asked some insightful questions.

One of them was, so can these be used for burial and crematoria? 

Nope. They melt into plastic gloop, so they do manufacture one of a suitably flammable material.

Just do it.

I struggled on. Were they made to measure? 

After all what happens if a 9 foot tall basketball player drops dead? 

These are one size fits all. 

I assume they fold them up inside? 

Actually, I shudder to think.

I got a footing on firmer ground. What were the unique selling points? 

48 hour delivery countrywide. That was about it.

Admittedly, a timber casket or coffin can set you back a good R35 000, so their prices are pretty reasonable even if you do get interred in gaudy splendour. Better yet, no-one is going to dig you up and sell your coffin on the black market.

Snow White's coffin

By the time I escaped I was desperate. I closed the door of the studio, sank to the ground and howled. When I proceeded to impart the brief to my comrades, they reached the conclusion I was taking the piss and it was a joke. “No!” I howled, “It’s deadly bloody serious!”

I have quite often thought that I have reached the depths of hell in my career, but 6 foot under is a new low.

I shouldn’t laugh in the face of certain death. I’ve never had to arrange a funeral, however I have a friend who specialises in funereal planning. She is a sort of a wedding planner at the other end of the spectrum. 

Unlike a wedding planner, I suppose she doesn’t really have repeat clients. She does their make-up (the interees'), organises the music and all the rest. 

  

She is a professional make-up artist. One day at a party she complained about constantly having to make small talk with inane schmodels. I laughingly suggested she contact a few mortuaries and offer her services for open-casket funerals. Now she is making a killing out of it.

Now, I am faced with writing a sophisticated, friendly and respectful website, brochure and promotional calendar about death. Yes, promotions. Two for the price of one. Buy one get one free. Bulk discounts for family orders.

My mother, who shares my macabre sense of humour, had a field day. She suggested they turn them into coffee-tables, clothes chests and wardrobes. The idea being you can have one on hand when you need it. It could work. The Emos would love it. Coffin-chic. Turns out someone has already done it.

So far I have been told:

It should be dead easy

Think out of the box

Don’t get buried in the work

Re-hearse my presentation

Don't take it lying down

It is, I think, the final nail in the coffin of my advertising career. 

It could be the death of me. 

For more crazy coffins check out: World's Most Bizarre Coffins and Crazy Coffins

Phineas and Ferb in Intern Season

One day I’d like to meet the day with a gradual rise out of slumber, somewhat like the rising sun. During term time the shrill screech of the alarm rockets me out of REM in manner somewhat akin to a bullet leaving an AK47. I thought half-term might be different, but instead of the irritating and suspect vowel sounds of some mutant aging DJ or even worse, Britney Spears’ new single, I am awakened by the sounds either of a tsumani in the bathroom or the horrified screams of a small girl whose bed has just been used as a drop zone.

Small boys are interesting prospect and should never be left with time on their hands. One must never take your eyes off them, or leave your back exposed. In many ways I think parents should complete SAS counter terrorism training. In that split second when your attention is diverted small boys use the time to concoct an elaborate plan usually designed either to turn your home into something resembling Chernobyl or make your life a misery in an astounding diversity of creative brilliance.

I live with Phineas and Ferb. The main reason I am now limiting TV time is to halt the myriad of ideas that swarm through the airwaves and take root in my boys’ brains. These inevitably result in ice down my back, horrible mushy things in my shoes and horror of all horrors – potions. Potions are every mother’s worst nightmare. Thank you Harry Potter, I owe you.

Small boy aged 6: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
I think this is a direct result of Big Bang Theory – every exhortation for my attention comes in threes.
Small boy aged 9 in stage whisper: “Dude. Dude! I have a whole bag of shush right here with your name on it.”
Thank you Austin Powers for that little gem.

I can deal with this notification of disaster in a variety of ways. Due to my inherent desire to protect my own sanity I usually resort to: “I don’t want to know. Clean it up.”

I have this theory that particularly applies when I am in the bath. This precious 20 minutes of me time, which is all too often interrupted. Unless blood is spurting out of a major artery or a bone is broken leave me the hell alone. If someone is dead, they will still be dead when I emerge and I will be calm enough to deal with it.

Small boy aged 6: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
Mother: “Yes.”
Small boy aged 6: “You have to come now!”
Mother: “Is someone bleeding?”
Small boy aged 6: “No, but…”
Mother: “Has someone lost an eye or other vital body part?”
Small boy aged 6: “No, but…”
Mother: “Has someone got a vital body part stuck in a piece of moving machinery?”
Small boy aged 6: “No, but…”
Mother: “Is someone actively in the process of dying?”
Small boy aged 6: “No, but…”
Mother: “But then I don’t want to know about it. Make sure you clean it up before your father gets home.”

This solves a lot of complications and keeps me from being isolated in a secure mental facility.

Currently, Small girl aged 5 is struggling with a logistical complication that means that Small boys can climb 8 odd feet high on the rafters and leap onto her bed in a bizarre parody of the Navy Seals. Unfortunately, Small girl aged 5 is small and when she is ensconced under the covers it is fairly hard to tell that she is there. This is why she keeps getting jumped on, much to her brothers’ amusement.

Now add another factor to the mix. What happens when you let the father of your children take two small boys and a small girl to the movies? Answer, someone will come home needing medical attention. This time because the male factors decided to run up the down escalator. Small girl aged 5 didn’t quite make it and lost a chunk of flesh from her leg.

This I could deal with, except that Small girl aged 5 believes the only plasters with the power to heal have Disney Princesses on them. This means I have to get in the car in the freezing cold and visit as many late night pharmacies as it takes to buy said plasters, by which time Small girl aged 5 is incoherent and labouring under the belief that her leg is soon to be amputated.

It is day 3 of half-term and I have cancelled my leave and retreated back to work. It is safe here. No-one will put caterpillars in my tea or throw fire crackers in the bathroom door when I answer the call of nature. I am giving a grandparent the privilege of parenting today.

In the meantime I shall recover my equilibrium by being mean to interns. Intern season is like hunting season. It is enormous fun. It is God’s way of rewarding advertising creatives with an amusing diversion. The process is vital in the Darwinian survival of the fittest that is the creative studio. You see each year about six or seven eager young things arrive at the studio to be indoctrinated into the way of the ad. They’ve spent three hours gelling their hair and choosing suitably creative and mostly inappropriate clothing, before arriving at creative boot camp.

In all their years studying why has no-one taught them how to operate the cappuccino machine? This should be part of the curriculum. After all it is basically all they will be doing for the first year of their existence. Another vital missing link in their studies is how to cut out and glue stuff. My 6 year old is better than most of them. Fundamentally it is our job to divest them of the idea that anyone cares what they think that they know anything and that they are going to be the next David Ogilvy.


Welcome to the real world kids. In the real world deadlines are like the Great Wall of China – immovable. Budgets tell you how much money you can spend on you Big Idea. So, no you cannot have a million dollar Big Idea when the budget is 10 dollars. This is mathematics. I’m sorry, did you say you are going to lunch? Lunch? What the hell is lunch? And when I ask for a full bleed layout I do not mean you should slice open an artery with the paper knife and bleed all over it.

This is a picture of what happens to your average intern on Day 1. See, Darwin.

The team that arrives on Day 1 usually whittles down to about 2 or 3 at the end of the season who have proven they can handle life in a big studio. At my last agency we had a point system. 60 points if you made an intern cry. 30 points if you train them to make you coffee perfectly. -20 points if they opened their mouths except to offer you more coffee. 100 points of they left weeping never to return. Ah, the good old days.

I officially declare intern season open.

Gaping Void - No-one says it better except Scott Harrison

Because he is brilliant and makes me chuckle.

The mermaid and the missionary

The wind is whistling through the cracks in the office windows much like a demented banshee. The ambient temperature is 16 degrees in here and falling. I had an amusing chat to a Swede in Stockholm (where else?) yesterday. Swedes are very polite and he began the conversation by asking me about the weather. I thought about it and then replied: “Well, I think it’s bloody freezing, but you’d probably think it was a nice summer day.” He laughed. Turned out it was two degrees colder in Sweden and it was a nice summer day. Africa is just not geared to the cold. You try and ask for double-glazing here, people laugh at you, or central heating, central air conditioning maybe. I’m taking refuge inside my Sharks XXXL hoodie, I look like a mix between a gangsta rapper and a tortoise, but at least the shivers are abating.

Yesterday marked not only Youth Day, (which apparently was marked by mayhem), but also my 11th wedding anniversary. We played hookie and went to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in 3D. What could be better way to spend a chilly morning then with Johnny Depp in 3D glory? Don’t answer that, a myriad better things just popped into my head and all of them definitely not PG rated. It was a fabulous movie although the drippy mermaid and the insipid missionary seemed a bit superfluous. Although, I must say if more missionaries had bodies like that, a lot more nubile young wenches would convert. It could be the saviour of organised religion. Of course we disagreed on the ending when the mermaid swims off with the missionary. Does she kill and eat him? Do they live happily ever after? And was old Blackbeard really Columbo? He must be ancient.

Now, Keith Richards as the father of Captain Jack Sparrow inspired me to finally try and read his autobiography, Life. I bought it when I went into hospital, but the morphine made it hard to keep the words on the page and it lay abandoned until yesterday. Now I can’t put it down. It’s a wonderful flow of unedited truth, unsullied by political correctness and unnecessary adjectives. I keep reading parts of it out loud to the aspiring young guitarist in the family. Apparently young Keith went for an interview at the great J Walter Thompson in London and when asked if he could make tea said, “Yes, but not for you.” He then stalked (I can’t imagine him ever doing something so banal as just walking) downstairs and threw his portie into the bin. For all of you who work in the fickle world of advertising that thought probably invokes a gut clenching nausea. Our porties are the one thing we’d save in fire, forget the dog and baby pictures. Even cynical old hacks like me are obsessively attached to the career trajectory of our precious portie. Hell, I know people who will buried with it in case they need some affirmation in the after life. Perhaps God will care they once worked on a Coca Cola campaign. Hell, maybe God for advertising people is David Ogilvy.

All in all it was a very nice anniversary, marred only by the snot-gobbling chef at the Chinese Restaurant and Supermarket at the Morningside Wedge. I don’t seem to have much luck at Chinese eateries. During my noteworthy 48 hours at Fiat, the Chinese restaurant I tried to get lunch from, was shut down by the Health and Safety Directorate while making my spring rolls. I took it as a sign and went running back to the safety of a chaotic creative studio.

Of course, the high point of the day was the breakfast cooked by Small people aged 9, 6 and 5. Scrambled egg, Bovril toast and tea. That’s love for you.

Image from: http://www.getthebigpicture.net/blog/2011/5/19/fearless-forecast-move-over-thor-jack-sparrow-has-arrived.html

James Bond and the Wedding Anniversary

Are billboards an effective use of advertising budget? Until fairly recently, Friday actually, I doubted that they were. I believed they functioned more to reassure consumers that they had bought the right brand and less to convert potential consumers into new sales. I believed they cluttered up our highways in an endless panorama of meaningless jargon. In some way I still think I am right. However… as we drove past a billboard for some very expensive Swiss watches my husband began a conversation.

Husband, nonchalantly: “Now, that’s a nice watch.”
Me: “Hmmm?”
Husband: “Do you know the watch used in Goldfinger was the first Seiko digital watch?”
Me: “Hmmm?”
Husband: “They’re selling now for like twenty grand.”
Me: “Hmmm.”
Husband: “You know I don’t want fancy platinum watch encrusted with diamonds. I’d like something classic and understated, like a stainless steel Rolex.”
Me: “Hmmm.”
Husband: “They’re not even that expensive only about two grand.”
This is about when I switched off altogether, to my detriment, for this conversation was to come back to haunt me only hours later.

Each Friday my parents-in-law entertain my offspring for a few hours. This is in part because they want to see their grandchildren and mostly because it is the only way they’ll see their son. As we waited for three small people to gather up their belongings, which by the way seem to breed and multiply once released from their bags, my mother-in-law began to chat about our upcoming wedding anniversary.

Mother-in-law: “How long have you been married?”
Me: “Eleven years.”
Mother-in-law: “You say that very definitely.”
Me: “Yes. We were married in 2000 so that it would be easy mathematically.”
Mother-in-law turning to son: “Eleven years, that is steel isn’t it?”
Round about now the cogs in my head began to turn.
Husband: “Steel? No really?”
The cogs meshed as I looked at his face and his eyes skittered away from meeting mine.
Me: “Steel. Hmmm. Stainless steel?”
Mother-in-law: “Yes.”
Me: “Really, like, I don’t know, a stainless steel Rolex perhaps?”
Silence.
Me: “Is that what you were on about? You want me to buy you a Rolex?”
Father-in-law, desperately trying to avoid imminent bloodshed: “Ah well, ha ha, you could always get him a lawnmower.”

Bloody billboards. This is entirely why we need gangs of vigilantes taking them down and protesting with signs and placards and catchy little slogans.

Britney Spears and the Knock Knock joke

If I had wings today I’d stand on the window ledge and fly away. It’s one of those days when the minutiae of life gets me down and I want to get in the car, drive to the airport, buy a ticket to anywhere and just go. Barring that just find a nice warm hidey hole and hibernate.

Money is truly the root of all evil and the cause of this little pity party. In sheer desperation I’ll go and buy a lottery ticket at lunch, even though the odds are greater that I’ll get hit by a toilet seat falling from a space station, I’ll do it anyway. Sometimes hope is all you’ve got.

I wish I had a clear, single-minded objective for my life like before I die I want to climb Mount Everest. Instead I have a bucket list of random things I’d like to do:
Take a roadtrip through the USA in a 1950 Cadillac to see “The World’s Biggest Stuff”
Ride down Route 66 on the back of a Harley with a hardcore Hells Angel
Watch a show on Broadway
Eat a chilidog in Central Park
A night in trailer park
Chase a twister
See a gorilla, a panda, a koala and a tiger in the wild
Go to the Rio Carnival
Wear a dress from Chanel
Take the Orient Express

And other even more random things. To what purpose? I have no idea, I’d just like to do them. I know this lot centres on the US, but for some reason my thoughts strayed in that direction. Oh. I remember why. Over a year ago I pitched a prize of a roadtrip to see the world’s biggest stuff to a client. At the time they put it on the back burner, but I saw the promotion out yesterday and suffered a strange pang in my chest.

I don’t often miss the big agency drama, but sometimes I feel like I’m missing a limb. Wait a second. It’s not a limb, it’s an Art Director. I miss my Art Directors, Jason, Rhode, Luke, Lynn, Celeste, Ewan, Danie, Wayne, Marais, Steve, Scott, Eserick… I miss the camaraderie, the crazy creative ideas that bounce like ping pong balls and the painful birthing of campaigns. I don’t miss the politics, the backstabbing, the ineptitude, the lousy pay and the even more lousy hours. I miss seeing my promotion on a chocolate bar and knowing I did that.

Man of the House returns today after missing his flight out of tropical paradise. Apparently an Asian lady was accosted in front of him. Turns out she was carrying illegal pharmaceuticals in her purse and was bodily carried screaming out of the terminal. In her bag? Come on. Amazing also how people who were conversing fluently in English a moment before, suddenly lose ability to speak the language. Hopefully he will arrive on time to see Small boy aged 9 play soccer.

Speaking of which, Small boy in question has a different theme at school each week. We’ve had the body, Apartheid and other topical stuff. This week, he’s doing Sadness. The poor child has watched a movie about vivisection and read some of the most heart rending and ghastly stories all week long. Little girls following blind fathers into the snow, falling into lakes and drowning. Seals being bludgeoned to death and so on. Then they get upset with us parents for letting our kids watch age restricted movies with Arnie and Bruce Willis on the basis that they are too violent. I’ll take Arnie beating a robot from the future into submission over baby seals bleeding to death any day of the week. Small boy has had nightmares all week and is traumatised by the horror of mankind. Sadness, my voet. More like psychological terrorism. Maybe next week they’ll do humour and I’ll have to survive a week of knock-knock jokes.

Knock Knock!
Who’s there?
Britney Spears.
Britney Spears who?
Knock Knock
Who’s there?
Oops I did it again.

What did the pan say to the popcorn?
Why are you jumping? It's my ass that burning.

Why didn’t the skeleton cross the road?
He didn’t have the guts.

Right this is just getting silly…