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He poured kerosene on me
Big Billy was surprisingly kind about our losing the job. He pat me on my back and said, "Whatever they say, it is still f**king good work." That is another oxymoron in advertising - if it is so good, why didn't they buy? Go figure. Maybe it is just kerosene you sprinkle on cub-copywriters to keep the fire going.
The team did a post-mortem - Donna seemed horrified that her womanly magic didn't work. Heng sat in stony silence, dejected. Fei was optimistic that when one door closes, a window opens elsewhere.
What do you do when you lose? We never prepare for these things, because we cannot afford to imagine ourselves losing.
But a wise man once said, "When bad things happen, you can either be bitter or be better."
I choose the latter.
Pencil chewed at 9:46:00 am //
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Tom and Matt
7.30pm and I am at the cinema. I scan the crowd to make sure that no one I know is around. Phew! Safe in the cover of the crowd.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turn around.
"Hi!" says Matt the Egomaniac. I returned the greeting. "I've got the tickets for 9.30pm. Thought we could have dinner first."
"Yeah, sure. Food court?" I suggested the least romantic place possible. We ended up at an awfully quiet Indian restaurant. So that I won't miss a word he says, I thought. How am I going to survive 2 hours of him bragging? I steeled myself. You can do this, gurl! Just think of it as one of your client briefing sessions.
Maybe caffeine does crazy things to him but he seemed to have come down a little from his high horse. He actually asked questions about me. "What is your latest campaign?" "What makes this ad good?" "What books are you reading?" "How do you like your eggs?" (as if he'll get to make me breakfast anytime soon)
I think he really wants to know me. And in a strange way, that scares me.
The movie was beautiful. Ken Watanabe is one cool samurai. Ooooh. I was gushing and talking about my favourite parts of the movie, while we were inching out of the cinema hall.
"How about a drink?" he asked. I so badly wanted to talk about the movie, I agreed. And I spent another 2 hours talking to this man I thought I never wanted to spend another minute with.
Am I in trouble?
Pencil chewed at 11:42:00 am //
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Proton ad gets bashed
Seen the latest chest-thumping Proton ads? I don't know which agency created them but there's a fine little debate going on about the campaign. Well, more like ranting about the car itself, really. But aizuddindanian does make a few good points - what does the consumer want to know in an ad - created 100,000 jobs for Malaysians?
Read his blog and comments here.
There is one thing advertising should never do - take consumers for fools.
Pencil chewed at 11:09:00 am //
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You may enter
Tomas hasn't spoken to me since the emergency stairs session. Not that he spoke then. Normally, he would serve an acerbic comment to go with my morning coffee. He hasn't said a thing remotely funny in the last 72 hours.
"Hey," I said, coffee mug in hand, leaning on the cubicle partition, "I think I'm addicted to second hand smoke. Got some?"
Lame. I know.
He smiles feebly. He knows why I am saying unintelligent things.
He gets up, takes his Marlboro Lights from the desk. I follow.
It takes him half a pack before he weaves his tale of pain, brokenness and loss.
I cried. He didn't.
The pack is empty when he finished. He ruffles my hair and says, "Thanks."
Pencil chewed at 10:38:00 am //
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Hey, I scrub up pretty well
It's cheap tickets night.
I hate to admit it but I found myself picking out my clothes more carefully this morning. Applying my make-up with a little more care. I even mascara-ed.
Am I some sick fiend trying to impress a guy I'm not interested in? Do I want him to want me so that I can reject him? All these theories swirl in my mind.
I'm bad, I figure.
Pencil chewed at 9:21:00 am //
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A little ad-ucation
Found this gem from Advertising Educational Foundation. A series of articles from industry greats. Click here for Wall Street Journal's Creative Leaders Series. Sit at their feet and learn.
Pencil chewed at 5:06:00 pm //
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One Grande Latte begets another
"Hi Sweets," he said, over the phone.
"Who?" I asked annoyed.
"It's Matt."
"Huh?"
"Matt, Trish's friend."
"Oh," I said, trying to muster some measure of enthusiasm. Why I bother, I wonder. Maybe you're secretly in love with him and your consciousness is suppressing it. I imagine that's how Trish will explain it.
"Heard that The Last Samurai is fantastic. Wanna go?"
"I ...er... very busy. Worked all night yesterday."
"Exactly. You need a break."
"I just came back from one."
I know. I know. I am pathetic at excuses. Maybe it was the terrible presentation in the morning but I found myself agreeing to go on a date with Matt the EgoManiac tomorrow - the cheap ticket night.
Oh well. He can't be as bad as this morning, can he?
Pencil chewed at 3:55:00 pm //
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Bitter bitter presentation
I haven't slept a wink. I look like a panda.
There were 4 men and 1 lady from the client side. We had an entourage of 6. Me, Heng, Donna, Fei, Big Billy and Guppy. (For privacy, all names have been changed.) Fei - Donna's boss - did the opening. Big Billy did the creative rationale, Heng & I tag-teamed the campaign - print, TV, radio, outdoor. Donna just sat there and purred. For all it's worth, I felt good presenting the campaign. When words roll of my tongue I know I've done solid work - well thought out and insightful.
But no. Client had other ideas. That's the thing about clients - they some times play this game called Master Mind. Here's how: 1. Rub hands with glee. 2. Form circle with cohorts. 3. Leader says "Let's see if the agency is smart enough to figure it out, like us!" 4. Tell agency "Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah - you guys didn't get it."
Heng and I are dampened. It hit us bad. Especially when we thought we've got a winner in your hands. And to have poured hours and hours into it, weaving scattered, isolated chromosomes. Loving it. Nurturing it. Till it is birthed.
And to see our baby stillborn.
Pencil chewed at 1:13:00 pm //
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BitterSweet presentation is up!
"Good. It's shaping up nicely," Big Billy muttered between gulps of smoke.
I exhaled a big one. Relieved. It's now go-go-go for the BitterSweet campaign. Big rush though. Presentation is set for tomorrow. It's gonna be an all-nighter tonight.
(And why am I still writing this instead of headlines? Because I'm a hopeless blog-addict that's why. Others smoke, I blog.)
Donna, Miss Tiny Skirt, struts about, like she singlehandedly put the campaign together. She's triumphant. Grudgingly I have to agree - the glow makes her look ravishing. Perky. If I am a man, I would find her very delectable.
She ran through her powerpoint presentation. "Crap!" I muttered under my breath to Heng. He gives me a "Oi, behave!" look. Heng's the master of his emotions. No ups nor downs. If he's thinking dirty thoughts of Donna I surely cannot tell. At times I am tempted to put my fingers to his wrist and check for a pulse.
The only flicker of emotion comes when he hits "Eureka!" Guess that's better than other guys flickering all over at the sight of Donna.
On my freer days, I wonder how his wife takes it, married to this man chiselled from ice. Then again, still waters run deep.
Pencil chewed at 5:41:00 pm //
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Anyways, it's Monday and I'm back at work. Not really. My body is here. But my mind and tummy is still with the bak-kua (dried meat), mandarins, mind- numbing "tuk-tuk-chiang" music and reruns of Chow Yuen Fatt movies. But for a Monday, I am feeling chirpy.
So I chirped over my cubicle, "Tomas, how was Chinese New Year?"
No answer. I hear him typing away furiously and puffs of cigi fumes rising.
I stood up. "You ... okay?" I asked.
He looks stoned. And unhappy. Family get-togethers have that effect on him. I get a little scared when I see him like that. Only once did he let me in - a quick glimpse of the darkness inside.
He did a face - a I'm-not-but-I'm-trying-face.
I looked at him. Stared, actually. He does not look back. "Alright," I said and was about to slink back to my seat, my chirpiness curbed.
Just then, he looks up. "Want some second-hand smoke?"
We went to the emergency exit stairs, where oft-persecuted smokers hang out. He lit up. It was his 8th for the day.
"Wanna talk?" I asked tentatively.
He shook his head. And so I sat on the steps next to him inhaling the fumes and wondering how much second hand smoke I can take before I die of lung cancer.
No entry today.
Pencil chewed at 12:10:00 pm //
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Counting angpows
Unlike other single women, I relish Chinese New Year. I mean, hey, when else can you make money just by being single? It's a bloody good deal, if you ask me. My friends tell me how shame faced they are to receive angpows (red packets with 'em money). And cringe when they hear the usual line, "When is it your turn?"
Me? I smile, say "Thank you, maybe next year!" and take a peek at my booty. You can say whatever you want about my single status - I know you don't mean to be mean and neither do I.
Perhaps it's the years of training at getting rejected by client. I've developed a pretty thick hide. A little grilling from second aunties and third uncles don't get me burnt.
Pencil chewed at 11:49:00 am //
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'Nuff about men and madness.
Work is a solace for the soul. Especially when nothing else seems to work in my life. It is a good place to hide because you can get so far in that no one knows you're lost.
Is that deep or what?
Anyways, the ginseng sweet campaign is still in progress. Nicely actually.
Disclaimer clause: As I need to keep this job for my pet guppies' sake (Minnie and Moe), besides the oath of confidentiality I took when I signed my appointment letter, so I can't let on as to what the campaign is about.
You understand? Righto. But the campaign is naughty and nice. Like sugar and erm ... ginseng?
My Art Director, Heng and I did three rounds of creative reviews with Big Billy, before he smiled, "Yeah, we got it."
Heng stands for no-nonsense. Seriously brilliant. Whenever we brainstorm, I'll be rattling off stupidity while he sits there, arms and legs crossed. In deep, deep thoughts. Or could it be just weed?
Then, in his Chinese educated English he'll say, "Maybe, we do this." "Or that." "The one you said -blah-blah-blah- yes, can do."
So we do. For the Oracle has spoken.
Pencil chewed at 4:00:00 pm //
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Tomas blew cigarette rings in my direction, an evil smile curling about his lips. Stupid me, why did I even begin to tell him about Matt the EgoManiac? It was a typical how-was-your-weekend pantry chats. As the Nescafe 3-in-1 contents poured out from the green slim stick, so did Trish's weekend conspiracy. Except that Matt didn't perk me up as much as the coffee did.
"Give him a chance lah," he said and flicked his cigi.
"And why are you so sympathetic towards him? I'm the victim here, okay."
"It's the brotherhood."
"Oh-puhlease," I did a gagging motion, "If you were there, you would have killed him."
"Over you? Nah."
Pencil chewed at 3:25:00 pm //
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Matt the EgoManiac
All in all I would call it a good distraction to my otherwise single-minded life.
Trish, a long time friend from school, called and we decide to meet up in Mid Valley. Halfway through my second Latte, Trish came in followed by a-friend-I-bumped-into-on-the-way-here.
Liar.
She plonked herself beside me, her eyes beaming with naughtiness. "This is Matt."
I thought this was supposed to be a giggly girl session - where we talk about old cranky teachers; and the time Trish called up the "you want luv?" hotline scribbled on the toilet wall.
No. It seems, Trish had other plans, which I did not plan for. Like all my attached girlfriends, she has good intentions which on closer examination are truly bad.
I shook Matt's hand limply. And he quickly went to get coffee.
My eyes narrowed menacingly at her.
"He's very smart," she half-whispered. "The book reading type."
I rolled my eyes.
"Trish, you know better than to do this ... to me!"
Matt comes back with a Grande Latte. Hmmph. To compensate for shortfalls elsewhere?
To be fair, he does not look like the hunchback of Notre Dame. He is well... okay ... in an okay sort of way. Sorry. I am always incoherent when it comes to men.
He starts talking about his work in IT, how he dabbled in web designing ("I'm quite a pixel artist") before he discovered SAP ("I really love it when the systems go live") to be his forte. ("I dive", "I always bring my digital camera around", "Here are some pictures of me at The Beach") Matt - the man about town, his name in lights! Hurrah!
Trish makes little eye darts towards me. I don't dart back. I let her see my growing grimace. Suffer, woman! But still I am too polite. I choke the urge to shout "Stop it! You egomaniac!"
I do TextTwist in my head and wonder when the weekend will end.
Pencil chewed at 5:41:00 pm //
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Okay. Concentrate.
I do a double neck creak and wriggle my fingers. Now, type!
Nothing happens.
Alas, the bittersweet sweet is a hard one to swallow. I have nothing, after mulling over it for a week. I'm don't think this is gonna be my ticket to the awards show.
Whenever I find myself knee deep in shit, there is only one thing to do. Stand up and shout at my cube-neighbour, "Tomas!"
He looks up through his slits. Tomas, also a writer, is a gweilo trapped in a China-apek body. A darling really - the Renaissance man with a cruel streak. In between cigis, he listens with full eye contact, ruffles your hair, and then deals out Dear Thelma slam-bang-thanks-mam solutions to life. Ironic is his middle name.
I grab my hair by the roots and yank lightly. He smiles. He knows the code. I am poofed. I need some TLC. I need some headlines.
"What?" he says.
"I'm dying!"
"So? Go die far, far away."
Man, what a good friend I have.
Pencil chewed at 4:28:00 pm //
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Green bitter pill
Anyhoo, Ms Donna Handkerskirt got off to a brilliant start. She smiled, tossed her hair, swayed her hips, said a few unintelligible words and Big Billy okayed the proposition.
Life is beautiful for the beautiful.
My AV producer (for confidentiality sake, codenamed Messy) pops up at my cubicle just when I was about to puke blood.
"Eh," pronounced a phelgm-ish guttural 'Air'. She always does that when she knows there's dirt to be had.
I turned the tips of my lips up. It was a face motion - not a smile. I didn't want any more dirt.
"Eh," she repeated, "what happened?" feigning compassion. She sat on the stool next to my chair, eager eyed, rustling her arms like Polly waiting for a cracker.
I sighed.
"Different day, same shit," I muttered. That was enough to set Messy squawking. She ticked off her checklist of complaints against Donna. Suddenly, I felt a little sympathy for Donna.
But just a little.
Angry, I was still. Am I upset that her flimsy creative proposition got the ok? Or that she is so slick at her womanly wiles till I wonder whether to be ashamed or in awe? Am I jealous? Would I get more copy sold if I had chopsticks for legs? Would the journey to the Golden Pencil be shorter if I had legs that stretched to my armpits?
Cut it out. I tell myself. I am made of stronger stuff - I'm write bloody well - I have a heart of gold - I recycle - I donate to sick people I read about in The Star.
I'm jealous.
Pencil chewed at 11:01:00 pm //
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How bitter can a sweet be?
My neck! Wowee, it is still connecting my head to my body - at least for another 2 weeks. The job Tina was terrorizing me on was delayed.
I live for yet another day.
Now that I have the sanity to look at it - the brief is a sweet job. Er, I mean a sweet Sweet job.
A sweet that starts out with bitter ginseng and slowly melts into a sweet caramel core. Strange. But then again, Malaysians are known to love to pop the bizarre into their mouths. Bugs. Intestines. Cogulated blood. Stuff of fear factor fame.
Not that this sweet is of the same category.
"Let's call it BitterSweet," gushed Darling Donna - the account executive who thinks scarf equals skirt. Wait. Make that handkerchief = skirt.
The guys round the table nod, presumably so that they can lower their eyes below the handkerchief.
Duh?
Pencil chewed at 2:31:00 pm //
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Just had to share this writing assignment gone wrong from snopes.
Big grin funny.
Pencil chewed at 10:03:00 pm //
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The terror of a tiny woman
The brief is still sitting on my table. Like some dirty laundry that didn't make it to the washine machine. Forsaken. Stinky.
Traffic Tina bursts into my cubicle and barks, "Done or not?"
I refused to look at her. Shook my head just so slightly and continued typing dummy copy on my PC. This is the practised look of defiance that every creative person must master. Though, I'm actually peeing in my pants from fear.
Tina is a terror. She rolls her eyes and everyone, especially lowly copywriters like me, cower and immediately type 120 words per minute. Don't care if it's grammatically correct, as long as I have something to hand over.
But Tina is tame today. She shrugs and leaves.
I am still alive.
Pencil chewed at 8:26:00 pm //
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Encased in writer's block
[shaking my fist, skyward] I'm a creative. I need my muse. I need inspiration. I need another shot of caffeine. I need ... I need ...
So writer's block is a perfectly legit excuse to slack off.
Deedledoo.
Pencil chewed at 4:36:00 pm //
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Brief encounters
After lunch, a brief appeared on my table. And I don't mean men's underwear. Nothing that kinky ever happens here. Though in the hallowed halls of banks and other plaid and paisley organisations, we have a carefully manufactured panty-flinging-bra-lasso-ing image. Wild things, we are. Oh ye oh ye oh (sorry, don't quite know how to spell Tarzan's call).
Not that I'll ever be in danger of finding underwear on my table.
Another thing I cannot understand is why call a tome of 4-5 pages (not counting the appendixes) a brief?
"It's to make you think it's light and easy. Duh?" the better half of my brain concludes.
Anyhow, it has successfully shattered my 'first' day back work.
Joy is brief.
True. True.
Pencil chewed at 8:32:00 pm //
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The first day of my year
Alright. The whole new year shebang is out of the way. Today, we officially start work. Or try to.
The whole morning is spent emailing each other the lunch venue. Gee ... it's hard work. The brief - cool, chic yet cheap. It's a tall order but we gotta start of the year in style, don't we?
Pencil chewed at 11:44:00 am //
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