if you thought this man was scared to keep his game tight, you're straight-up out of your fucking mind. like, surgeons are asking if they can peel back your skull to see if you have a brain, and you're all "sure, no problem."
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Now You Know
if you thought this man was scared to keep his game tight, you're straight-up out of your fucking mind. like, surgeons are asking if they can peel back your skull to see if you have a brain, and you're all "sure, no problem."
Monday, May 12, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
From The Department of Urgent Messages
like you, it bugs the crap out of me that holmes forgot a comma after "yo." but his meaning beams thru. if you want to hit the rails, you have a ready colleague.
Monday, April 14, 2008
long time no see
in honor of time's refusal to stray from its forward path, i offer this peek in the rear view mirror: a farewell note that, on the occasion of my return, today, to the place i left four years ago, an old colleague just sent me.
i see in it nothing so much as an unevolved writing style. but i'll be happy if it kills a few minutes of your day.
welcome back to the lowlands.
---------------------------------------
Subject: FINally
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "If I had known he was going
to delay his leaving so long, I'd have taken more time to write something
decent on his farewell card, rather than the thoughtless, trite, and poorly
punctuated drivel I so robotically wristed out." (Example: "Take care, and
all the best! Good luck for the future! Cheers, Carlos Furnari")
It's okay. I forgive you. What you lack in poignancy or heartfelt
expression, you make up for in general good looks. And spiffy dress. And
nice hair. As we well know, the importance of these last two cannot be
overestimated.
Please be forewarned: on my various application forms in New York--for
apartments, loans, future employment, etc.--I will put down each of your
names as a reference. This may take some time, but one should not enter into
these contracts lightly. If someone should call to inquire whether I am
really as terrific as my application leads them to believe, please praise me
in the most glowing terms possible, and as extravagantly as your vocabulary
will allow. You may even wish to take advantage of the uncharacteristically
helpful thesaurus in your computer. You could simply read a list of
synonyms for "fantastic" right off your computer screen, and the poor fool
on the phone will be none the wiser.
If anyone presses you for specific examples ("What makes this man so, as you
say, 'magnanimous'?"), simply recall as much as you can from bible class
about the life of Jesus of Nazareth. Only instead of saying things like,
"...then Jesus made a HUGE PILE of fish out of, like, three fish," say "Jeff
[LAST NAME]" instead of "Jesus." ("Then Jeff [LAST NAME] said, 'Lazarus, Come forth’!, and dude totally awoke from the dead. I’d definitely rent him the
apartment.") Try it. If you don't mind, please don't mention the story
where I go berserk at the temple and knock over all the merchants' and
money-changers' tables. I don't want anyone to think I'm some kind of
troublemaker.
For some of you, this request might lead you to do what some people call
"lying." not the kind of lying where you get a nice tan and beach sand stuck
to your back, but the kind of lying the abovementioned bible discourages.
Don't worry about this. Just lie. I have no problem with you compromising
your personal, moral standards on my behalf. It's not like it's the first
time I'm asking. Just lie. Lie through your nicely brushed teeth and
acne-free face. It's okay.
Where were we? Oh yes: today is my last day at wieden and kennedy. You
thought it was weeks ago. Some of you thought it was years ago. But it's
not. It's today.
At this point, if you’re still awake, you’re no doubt saying to yourself,
“With his 8-odd years of wieden and kennedy experience, I wish JeffJesus
would share with me such wisdoms as are inaccessible to me, the comparative
neophyte.” Well. Let me tell you. It all boils down to two things.
One: resist the urge to think your profession is meaningless. If you’re
like me, and the people you went to college with went on to become doctors
and save peoples’ lives on a semi-daily basis, you might be tempted to
wonder whether you, as a contributor to the advertising arts, really do
anything worth anything. Sure, you’re attractive, and have great hair. Yet,
in an unfairness typical of your god, you have the capacity to realize, “I
have not repaired anyone’s life-threatening ruptured colon today,” and your
emotional capacities make you suffer feelings of uselessness. Useless like
a, like a (pick your metaphor):
1) A candle underwater.
2) A beautician at a wieden + kennedy gathering.
3) A campfire at the bottom of a lake.
4) Some kind of flame or fire under the surface of, like, a big bay. Or
ocean.
Do not despair. Faced with any existential quandary, staring into the very
abyss, remember: the universe has been designed such that, at some point,
all record or memory of you will be erased. No atom of you will be left. So
take heart.
And anyway, the lives you save as a doctor might turn out to be those of
Hitler, Stalin, Bin Laden, or that guy who puts butter on your stockbrood
even though you order the same fucking stockbroodje, without butter, every
fucking day. or Bush.
Keep that in mind.
Two: If you’re here late at night, and you think you’re all alone, and you
see the fax machine sitting there, and you think, “I wonder what would
happen if I tried to fax my penis,” don’t. Don’t try. I’m just saying.
Do I regret anything, you wonder? Yes. I regret many things. I regret every
minute I spent not being a multi-billionaire. I regret having acted with
understanding, wisdom, and humility, when I should have whipped out my
Viking crowbar and played piñata with the client’s head. But mostly...mostly
I regret not having spent enough time in the pleasant company of you, my
colleagues. I hibernated, yes. Watched too much TV. Grew roots on the old
sofa. And, as a result, I regret that I didn't spend as much time with you,
socially, as you would have liked. Perhaps it will comfort you to know
that, as tragic as it is for me to have deprived you of my frequent company,
equally tragic is that I deprived myself the opportunity to enjoy your
adoration! We both lose! I apologize for this. If I could do it all again,
I promise I would allow you to love me even more than you did. It's only
fair.
I do NOT regret the fax machine thing. For it is only through deep shame and
humiliation that we mature into the people we can be; into the bitter,
alienated, and neurotic offspring of our destiny, predetermined to fail in
the attempt to discover why we must die, before we must die. A fax machine
can tell us much about the human condition. Please profit from my
experience. Thank you, fax machine.
In closing, I just want to issue a few more owed thanks. Thanks for not
minding me. Thanks for not reporting me to the authorities. Thanks, too,
for the going-away present. Or presents, I should say, plural. Not sure if
all of you are aware, but I’ll be gratefully taking with me a full
year’s-worth of fresh office products, courtesy of an unattended supply
room. I must admit it seemed like an unusual gift (does your creativity know
no limits?), but who am I to decline any token of your gratitude, or ignore
the room you left empty on my behalf? Thank you very, very much. Your
uniqueness in giving is matched only by your unwitting generosity. If I
could, I’d write “thank you” on a million jillion post-it notes, and stretch
them from here to the moon. Actually, I can. I won’t, but I can. So, again,
thanks.
Make more babies, please. Or have fun trying. Or have fun trying not to.
Shit, just have fun. There’s a good chance I’ll miss you.
Take care, and all the best! Good luck for the future! Cheers,
JK
p.s.: I told many of you I would take the time to run around the agency and
impose one last hug on you. I think I may have lied.
i see in it nothing so much as an unevolved writing style. but i'll be happy if it kills a few minutes of your day.
welcome back to the lowlands.
---------------------------------------
Subject: FINally
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "If I had known he was going
to delay his leaving so long, I'd have taken more time to write something
decent on his farewell card, rather than the thoughtless, trite, and poorly
punctuated drivel I so robotically wristed out." (Example: "Take care, and
all the best! Good luck for the future! Cheers, Carlos Furnari")
It's okay. I forgive you. What you lack in poignancy or heartfelt
expression, you make up for in general good looks. And spiffy dress. And
nice hair. As we well know, the importance of these last two cannot be
overestimated.
Please be forewarned: on my various application forms in New York--for
apartments, loans, future employment, etc.--I will put down each of your
names as a reference. This may take some time, but one should not enter into
these contracts lightly. If someone should call to inquire whether I am
really as terrific as my application leads them to believe, please praise me
in the most glowing terms possible, and as extravagantly as your vocabulary
will allow. You may even wish to take advantage of the uncharacteristically
helpful thesaurus in your computer. You could simply read a list of
synonyms for "fantastic" right off your computer screen, and the poor fool
on the phone will be none the wiser.
If anyone presses you for specific examples ("What makes this man so, as you
say, 'magnanimous'?"), simply recall as much as you can from bible class
about the life of Jesus of Nazareth. Only instead of saying things like,
"...then Jesus made a HUGE PILE of fish out of, like, three fish," say "Jeff
[LAST NAME]" instead of "Jesus." ("Then Jeff [LAST NAME] said, 'Lazarus, Come forth’!, and dude totally awoke from the dead. I’d definitely rent him the
apartment.") Try it. If you don't mind, please don't mention the story
where I go berserk at the temple and knock over all the merchants' and
money-changers' tables. I don't want anyone to think I'm some kind of
troublemaker.
For some of you, this request might lead you to do what some people call
"lying." not the kind of lying where you get a nice tan and beach sand stuck
to your back, but the kind of lying the abovementioned bible discourages.
Don't worry about this. Just lie. I have no problem with you compromising
your personal, moral standards on my behalf. It's not like it's the first
time I'm asking. Just lie. Lie through your nicely brushed teeth and
acne-free face. It's okay.
Where were we? Oh yes: today is my last day at wieden and kennedy. You
thought it was weeks ago. Some of you thought it was years ago. But it's
not. It's today.
At this point, if you’re still awake, you’re no doubt saying to yourself,
“With his 8-odd years of wieden and kennedy experience, I wish JeffJesus
would share with me such wisdoms as are inaccessible to me, the comparative
neophyte.” Well. Let me tell you. It all boils down to two things.
One: resist the urge to think your profession is meaningless. If you’re
like me, and the people you went to college with went on to become doctors
and save peoples’ lives on a semi-daily basis, you might be tempted to
wonder whether you, as a contributor to the advertising arts, really do
anything worth anything. Sure, you’re attractive, and have great hair. Yet,
in an unfairness typical of your god, you have the capacity to realize, “I
have not repaired anyone’s life-threatening ruptured colon today,” and your
emotional capacities make you suffer feelings of uselessness. Useless like
a, like a (pick your metaphor):
1) A candle underwater.
2) A beautician at a wieden + kennedy gathering.
3) A campfire at the bottom of a lake.
4) Some kind of flame or fire under the surface of, like, a big bay. Or
ocean.
Do not despair. Faced with any existential quandary, staring into the very
abyss, remember: the universe has been designed such that, at some point,
all record or memory of you will be erased. No atom of you will be left. So
take heart.
And anyway, the lives you save as a doctor might turn out to be those of
Hitler, Stalin, Bin Laden, or that guy who puts butter on your stockbrood
even though you order the same fucking stockbroodje, without butter, every
fucking day. or Bush.
Keep that in mind.
Two: If you’re here late at night, and you think you’re all alone, and you
see the fax machine sitting there, and you think, “I wonder what would
happen if I tried to fax my penis,” don’t. Don’t try. I’m just saying.
Do I regret anything, you wonder? Yes. I regret many things. I regret every
minute I spent not being a multi-billionaire. I regret having acted with
understanding, wisdom, and humility, when I should have whipped out my
Viking crowbar and played piñata with the client’s head. But mostly...mostly
I regret not having spent enough time in the pleasant company of you, my
colleagues. I hibernated, yes. Watched too much TV. Grew roots on the old
sofa. And, as a result, I regret that I didn't spend as much time with you,
socially, as you would have liked. Perhaps it will comfort you to know
that, as tragic as it is for me to have deprived you of my frequent company,
equally tragic is that I deprived myself the opportunity to enjoy your
adoration! We both lose! I apologize for this. If I could do it all again,
I promise I would allow you to love me even more than you did. It's only
fair.
I do NOT regret the fax machine thing. For it is only through deep shame and
humiliation that we mature into the people we can be; into the bitter,
alienated, and neurotic offspring of our destiny, predetermined to fail in
the attempt to discover why we must die, before we must die. A fax machine
can tell us much about the human condition. Please profit from my
experience. Thank you, fax machine.
In closing, I just want to issue a few more owed thanks. Thanks for not
minding me. Thanks for not reporting me to the authorities. Thanks, too,
for the going-away present. Or presents, I should say, plural. Not sure if
all of you are aware, but I’ll be gratefully taking with me a full
year’s-worth of fresh office products, courtesy of an unattended supply
room. I must admit it seemed like an unusual gift (does your creativity know
no limits?), but who am I to decline any token of your gratitude, or ignore
the room you left empty on my behalf? Thank you very, very much. Your
uniqueness in giving is matched only by your unwitting generosity. If I
could, I’d write “thank you” on a million jillion post-it notes, and stretch
them from here to the moon. Actually, I can. I won’t, but I can. So, again,
thanks.
Make more babies, please. Or have fun trying. Or have fun trying not to.
Shit, just have fun. There’s a good chance I’ll miss you.
Take care, and all the best! Good luck for the future! Cheers,
JK
p.s.: I told many of you I would take the time to run around the agency and
impose one last hug on you. I think I may have lied.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
my laziness is not a problem
I’m the laziest motherfucker in the world. So what. I don’t give a shit. It’s not a title I worked for.
Of course they held a contest. Dudes came from far and wide to Muncie, Illinois to vie for the title. They brought empty potato chip bags, unpaid bills and eviction notices, little figurines they sculpted from accumulated bong resin—evidence of a life lazily led. All very impressive. Shit, they brought unfilled and incomplete tax return forms from the 80’s.
Me? I stayed home. So they were all, “Damn, now we know.”
That’s right, motherfuckers. Next time watch TV. There’s probably something on.
My gold medal’s probably still at the post office or UPS or some shit. If I won’t get off the couch to sign for it I sure as fuck won’t be dipping by to pick it up. What do y’all fuckers think I give? A shit?
If you think I ever took Sominex or Ambien, you’re a fucking lunatic. I can’t even write them fucking names without feeling like a nap. Fucking bears take a look at my midwinter form and wonder why they feel all antsy. Settle down, bitches! You’ll fucking strain something with all that hibernating and snoring and shit. Take it the fuck easy.
I never have to mess with condoms, either. My swimmers are all, “Whatever.”
This blog entry was supposed to be a full-length feature movie. With its own global distribution deal, Burger King cross-promo, inaction figures, the whole bit. Think I give a shit? You’re insane. You’re lucky I even punctuated this motherfucker.
You think I worry about being able to breathe inside of this cocoon of cobwebs? You have completely lost any semblance of any mind you barely ever had. Go for The World’s Craziest Insane Motherfucker title. You’re a fucking shoe-in. I breathe, if at all, about once every Wednesday. Fucking Germans hate me.
You’re probably going, “How will they know when you’re dead?” good question, fuckface. They won’t. My cells won't even scrape together the energy required to die, anyway. even if they did die, you think my cells would even bother to decompose? after going through the hassle of dying? They got better things to do. Like not one fucking thing.
Man, fuck this.
Naptime.
Of course they held a contest. Dudes came from far and wide to Muncie, Illinois to vie for the title. They brought empty potato chip bags, unpaid bills and eviction notices, little figurines they sculpted from accumulated bong resin—evidence of a life lazily led. All very impressive. Shit, they brought unfilled and incomplete tax return forms from the 80’s.
Me? I stayed home. So they were all, “Damn, now we know.”
That’s right, motherfuckers. Next time watch TV. There’s probably something on.
My gold medal’s probably still at the post office or UPS or some shit. If I won’t get off the couch to sign for it I sure as fuck won’t be dipping by to pick it up. What do y’all fuckers think I give? A shit?
If you think I ever took Sominex or Ambien, you’re a fucking lunatic. I can’t even write them fucking names without feeling like a nap. Fucking bears take a look at my midwinter form and wonder why they feel all antsy. Settle down, bitches! You’ll fucking strain something with all that hibernating and snoring and shit. Take it the fuck easy.
I never have to mess with condoms, either. My swimmers are all, “Whatever.”
This blog entry was supposed to be a full-length feature movie. With its own global distribution deal, Burger King cross-promo, inaction figures, the whole bit. Think I give a shit? You’re insane. You’re lucky I even punctuated this motherfucker.
You think I worry about being able to breathe inside of this cocoon of cobwebs? You have completely lost any semblance of any mind you barely ever had. Go for The World’s Craziest Insane Motherfucker title. You’re a fucking shoe-in. I breathe, if at all, about once every Wednesday. Fucking Germans hate me.
You’re probably going, “How will they know when you’re dead?” good question, fuckface. They won’t. My cells won't even scrape together the energy required to die, anyway. even if they did die, you think my cells would even bother to decompose? after going through the hassle of dying? They got better things to do. Like not one fucking thing.
Man, fuck this.
Naptime.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
a thing i forgot until i didn't
first of all, while we're on the topic, fuck banksy. that dude is what he purports to loathe, yet he loves himself.
ok.
soon after i moved back to new york from amsterdam i fell in like with this neckface shit i saw everywhere. i had a buddy help me jack one of his awesome pieces right off of a wall in soho. we used to work construction together in baltimore, so we wore our construction clothes, got our morning coffee, rolled up in his pick up, and waved hello to passing police from our work site.
then the construction workers at my new apartment threw it away thinking it was some of their own trash from the remodel.
ok.
soon after i moved back to new york from amsterdam i fell in like with this neckface shit i saw everywhere. i had a buddy help me jack one of his awesome pieces right off of a wall in soho. we used to work construction together in baltimore, so we wore our construction clothes, got our morning coffee, rolled up in his pick up, and waved hello to passing police from our work site.
then the construction workers at my new apartment threw it away thinking it was some of their own trash from the remodel.
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