My Sister Can Kick Your Ass.

On the topic of kicking ass, allow me to introduce my sister Vicki. That’s her up there preparing to go on her first date. Personally, I thought she was a bit too young. But it wasn’t really my call at the time. Anyway, my sister is, has been and will forever be my hero. Like any older sister, she’s done some awful things to me, i.e., stealing from my piggybank, grinding my head into the driveway, slamming doors in my face, dominating the remote or calling me “soft” in front of my high school girlfriend. But that’s all water under the bridge. And more importantly, my sister made me the man I am and I love her dearly. Here’s to you Sissy Poo.

Old People Are Weird.

I turned 40 this year, and I’m not really feeling it. Unfortunately, I can’t blame the usual culprits—the cranky joints, random tantrums and grey hair. If anything I’ve come to appreciate these things, if for no other reason than they make me appear more professional. What’s been troubling me of late are my newfound obsessions. In my younger days I used to fret over things like getting into a good college, how to make the world a better place and my future. Now I obsess over how to make the perfect tenderloin. Proof in point, I burned the midnight oil last night studying a new technique that involves roasting the chateaubriand first, then searing it in a pan of canola oil. Apparently this counter-intuitive method yields a tenderloin that is equally crusty and moist. God, see what I mean? I hate 40.

Daffodils Lack Respect.

On a related topic, I love daffodils. There, I said it. Does loving flowers make me a lesser man? I don’t know. Maybe you should swing by the den and let me know how you feel. See how tough you really are. Anyways, my girlfriend was trashing daffodils last night, comparing them to those ugly scoundrels, dandelions. My retort was simple yet eloquent: daffodils are awesome because they equal Spring which equals birth which equals hope and optimism which equals the Cincinnati Reds which equals another losing season which equals disappointment (okay, you get the point). Let’s just say that I won the argument.

Let's Go Outback Tonight.

I watched Australia this weekend; it was slightly less painful than the compound fracture I suffered 20 years ago. What a mystifyingly stupid film. That being said, I learned a lot from this movie. Unbeknownst to me, Australians are very hateful and aggressive. They treat aborigines like shit (I already knew that, courtesy of Midnight Oil), they can’t handle their liquor and they treat their women like dogs. It’s funny, but I actually considered going there to see my friend Sudeep. Not anymore. Guess I’ll just have to settle for the Outback Steakhouse.

Insight of the Day.

As a strategic planner, it’s critical that I share my unique perspective on things like culture, religion, politics and hot dogs. Without my POV, the world of advertising and the creative people who populate it would die on the vine. Some folks I know would be appalled by this assertion. Others, including my former colleague Ulysses, would simply nod in agreement and ask me to refill his coffee mug. Reason being, Ulysses is what we in the business call a visionary. He, and his fellow Messiahs, see, hear and feel things the common man overlooks. Things such as, why people drink PowerAde (because it has power), why people quit their jobs (because they’re unhappy) and why people play Guitar Hero (because they like music). I realize that for most novices, these "insights" probably sound obvious. But let me assure you, they're not. Just ask Ulysses.

Sex, Beef & Soda.

After watching an inordinate amount of basketball this weekend, I had to shut it down on Saturday. Reason being, my psyche simply couldn’t take the incessant barrage of stupid commercials anymore. One thing I surmised rather quickly is that advertisers think of my kind (male sports fans) as having three motivations in life: sex, beef and soda. Literally every ad I saw this weekend, save the occasional insurance ad, was about one of these three core needs. What’s funny is I can remember a time when sports brands (Nike, Gatorade, Adidas) used to advertise during sports. Apparently, today’s fan doesn’t actually play sport. They’re simply too busy chasing tail, pounding soda and stuffing their heads with beef patties.

Narcissism is Latin for “Steve Luker”.

Have to make this quick…on my way to watch Michigan destroy Clemson. My partner, Steve, just informed me that he doesn’t read the blog unless he’s mentioned. Apparently every other interesting person, event, idea in the world is totally irrelevant to Steve unless his picture or name is mentioned. Now I’m not saying that Steve isn’t interesting. What I’m saying is that certain issues, like a toilet that can flush 15 large hot dogs, is probably of more interest to y’all. Please discuss.

Houston We Have a Problem.

Our good buddy Matt Clark is back at Mutt. He’s helping us with an art installation for Teague. As with everything Matt touches, it’s gonna be super cool. If you haven’t heard of Mr. Clark, check out his work. Man is uber-talented. Btw, that’s his van up there. It’s not as nice as Mike’s truck, but it’s ten times cooler. I won’t even mention my $50,000 Isuzu right now…it’s above this conversation.

Hail to the Victors Valiant.

Ah, remember the Fab Five? The baggie shorts and black Nikes and shaved heads? The two Final Fours? The hundreds of thousands of dollars that Chris Webber illegally accepted? Remember probation? I sure do. But all that shit means nothing today, 'cuz my boys from Ann Arbor are dancing!! After 12 long years, it's time for you punks to recognize.

Aquaman.

It’s important to stay hydrated at work. Especially when you’re as active as I am. When my cells are sufficiently hydrated, my strategic thinking is off the charts. And when I’m pouring tanks of liquid down my throat with this rugged Vietnam-era canteen, I feel like a man. Granted, I may not be making much of a fashion statement, but at least I’m thinking about my child’s future. Apparently, this is of no importance to my plastic-cup using partners.

Welcome Home.

So my good buddy Jose Cabaco is back in town. That's Portuguese for Joe Horse. Joe used to be the ECD at Euro RSCG, until he realized he was worthless without my strategic insights. Last night I invited Joe to my favorite blue collar bar, the Mock Crest, where he proceeded to sip Coke, comb his hair and tweet. Words can't describe how happy we are to have Joe back. He's a good man, made even better by his new designer boots and pleated pants.

We're All Irish.

Today is a special day. My pure-bred Irish grandfather, Finny, arrived in America 100 years ago. On the boat trip from Dublin he was subjected to terrible abuse, mostly because his fellow passengers were threatened by his good looks and charismatic ways (remind you of anyone?). With visions of greatness dancing in his head, Grandpa Finny moved to Ohio and taught my daddy and his daddy how to be a man. This involved hunting possum, chopping wood and kicking Confederate ass. Today, I'd like us all to pour out a pint in honor of my fictitious grandaddy, Finny O'Cromer.

PS-That dog reminds me of Notre Dame fans...short, obnoxious and dumb.

Wait a Second.

I've seen some weird shit in my time, but what happened Saturday night takes the cake. Upon returning to the crib after an expensive night on the town, my girlfriend and I were greeted by this hate letter outside the front door:



At first I thought it was yet another prank courtesy of my impish neighbors. But then I looked closer, and noticed there were walnut shavings and a crudely chewed stump. Then it hit me--the squirrels!! Apparently those little terrorists are trying to get inside my head. Now we all know that squirrels can't write, and that someone with opposable thumbs covertly supported this attack. I can't say for certain, but evidence pulled from the crime scene points directly to the husband-and-wife terrorist cell, We Kill Birds. While I can appreciate their intentions (they are, after all, a couple of frustrated hippies), I'm appalled by their hostile, insensitive and utterly hypocritical act. As I continue to sort through my feelings, I'll just leave the perps with a little taste of what awaits the next time they come crawling around my mansion:

Get Out.

Following a senseless and bloody four-year war of attrition, I’m proud to announce that my home is now squirrel-free. At approximately 3:47 on Friday afternoon, Sgt. Tim McVey of the 24/7 Wildlife Brigade and I swept the attic of enemy combatants, sealed the perimeter and waited for the terrorists to return from an afternoon picnic. Somewhere around 7 pm that night, the colony was spotted on the roof looking dumbfounded and confused, at which point I rained a blistering barrage of stones on their furry heads and said culprits fled from the roof in terror. Excluding a few horrified neighbors, it was an utterly flawless operation.

Let's Do This.

Approximately one hour from now, I am going to walk out of our studio, slide behind my $50,000 Isuzu, drive to my home in north Portland, shake hands with Tim from 24/7 Wildlife, scale a ladder and set about wreaking complete and utter destruction on the squirrel colony that has mocked me for the last four years. I feel oddly calm and at peace right now—standard procedure for a solider of my bearing. But let me reassure you that once the fur starts flying, it’s gonna look and feel like a mad dog mauling a mouse.

Why?

Sometimes in this business, we all get a little carried away. Like last night, when I mistakenly consumed over a liter of vodka. The thinking at the time, was that if I cushioned the vodka with lots of hummus and pita I wouldn't feel hungover today. Unfortunately this did not work. I’m not here to point fingers, but I expect a little more of my kidneys. I used to be able to consume two liters of vodka in one sitting (minus the humus), and had no problem dominating my peers the next day. Today, I’m as useless as a one-legged donkey. And frankly, it pisses me off that Mike and Steve think they’re so god damn clever.

Steve is Back!

After a two-week vacation in Marrakesh and London, Steve finally returned to the den today. He’s a bit melancholy and under-the-weather, thanks for asking. But just as hard-ass as ever. That’s him this afternoon barking orders at Mike and me. Not exactly sure what was said, but it was something along the lines of “yip, yip, yip”.

Mike & Scott Never Left!

There’s Mike and I, hammering out fresh ideas for Teague, Paciugo, new business and several other guerrilla campaigns. The last two weeks have been an amazingly productive time for Mutt—lots of ideas, collaboration and laughs. But mostly just two good friends opening up about life, love and the pursuit of advertising greatness. Though some of this passion seems to have dissipated today, I'll always look back fondly on these last two weeks.

Bernie Does Attica.

Breaking news…investor Bernie Madoff is expected to plead guilty later this week to 11 counts of fraud. According to my sources, that will likely carry a life sentence in a max security prison. Needless to say, the future does not look bright for Mr. Madoff. Which got me thinking, as advertisers isn’t it our duty to transform this horrific story into a culturally sticky digital opportunity? I’m just thinking out loud right now, but what if we produced a reality show (to be aired on Hulu) that documented Bernie’s hellish plight inside of Attica? Think of it as “Oz” meets “Weekend with Bernie”. The show would launch with a blistering account of Bernie being shanked to death by a tranny gang-banger, followed by a series of episodes in which inmates duped security guards into thinking Bernie was still alive. There would be lots of laughs and tears (and of course, blood). And Citibank could underwrite the whole thing.

Millenial Malfeasance.

Just had a troubling run-in with Employee #1. Her name is Paige, and apparently she is not a follower of this blog. When asked why she sniffed, "Because I'm too damn busy." Before you erupt in anger, let me also point that Paige is like 20 years-old and should be able to walk, talk, text and tweet in her sleep (let alone read this damn blog). Not sure what the manual calls for, but I'm thinking about instituting a Clockwork Orange-type program where Paige is submitted to Scotty McLuker posts for 48 straight hours.

The Heart of Texas.

John Rowe is one of our favorite peeps on the planet. Account man by day, lady-slayer by night Mr. Rowe is a man of many talents. Despite the hindrance of a broken pinky (suffered during a vicious flag-football game), John is still killing it, professionally and romantically. At this point in his career nothing fazes J. Rowe. Hostile clients, petulant creatives, rabid cougars, belligerent bosses—all are putty in John’s hands. For this and many other reasons, we at Mutt would like to say “thanks” to Johnny Rowe’mance. You rock the bells, brother.

Dumb Hippies.

So it's snowing again in Portland. And from what I hear, it's been a miserably cold winter back east. Driving to work this morning, I was reminded of a (drunken) argument I had several years ago with some of my boys back home. It was a particularly cold winter at the time and they were convinced, once and for all, that global warming was a “dumb conspiracy cooked up by angry hippies”; and that the near freezing temps and foot of snow outside were irrefutable proof. I scratched my head in awe, and encouraged them to do a little more research. But my plea fell on deaf ears. As one buddy proudly barked at the end of our conversation, “Take that hippie bullshit back to Portland.” Man, Galileo's got nothing on me.

Buen Dia.

Just took a cat nap at work and was awakened by a lush burst of afternoon sunlight and Satan's marching band. What a beautiful day to be alive in Portland, Oregon. Happy weekend friends...here's to frosty High Lifes and lots o' strikes and spares.

Paciugo!

Mutts, I'd like to take this moment to announce the arrival of our newest mate, Paciugo. Headquartered in Dallas with 42 franchises scattered about the U.S. and Mexico, Paciugo makes the yummiest gelato in the world. I know this because I've been to Italy (several times). In addition to the obvious excitement that comes with working on a gelato brand, we're also super pumped about our clients Nancy, Frank, Christiana and Ugo. We've yet to meet in person, but they sound as passionate and insane as us. Once we get this puppy up and running, feel free to swing by the den for free samples. All that anger and hostility you're feeling towards the world will be gone in a lick.

We Legit.

It's not exactly the Declaration of Independence, but that right there is the Mutt Operating Agreement. Among other things, it binds us together for the entirety of our adult lives. I won't bore you with the details, but there are a few nuggets of interest. For example, Bylaw 10.5 (i) prohibits "the consumption of alcoholic beverages prior to creative presentations" and, in the case of breach, recommends a violent intervention on behalf of one of the partners (preferably with a claw hammer). Also, in the unlikely event of bankruptcy, Mike and I will be given full access to the bottomless Luker estate.

86 the Plunger.

In case you're wondering, chicken nuggets are so yesterday. Today, my friends, I want to talk to you about hot dogs. Now I realize times are tough. And that it's not exactly prudent to drop ten grand on a toilet. But I would encourage you to think again. As President Bush reminded us after 9/11, the best way out of this mess is to keep spending. And honestly, I can't think of a better investment in my future than a toilet capable of flushing 18 large hot dogs in one sitting. Not that my typical output is equivalent to 18 large hot dogs. But one never knows. And as my pal Mutt Murphy reminded me, in uncertain times a powerful toilet can go a long way.

Ten Piece and a Coke.

I try to eat right, stay clean and work my body. As a senior advertising executive, it's important to look my best. But sometimes in this darn wacky business, you just need to let down your hair and partake in some good, clean wholesome fun. Like Chicken McNuggets. Accompanied by a buckette of mustard, they are the best meal on the planet. If you don't believe me, check out the video above. It's a woman so traumatized by Mickey D's running out of nuggets that she had to call 911.

Hi Clyde.

So this is my third post of the day, and I know what you're thinking: dude must have a lot of time on his hands to write this much. That's pretty clever smart-ass. Never heard that before. Anyway, listen up cuz I have some good news. Mike's beautiful wife, Mikael, is officially starting to show. Over the weekend, little Clyde grew like a beanstalk and, from what my sources tell me, will be available to freelance in a couple months. All I can say is, Just in the nick of time Clyde. We could use a legit art director around here. Anyway, congrats Mikael!! You look as beautiful as ever.

We Have a Mountain and You Don't.

Driving to work this morning, I was reminded of how insanely beautiful Portland is. Not because of the tulips starting to emerge in my backyard. Or the lush hedges that line Willamette Drive. No, today Mt. Hood finally emerged from its slumber. And it was one of the most beautiful sights mine eyes have seen. It's funny, but during the winter months our awesome mountain all but disappears. Not because it's vacationing in Florida, but because it's perpetually socked in by dense cloud cover. I won't bother trying to articulate how much I love Mt. Hood. But let's just say, I would have no problem if it rained lava on my head and/or sucked me into a snowy crevasse. At least it would be a beautiful and dignified death. Btw, isn't it funny how a post about beauty morphed into a horrific death wish? Hilarious!

Happy Tuesday.

Click and play, it'll make your day.

PS-Thanks Elisa.

OG, the Original Grandpa.

Just returned from a weekend trip to Eugene, home of the Oregon Ducks. Walked around campus, ate steak and listened to a band who looked like they were still in high school. Not sure if any of you have been to a college campus recently, but it's pretty god damn depressing. Initially I was flooded by a wave of awesome memories, most of which involved girls, booze and football games. It was a good warm, fuzzy feeling. Until it dawned on me that these things took place shortly after the Pleistocene Age, and that I could be these kids great grandfather. Lord Almighty, where have the years gone? It seems like just yesterday that I was dominating the Beer Olympics and feasting on Blimpy Burgers.