Mutt Does Dallas (and Cheese).

Welcome to Dallas, home of Cowboy Cheerleaders and pink hotel rooms. We're t-minus two hours from our first creative presentation to Paciugo, and running the typical gamut of emotions (fear, excitement, anxiety, constipation). Not sure how Steve and Mike are feeling right now, but that queso we had last night has me "questionable" for this morning's meeting. Might have to pull a Willis Reid, because right now my lower duodenum is begging for mercy. My dreams last night were just one long cheese-infested hallucination. Delicious but troubling. Anyways, fingers crossed on a good meeting. Wish us (and Paciugo) luck.

Mutt'date.

Lots to report my fury friends. For those of you crazy enough to apply for an internship at Mutt, please know that we'll be reviewing books at the end of this month. Expect a final decision by the second week of June (or several months later). We've received quite a few books (thanks), so in the words of my little league coach "the competition's gonna be pretty durn fierce." If you're really feeling Mutt, then I'd recommend throwing a little graft our way. Just kidding. Or am I?
Next Thursday we're flying to Dallas for our first creative presentation to Paciugo. I shared our strategy on Wednesday, which went really well. Unfortunately Mike and Steve were quite upset after the meeting. Not because they didn't see the brilliance in my work. But because it's become Mutt tradition to hate on your partner when he does something really well. I, for one, am all for it. I'm about as jealous and shallow as it gets. Next Friday, when we rock the creative presentation, I'll be the angriest guy in the room.

Don't read this...

If you missed the season finale of LOST. Holy crap, where do I start? Hydrogen bombs. Egyptian statues (of crocodiles in miniskirts). Demonic possession. Good versus Evil. Cain and Able. I know people who gush about LOST can be annoying as hell. But I just can't help myself right now. It's the most brilliant television show ever created. Yes, there are moments of sap, sci-fi and bad acting. But conceptually LOST has no rival. I often fantasize about being on the island. You know, chilling with the survivors, kicking some Dharma ass and getting drunk with Sayeed as he jams bamboo shoots in my fingernails. Mostly I just like the guns and blood. It reminds me of my gang infested 'hood in Ohio, except with lots of ferns. When LOST ends next year I'm sure to fall into a deep, dark depression. Strip away all the death and destruction, and it just seems so perfect there. Honestly all I want out of life sometimes is a banana shack in Hanalei (and maybe a fully loaded glock).

We Like Mike!

We here at Scotty McLuker would like to wish our beloved mate, friend, confidant and part-time lover Mike a happy, happy (belated) birthday. Yesterday Mikey celebrated his 39th year on this planet by pounding two plates of hush puppies and a quart of gin. We are proud of Mikey, not for what happened last night, but for being the thoughtful, funny, creative, all around good mutt that he is. Mush Mikey mush.


Mike picking his nose.


Mike boozing at work (before it was banned).


Mike trying to be blue-collar.


Mike breaking the law.


Mike wearing it well.

Mistake By the Lake.

I realize the posts have been a little slow of late, and a little too focused on my various illnesses. But I'm still sick, and laying in bed as we speak. So shut the hell up. Now that we've cleared that up, let's talk about the worst city in America--Cleveland, Ohio. This video captures the ethos and spirit of Cleveland.

PS-Sorry dad, I realize Cleveland is your birthplace. But we both know you made a wise move getting out of that hellhole.

I Got Some Pig in Me.

In a cruel twist of fate, it appears as though I have contracted the swine flu. Some of you may recall an earlier post, in which I upbraided pigs for being the most vile animal on the planet. Now, it seems, the dirty bastards have burst through my immune system and are wreaking havoc on my innards. Needless to say the show must go on and, yes, I will be in the office today. But between my hacking cough and phlegm soaked lungs, I'm not exactly a joy to be around. Just last night, while sipping a hot totty at my local, an uptight couple sitting next to me scoffed every time I sneezed, coughed and/or honked my nose. Apparently it's illegal to go to a bar when you're sick? Anyway, I'm heavily medicated and well-dressed so today anything is possible.

Night of the Living Dead.

Moments before falling asleep last night, I came across this picture on the web. At first it didn’t elicit much of a response—I was exhausted, kind of drunk and just not that interested in midgets dancing with cats. But then I passed out, and the vodka started running around my brain. And next thing you know, I’ve become that midget, wrestling with man-sized cats and fighting for my goddamn life. Right now the details are a bit fuzzy. But I distinctly remember spending what felt like hours running through fields of wheat trying to escape not one but six man-sized cats. I also remember clawing at my chest in a desperate attempt to remove that stupid suit the midget is wearing. My little legs weren’t churning fast enough, and that suit felt like an iron maiden wrapped around my tiny torso. Needless to say, the whole scene was terrifying. And right now I feel like kicking some cat’s ass. You know, as payback.

Mutt'date.

On a more positive, less interesting note things are going incredibly well at Mutt right now. We’re up to our fur in work, but loving every minute of it (especially when Mike and Steve fight). Yesterday the boys presented some rifunkulous ideas to Skylab, one of the hottest architectural firms in the country right now. I can’t divulge the details, but the work rocks the bells. Personally I’m knee deep in Paciugo at the moment. What an awesome brand—great people, great product and tons of great stories to tell. If we don’t nail this one, I should be beaten senseless. And last but not least our firstborn, Teague, is nearing the end of production. All that remains is putting the finishing touches on the new blog and constructing an art installment in their Seattle office. We can’t wait to share the work with ya’ll—we’re very, very proud.

Mutt=VIP (Very Important Porpoise)

Had an Ugly Person moment this week. Sent an email to someone who I thought was a friend asking for a favor and she never responded. At first I was utterly perplexed, but then I realized that I’m just a little ant on the wrong side of the river and the offender is, well, incredibly important. I don’t have much to say to the Ugly Person other than, “Hey Ugly Person, it’s just advertising. Everything is going to be okay. Just take a deep breath, relax and step outside your studio for a moment. It’s beautiful out here.”

Satan's Pissing Me Off.

So it’s been a month since I last wrote about yoga. And to be honest, I’m about to crack some skulls. As I’m learning, there are two types of Bikram instructors: one is a total hard-ass hell bent on destroying your soul and sapping you of all precious bodily fluids; the other is Satan. Being the good student that I am, I’ve been working hard to adhere to the mantras of focus, patience and discipline; I’ve also learned that if I get to class early I can usually cheat by scoring a spot next to the window (which is considerably cooler). Unfortunately none of this matters when Satan is teaching. Following class one of my yoga partners, a 60 year-old ex-doctor, went absolutely berserk on Satan. Miffed by Satan’s refusal to open the window throughout the 90-minute death march, the Doc chortled, “I don’t care for your tough guy teaching. It’s literally impossible to breath when 40 people are hyperventilating in a fucking sardine can.” His f-bomb, not mine. As luck would have it, I too was overcome with hostility towards Satan and angrily threw a couple towels around the locker room to prove I meant business. Unfortunately this seemed to scare and confuse my yoga partners. And instead of slapping me on the back, the way my buddies did when I used to get t’eed up in hoops, my sweaty compatriots all fled the locker room in terror.

PS-Btw, the above photo is not of Satan. If it were I would write something clever and potentially illegal and attach it to Satan's Subaru Outback.

Happy Burfday Steve!!

Whether he's playing the role of loving father or cagey granddad, our man Steve is one special hombre. Which is why, on this his 53rd birthday, we'd like to call out just how much we love Mutt #2. You are the bestest Steve-On. Here's to another awesome 53 years.


Steve breaking the law.


Steve trying to be clever.


Steve posing for the Willamette Weekly.


Steve and Rachel making out.