We have only begun to fight!

Some of our 42 readers have been wondering, why did Scotty McLuker go dark in May? Did Mike get pregnant? Was Nick arrested again? Did Steve go on a Mormon mission? Unfortunately the answer to these questions is “no”. What we were doing friends was pitching the Gap. And damn if we didn’t almost win the thing. For those of you keeping score, Mutt went up against 12 heavyweight agencies and made it to the final two. As fate would have it, Gap went with the other agency (which obviously left us gutted). But now that some time has passed, and the weight of countless all-nighters has lifted, I must say it was a pretty impressive accomplishment for our new shop. Here’s to my partners and to all the wonderfully talented mates who pitched in over the last four weeks. Tomorrow we ride again!

And It Cuts Like a Knife.

I’m still a little shaken up about the Michael Jackson news. What the hell is going on? First Farah, now Jacko? It just doesn’t seem fair. Have to admit, I thought he died five years ago. But then, I was convinced for years that Jimmy Carter was dead (long story). Anyway, it’s only proper that we pour out some liquor tonight and share a few Jacko stories. He would be proud and awkward and probably a little misty. Here it goes:

1981—I shake up a boring field trip with a flawless moonwalk in front of my Social Studies teacher who quickly rings me up with a two-day detention.

1984—In what can only be described as a prescient moment, I light my hair on fire during recess while trying to recreate Jacko’s infamous Pepsi commercial. Years later I help win the Coke business at Wieden and clip off a lock of my greasy mane in honor of Jacko.

1985—While on a date with Catherine Wendell I get mocked by some meathead senior for wearing a Jacko glove. Undeterred, I slip my bejeweled hand around Catherine’s neck and whisper in her ear, “You’re a PYT.” She melts like tuna.

1986—I lead a classroom of 40 stoned juniors in a subversive rendition of Thriller (which those punk inmates in Thailand totally ripped off). My teacher at the time, Mrs. Elzey (who happens to be my mom), tries to join in the fun but is rebuffed by her angry teenage son and quickly loses control of the classroom. Another two-day detention follows.

Today Is a Sad Day.

Gonna age myself in a really awkward way right now. And I don't really care, because I'm in a lot of pain. In case you haven't heard, Farrah Fawcett died this morning. I didn't know her personally, but she was a huge inspiration in my life. Some of you chuckleheads are probably guffawing right now and making sophomoric jokes about me sitting in my lonely adolescent room gapping at Farah's poster on the wall. But that's not how it was between me and Farrah. The Farrah I knew and loved was Jill Munroe, the hottest, meanest, baddest Angel on the planet. She took her work very seriously, and smacked punks in the mouth when they got up in her grill. Sort of like how I treat Steve. What I learned from Jill is that a woman can throw a mean punch and look good doing it. A lesson my older sister reminded me of on a regular basis. Oh Farrah, farewell to thee. Thine golden locks and karate kicks were an inspiration to me.

This Guy is Funny.

My partner in crime, Matt Murphy, told me about a funny site yesterday. Some of you digital hipsters might have already seen this. If so, chill out and stop acting so cool. Just because you've seen something on the web doesn't make you cool. If anything, it makes you an antisocial bore. Anyway, here's how it works: this dude scans ads on Craig's List and then responds in an, um, rather provocative way. Enjoy.

Evil Lurks Beneath.

Last week Nick and I had an interesting conversation about our colons. Apparently Nick is quite concerned about his lower duodenum. It seems a lot of things can go wrong down there. Things that are very uncomfortable to discuss, but that need addressed. Nick pointed out, for example,that my lower intestine will probably collapse this year because of the army of microbes, germs and parasites I flush down my throat every time I eat McDonald's and/or inhale quarts of whiskey (which, ironically, i did last night). Nick believes I need a flush or a frontal enema or perhaps a drink called Kombucha. And though he's not a doctor or a nutritionist, Nick is one hell of a designer and he looks kind of healthy. So I really have no choice but to listen to Nick. Okay, on my way to pound a Kombucha. Will let you know how it goes.

What an Arrogant Animal.

Portland is renowned for its hippy-dippy vibe and deep passion for nature. But the photo above, snapped today by the brother of a friend in a nearby park, makes me want to hug a Republican. I have nothing against squirrels. But what the hell is he/she doing in a harness? And what's up with that smug grin he/she is wearing? In this instance most people would typically point the finger at the owner (for upsetting the fragile balance between man and nature). But that's hippy liberal garbage. The real culprit here is that shifty bastard of a squirrel. Based on this one photo, he's obviously feeling pretty good about himself. You know, like after years of living in the woods he's finally conned some dork into providing three hots and a cot and a couple belly strokes before bed. What he/she doesn't realize is that he/she has just given up his/her freedom. And now he/she is no better off than some dude doing 15-30 in Attica. What if the owner is boring and listens to Hanson and has really obnoxious friends and watches reruns of Webster and smokes clove cigarettes and cleans their toenails all day? If we assume all of these things to be true, then we can also assume that Mr. Squirrel has just made a terrible decision. Guess that cozy nest up in Forest Park doesn't look so bad now, does it little buddy?

Let's Do This.

Happy Monday aspiring interns. First,thank you for your patience. This has gone on far longer than we ever anticipated. As soon as Steve returns from his two-week sojourn, the plan is to sit down tomorrow, review the portfolios and set up interviews (either in person or over the phone). You should expect to hear from us by Friday. If you don't receive an email or phone call this week, it means you're awesome but that we've decided to pursue other candidates. Unfortunately, the state of Oregon prohibits us from staffing more than two interns. And we've received upwards of 30 portfolios. Okay, talk soon friends. Best of luck.

Please Stop.

The sun, that orange sphere in the sky upon which all life depends, has effectively disappeared from the Pacific Northwest. This weekend I eagerly awaited its return, only to be disappointed (again) by three days of doom and gloom. I'm not exactly on the verge of being hospitalized. But let's just say my Seasonal Affect Disorder is raging. And all I want to do right now is curl up in front of a sun lamp and gobble tablets of Vitamin D. Can someone please help me? Mom? Mother Nature? Obama?

Doo'Dad.

Hi Dad. Happy Father's Day. Wanted to thank you for making us the strong, compassionate and loving fellas that we are. Mr. Luker, thanks for teaching Steve how to be a man. That couldn't have been easy. Mr. McCommon, thanks for teaching Mike how to treat a lady. Where would he be without Mikael? And Pops, thanks for always having my back (and for kicking my ass when needed, which was often). You're the best, and we wouldn't trade you for any pops on the planet.

Go Iran!

Americans are notorious for being close-minded, xenophobic and lazy, especially in matters of politics. I, for one, refuse to live up to this stereotype. To demonstrate my concern for the larger world, I recently left an inspiring post on Hossein Mousavi’s Facebook page (the guy who just got jobbed in the Iranian election). My intent was to let him and millions of other Iranians know that Mutt respects their courage and tenacity. Unfortunately I was basically told to “fuck off” for being an American (not sure how they deduced that). Though virtually every response to our post was a venom-laced attack on America, we're feeling pretty about our first outreach to Iran.

PS— Can someone please tell me how to say, "Ahmadinejad".

Teen Spirit My Ass.

It hasn’t been all toil and trouble here at Mutt. Just last week we managed to sneak away and do a series of shows in western Washington; SRO, of course. That’s Mike and Steve up there (in wigs) and me hammering the drums. We didn’t get paid squat, but goddamn if we didn’t make some eardrums bleed. The last night of the tour we played Aberdeen, home of big-timer Kurt Cobain. Some cat told me after the show that he saw Nirvana in the early days, and that Mutt was ten times better. It’s pretty hard to argue with that logic. Not sure what the future holds, but if we can get Steve’s voice under control we might just need to quit our day jobs.

Goats.

Hello friends. So it's obviously been a long time since I last posted. And apparently some of you are quite angry and confused. While chugging tallboy vodkas at Lee Davis’s fifth going-away party last night, someone suggested that I apologize for neglecting the blog. Unfortunately that’s not in my nature. My mom taught me a long time ago never to admit fault and/or take blame. In her words, “It’s always best to point the finger, especially when there’s a lot at stake.” With this in mind, I’d like to blame the following people and circumstances:

The weather
Our clients
Mike & Steve
My girlfriend
Kellie Pederson
Mona
The Gap
My mom
Nick’s hair
The city of Portland

Whew. Now that we’ve buried that hatchet, let’s get back to having some fun.

I Miss You.

Friends, it's been a long, exhausting two weeks. Unfortunately I can't talk right now...have to board a plane in a few. But man, we got some serious catching up to do. In the meantime, wrap your ring finger around your middle finger, look skyward and wish us luck.