You people are beasts

WELL.

I'd try explaining my lengthy absence from this blog, but I doubt anyone reading it remembers that I'm a contributor. Even I forgot until recently. Still, I suppose I owe you people something. This video is a good approximation of what my life has been like since the last time I posted here.

Anyway, as some of you may know, I am an ad critic. Which means, among other things, that I am no stranger to hate mail. This was a particularly fun item:

With regard to your comment... "How they thought this would reflect well on the brand is anyone's guess. Maybe they downsized the people in charge of thinking this stuff through."
That, or maybe they just went for it. And didn't over think it. That or, they didn't make a decision based on fear. Whatever the case, they tried.
Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that. Instead, you -like all the other Ellsworth Tooheys of the world- do your best to justify your existence by doing nothing more commenting on other's efforts. Attempting to gain some modicum of self worth with your smug and glib little quips. Sad.
I'll be expecting the requisite glib/smug/ironic comment back from you. So, take your time. And make it a good one.

Ellsworth Toohey, by the way, was an art critic in The Fountainhead whose secret plan was to destroy excellence by enshrining mediocrity. That this dude finished The Fountainhead is no small feat; rather, it proves that he likes the smell of Ayn Rand's farts as much as she did. He's a stronger man than me in that respect, because I didn't get very far into that book before Rand's utter dogshit writing got the best of me.

But if he's serious about tearing down mediocrity, he should be fighting back-to-back with me against a marketing culture where "growing the brand" has become a justification for poorly conceived or pointlessly random ideas that do nothing for the product they're selling. The whole POINT of advertising is to sell things, after all, and merely raising awareness of a product is fruitless if said awareness is negative, or even opaque. The ad he's defending leaves me, the viewer, connecting the Walmart brand to a clown screaming at a room full of terrified kids. Not an inaccurate image, God knows, but not one that reflects well on Walmart. And brands do this ALL THE TIME.  It is a function of creative and artistic laziness that protects bad ideas at the expense of good ones (this Kodak spot is an example of what I think is a good one). If Captain Objectivism wasn't so busy getting his precious feelings hurt by strangers on the Internet, he would see that.

Also, I write for Adfreak to justify my existence at the expense of others? No, I work for money - Verizon doesn't accept justifications of my existence in lieu of payment, thanks. But I'd rather be Ellsworth Toohey, for all his faults, than yet another blowhard asshole who thinks he's John Galt.

I'm a Lady! Lauren's Finally Growing Up

I was tired getting dressed this morning, so I absently mindedly reverted to OLD Lauren and slipped into one of my borderline inappropriate outfits. Lately I have been trying to dress more like a lady, banishing my "is-that-a-dress-or-a-long-shirt?" outfits to the back of my closet, along with my kinda-skirts. If I don't concentrate on dressing appropriately every day, though, I end up leaving my apartment wearing something like what I wore today: a skin-tight, pro-boob-spillage, shiny green shirt, a black lace skirt with a slit up the entire right side, a view of my lower buttcheeks, and strappy high-heel sandals that I can't even walk in. To offset this little number, I was wearing a carrot necklace. (That was not a typo. I mean carrot, not carat. A huge orange thing on a necklace strand.)

Anyway, I was uncomfortable all day at work so at lunch time I actually hauled my ass back to the Upper West Side and changed. And as I sat waiting for the subway, feeling all ridiculous, I realized I should be proud of myself. Wanting to respectfully dress for success is a sign that I'm finally growing up. I used to not worry about letting a buttcheek or two fly, but now that I'm at 26-year-old lady I realize I have to dress the part.

I'm growing up in other ways, too:

• I have stopped eating cold pizza for breakfast.
• I listen to NPR.
• I often wake up hours before I need to go to work and read The New Yorker and eat oatmeal (not the changing-color kind) in the "breakfast nook" (the barstool crammed next to the refrigerator in my apartment.)
• I went to Webster Hall to see Kid Sister and was fully aware that I was 8 years older than everyone there, and the kids 8 years younger than me realized it, too.
• People have started asking me if I have kids. (Yeah -- I'm more mature than kids. Har Har.)
• Instead of paying my bills online or mailing a check in, I walk my checks to the bank and pay for them in person. (This makes me more like an 80-year-old.)
• I got into an argument over who likes purple more with a Starbucks employee (long story), and I actually said to him, "I was wearing purple before you were even born."
• I joined a book club -- a real book club -- where we don't just get drunk. (I'm still in that book club.) But in this new one, we read things like An Education, and On Chesil Beach. (Erotica and Seventeen magazine were also group selections.)
• I have to turn off all the lights when I sleep. (This means no more falling asleep to Parental Control reruns.)
  

I changed (into a black skirt, white collared shirt, and pink cowboy boots) and headed back downtown. On the 1 train, I ran into Larry, the janitor who works at my gym.

"Do you work up town?" he asked.

"No. This is embarrassing but I didn't like my outfit today so I went home and changed."

"I do that all the time!" He said. And the woman next to him chimed in. "Me too!" And the woman next to her touched my wrist and said, "Everybody does that sometimes."

I do not think that is true, but I am really glad I changed. I felt much more comfortable, and after chatting with Larry we started dancing together in the aisles when some guys with bongos started a drum circle at 42^nd street. I love New York.

Does this make any sense?

12 Shitty PR Pitches

Since I work in media, I get approximately 50 PR pitches every day from terrible companies that want me to feature their products on the site I work for. The e-mails I get are boring, poorly written, and grammatically incorrect. I don't know where -- or if -- these people went to school, or if they're just holed up inside their parents' basements pounding away letters about bizarre toys and books and totally unnecessary products for pregnant women. (Someone just sent me a whole box of Mother's Tranquil Tummy Crackers -- "soothing saltine crackers for morning sickness." As in... they are just regular saltine crackers. In a box with a pregnant woman on them. I refused to taste them but when I shook them in the box they sounded like rocks.)

Here are a few of the worst of the worsts. Click on the images to enlarge.

I could have used a little explanation for this one. I don't recall taking any time for Cameron Quinn, I have no idea what she's talking about, I'll never be "getting back to it," and I don't want any videos. BLESSINGS!


I prefer that my Suicide Parties be in Ho-Down form.



I'm trying to stay with you, here. So bad economy = unemployment = more people getting pregnant = they all need to go on spa vacations. But when people are unemployed doesn't that mean they have less money to spend on stupid shit like Mommy Spa Packages?


This came from my coworker, Jess. This guy didn't even send her an e-mail, he forwarded her an e-mail he sent to Parents magazine, our #1 competition in the mag world. Also, click here to see the video he is dying to share with us. Nothing could make an old guy singing about coughing into your elbow cool, but the fact that this GEEZER is TRYING TO RAP makes it even more painfully out of touch.



Dear Orphan star Isabelle Fuhrman,

Thanks for making me almost shit my pants while watching your scary-ass movie. I am still convinced you are the Anti-Christ, I would never wear anything you wore, and I can barely look at a picture of you without wanting to hide my head in my armpit.

Nice try,
Lauren

This is from Ann Noder, a PR prez who e-mails me pizzazz-less, uninspired pitches about pointless "mompreneur" mommy products and self-published books every day. I have replied dozens of times asking her to stop -- she never pitches anything good -- but she keeps on going strong. Obviously, I assumed this meant she was a robot, and her self portrait on her website either supports or undermines this:

Click to enlarge!

This person sent me 5 e-mails and left me God knows how many voice mails. Mentioning that you e-mailed me and called me before does not make me want to pay attention to your e-mail. It makes me think you are super way annoying.


Click to enlarge!

This is for the Girltrunks, "swim shorts and tops impeccably, yet conservatively, countoured to a woman's shape" [sic]:

You may think they were made for Mormon people, but I think they were just made for stupid people -- stupid people who don't know they just paid a buttload of cash for a pair of waterproof shorts. No good PR pitch can save a product like girltrunks.

The people at Juno Baby have decided to go paparazzi all over (some lesser-known actress named) Tia Carrere's little girl, whose parents were just divorced. Apparently little Bianca has been dragging the doll around in her moments of post-divorce despair, making the Juno Baby the ... come on everybody, say it together: BEST TOY EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is the pic they attached:

Yes you did send me your invention. I gave it to my friend's dog. You haven't heard back from me? Yes? What's your question? And I'm sure you would be interested to speak to me about the Clingy Cord, but I could tell it sucked and is the exact opposite of a must-have. Don't send me any more stuff.


When I get an e-mail pitching a crappy product like Oobees, my enthusiasm level is already at an all time low. You have to at least act like you are so excited about your product that you are about to shit your pants. Try to trick me into thinking you have a great product. When you start off ordering me to...

Slip into the comfort of Oobees. These all-terrain slippers are great to wear around the house, and with their durable soles you can wear them to school, shopping and around town. Email back to receive images for your new products sections. We can also provide Oobees for giveaways and fun contests.

...imagine that I am now ten times more bored than you are boring. And that's a lot.

My Lesbian Costume

Due to a string of unprecedented events, I was reduced to wearing the following on my flight back from Miami: skinny jeans, running shoes, and my black work blazer. Running the risk of sounding politically incorrect (I love being politically incorrect), I felt like I looked like a lesbian. Which isn't fair, I know. Blame it on culture and stereotypes and me being an asshole and whatever, but the brief heel-and-skirt hiatus made me look and feel like a totally different person.

"I feel like a lesbian right now," I told my mom on the phone as I waited for my flight, in a much deeper, louder voice than normal, slouched in my chair with my legs kicked up on my suitcase. Also, I had not combed my hair all day. Ever since I had started wearing my new costume, my attitude had changed. I was more aggressive in line getting my lunch, I wasted less time primping and making sure my skirt wasn't tucked into my thong (this is a huge time-suck for me, under normal circumstances.) I spent less time bullshitting around and did what I wanted to do all day.

As I started explaining this to my mom, I realized I wasn't really acting like a lesbian at all (whatever that means,) I was acting like a total dick. Or maybe just like a guy. I quickly became ashamed that it even crossed my mind that blazer/uncombed hair/running shoes = lesbian. Just as quickly, I realized that none of the gay women I know would necessarily wear a blazer and running shoes with skinny jeans. It was then I had my Full House, "kids-we're-learning-something-about-each-other" moment, complete with sappy background music, and I thought about how all stereotypes seem offensively wrong when you actually know the people being pigeon-holed. So, per usual, my inner dialogue ended up concluding: we are all the same, praise Jesus, etc., etc.

But I also started thinking that there are (for better or worse) fewer stereotypes for gay women than gay men.

I've wasted hours of my life listening to people debating "is he gay? His voice is too high! But he has a horrible sense of fashion!" There are so many gay man stereotypes that practically any guy could be considered gay for a moment or two, and there it takes more than one or two qualities to seal the deal. I don't hear as many people debating whether people are lesbians or not. I think most people are more comfortable putting lesbians into neat categories: Is she butch? Sporty? Adrogynous? Pick one!

If we're going to have fun with stereotypes, though, and if I were to switch teams, I'm sure I'd be a lipstick lesbian, which Urban Dictionary defines as a "feminine lesbian who is attracted to other feminine lesbians." The article then goes on to report that "they generally enjoy fashion, flowers, perfume, sex and the city, lingerie, lipstick of course, and (gasp!) passionate sex with other women."

But you can't assume lipstick lesbians are only attracted to other lipstick lesbians. I'm pretty sure my type is like Ashley Merriman from Top Chef:

I like her because she is the total opposite of me -- very chill, badass, secretively smart, and understated. I have watched Ashley pan fry soft shell crabs and thought, "maybe I am a lesbian." I think a lot of girls think about this, but then when it actually comes to the thought of sex, straight girls realize, "wow, no. I am definitely into guys."

Ever since that trip back from Miami, I've daydreamed of wearing my lesbian costume again. I picture myself as a more confident, funny, relaxed person, in absolute comfort and making serious headway at work. But here I sit, wearing my high heels and a pretty uncomfortable dress. And that's just me, and who I am and I don't think that's going to change and that's okay. Because maybe, just maybe Ashley Merriman is into lipstick lesbians. And if she is, I'll be waiting. (In heels.)

Pack Your Bags, Kids. We're Going Morman.

As a little girl, I never daydreamed of my wedding day and now my attitude toward marriage has wavered but always remained in the skeptical area on the spectrum. I constantly worry about what people give up to be in a marriage, and whether it's worth it in the long run. I realize that's because I'm not married, and people who stay married (and probably even if they don't,) think it was worth it. Right now I guess I just think marriage is a pretty fucking big ass deal, and you'd better be absolutely sure about it.

I mentioned this to my friend Dave, following up with my Anti Gay Marriage credo. Dave, who happens to be gay, thought I was kidding. "Because you hate gay people?" He asked.

"No," I said seriously. "Because I love gay people. Nobody should be allowed to get married."

"But you'll marry me, right?" He asked.

Obviously. We have one of those "if we don't get married in 60 years, we will marry each other" contracts. I have made that offer to several of my gay friends to cover my bases, and to assure my mother that I will not die alone and that she may even one day have grandchildren to cart around Disney World -- two things I know she looses sleep over.

But really -- if women married their best-gay-guy friends, how many of them do you think would get divorced? I suspect the number would be much lower. The straight woman/gay male relationships that I know are strong, the people involved are understanding and non-competitive toward each other. I am, of course, basing this primarily on the television show Will and Grace, and interactions with my friends, whose lives are eerily reminiscent of Will and Grace.

Whatever -- many straight women are already marrying gay men, anyway. There are support groups for this sort of thing. (They exist the other way around, but I don't think as prevalently. I also didn't look that hard.) And the reason these women need support isn't usually because they were unhappy in their marriage, but because they are so totally shocked to find out their husband wants to bone another guy.

But if that element of surprise was taken away? If I married Dave fully aware that he wanted to bone other guys? Maybe things would work out. If more people did this, the divorce rate would go down. If Dave and I had kids, (I'm thinking adoption -- I've always wanted to snag one of those cute kids from Columbia or something,) the kids wouldn't have to deal with divorce. They'd have a mom and a dad and a loving family to grow up in. (The dad might not be able to give him football tips or how-to-get-to-third-base-with-a-girl tips, but there are websites for that sort of thing, and I am convinced that dads are giving their sons pretty poor advice in these areas, anyway.)

Just as we were explaining our idea to our friend Hannah, she decided she agreed and wanted in, as well. Okay, sure. I can see this totally working out. And unlike the polygamist women in Big Love, I won't get jealous if Dave spends the night with Hannah more than he spends the night with me because... I just don't see that becoming an issue.

I guess this post is just a long-winded way of announcing that Hannah, Dave and I are going Mormon and will enter into matrimonial bliss. We really don't mind being the guinea pigs to what I think will be an innovative approach to marriage. Hannah and I have our gift registry at Babeland, by the way, and guests are encouraged to bring bottles of booze to the wedding in lieu of donating to a charity.

Ephiphany of the Century: I Love Pump Up The Jam

In 1992, I was 8 years old and listening to mostly The Mary Poppins Sound Track and my parents' Todd Rundgren tapes. But the moment I heard Pump Up The Jam on a TV commercial for the Ultimate Jack Jams Mix CD orwhatever, I knew it was the most retarded song of all time. I was incredulous, actually, as to how such an idiotic song could have slipped through the cracks. "Are those really the words? Over and over?" I asked my mom.

I entertained my parents' house guests by jumping up and down, to and fro, wildly pumping my arms, singing, "Puhhhhhmp up the jeyyyyymmmm up the jeyyyyymmmn, puhhhmp it up."

"Pump Up The Jam" made its way into my tender, sarcastic third grade wordage. When my mother asked me to clean my room, I'd reply with a snooty, "Why don't you go Pump Up The Jam?" When I got a good grade passed back to me in school, I'd loudly announce, "Well Pump Up The Jam!" I used it to express everything, because to me, it meant nothing.

Then I was listening to one of Bev's mix CDs when I heard that familiar Pump Up The Jam beat. She had chosen it as song number three on her September 2009 Hip Hop Dance Mix. But after months of dancing and listening to meaningless, raunchy rap lyrics, I realized Pump Up The Jam, relatively speaking, was no that ridiculous. In fact, I realized I loved Pump Up The Jam. It made me happy. I couldn't sit still. And as the song continued, While your feet are stompin' and the jam is pumpin' look at where the crowd is jumpin' pump it up a little more, it dawned on me: hip hop has officially changed my life, and I am a much happier person than I was without it.