Ramming One’s Head Into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc.
MEMO
March 6, 2008
To: Marketing Team
RE: Marketing rethink
Team,
Having been hired on as your new VP here in the Marketing department, I first want to say thank you for the welcome lunch today at Elephant Bar with all of you. I could eat that chocolate lava cake every meal of the day. Just kidding.
So, now down to business. As you know, the most recent quarter at Ramming unfortunately continued an unsettling trend we’ve had for now 9 straight quarters with us losing revenue over the quarter previous.
The question we need frankly to ask ourselves is why aren’t people ramming their head into sculptures (at FS)? That’s something we have to figure out. I know that, when I told my kids about the company I’d be working for, they said ramming one’s head into a sculpture at any speed “sounds stupid/gross/gay, etc.”
So, whatever the reason, there’s a perception out there we’re contending with.
We in marketing are charged with changing that perception. So I’d love to chat with each of you forany ideas you may have.
Some thoughts:
We haven’t yet delved into TV advertising because, from what I understand, historically the company has worried about the effect someone ramming their head into a sculpture would have visually to a TV audience. But, as is common in advertising today, we don’t have to literally show it or even really speak of it. Just show some 20-somethings hanging out in a sculpture garden, languidly looking at the stars and sitting back against each other around a camp fire, Nick Drake music playing and, after some of that, our logo softly displaying on the screen.
But on the other hand, we may want to actually be very specific in other mediums. Some new FAQs on our website dispelling the idea that we’re somehow in the business of something called “ramming one’s head into sculptures at full speed” but not literally that. I’m not sure why this confusion exists (why would someone name something else “ramming one’s head into scultpures at full speed”?), but it does.
Also, how is the lack of funding in the arts affecting our business (or “bidness” as David Letterman says for comedic affect)? With so few sculptures being commissioned in our neighborhoods anymore, potential clients are finding it harder to find the proper surface upon which the ramming should terminate. They just find themselves in a perpetual state of ram.
So, we may want to think about creating our own sculpting department. The sculptors wouldn’t have to be particularly good I don’t think. Just be able to transform a hard substance into something that would fit even the minimal standard of art (e.g., This means our sculpts wouldn’t have to convincingly and in new ways evoke war or that kind of thing to everyone who sees it. Instead, it could barely evoke something like wanting to eat and not everyone would have to “get it” either and it could technically be cliche.)
Another option here would be for us to lobby for NEA funding, etc. for sculpture parks in our communities. APparently, someone is currently doing that for us but he’s what is called insane.
So, I’ll set appointments with each of you in Outlook and we’ll brainstorm!
Fourteen thousand dollars and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty-two cents of it was in pennies. That was all that Della and James had in checking and savings and their wallets combined. Sure, some more money in 401(k)s and CDs, but they couldn’t draw on those without some penalties. James knew the exact amount because he checked the state of their account on the Bank of America website this February morning. Fourteen thousand dollars and eighty-seven cents…and some investments. And that night was Valentine’s night.
James logged off the website, spiked his hair up just a little with some product, and went to work. Only ten hours to get his lovely bride a Valentine’s gift before he was to meet her at a local French place called Le Jardin d’Olive.
Later that morning, in his cube, he was busy at work with some financial analysis. Then, that afternoon, when he got back from Baja Fresh with Veronica and “Doobs,” he was reminded about the fact that that day was Valentine’s because Lily was wearing her heart-shaped teddy bear brooch thing and playfully haranguing everyone: “Now, where’s your red? You’re supposed to wear red on Valentine’s!” Which instigates the observation that some of the co-workers who even bothered to respond would say something humorous like, “I have a red stripe on my sock! That counts, right?” But the remainder replied with a “I don’t know, Lily. Just…Okay?” or a “Uh. Did you see if Cynthia’s at her desk?”
Only five hours until he was to meet his beloved for St. Valentine’s Day dinner. What would he get her for a gift? He couldn’t afford to get her a house or a beach. What would he get her? And in only five hours to do so.
In the restroom, where he brushed his teeth after lunch, James looked in the very wide mirror and re-textured his hair.
Della’s favorite flowers were white roses. It’s what she had ordered for her and James’s wedding two years ago. Also, whenever her and James went to Whole Foods to get his workout supplements and passed by white roses or if she caught a glimpse of them at the Farmer’s Market on their way to the 7:45 showing of a movie they both thought they’d maybe like okay, she’d say, “Jesus. Those are so gorgeous! They’re the only flowers I really really love.” Over the course of their relationship, she’s probably said that about 84 times, about the white roses, liking them, etc.
At 5:30, James realized he had only one and one half of an hour to get Della, his lovely wife, a Valentine’s gift before meeting her at the restaurant.
James eyes lit with an idea. He would have just enough time to get a haircut.
However, coming out of the salon, James was pale with despair. He didn’t like his new haircut as much as last time. Carlos wanted to “try something new.” Also, now James had almost no time to purchase Della a gift on this day of love!
At the flower shop on the way to the restaurant, James scanned the inventory. Tulips; gerber daisies; and yellow, white, and red roses. They were pretty expensive but James picked a few red roses from what was left and stood in line. He also noticed one of those metallic balloons that said, “Be Mine!” He thought Della would probably like it but it would be kind of a pain to carry.
As he sat down across from his wife, whose bosom was wonderfully kind of squeezed together by, presumably, her bra, James smiled and handed her the red roses. She kind of sighed, realizing once again that James didn’t remember — or, more likely, didn’t care — that it’s white roses she loves so. But then she did what she could to make the best of the situation: “Thank you so much, darling! They’re lovely!”
“I got you something too, dear,” she continued. She pulled out a beautifully wrapped present and handed it to him, which took a very slightly longer amount of time than one might expect as he had to finish glancing over at an evil-looking brunette by the bar.
“Okay,” he said as he tore into the package. It was a grooming kit, the beautiful leather case emblazoned with his initials. He’d always wanted one and Della got it for him even though he probably only mentioned it once.
“Well, okay,” he responded. “I guess I can use this stuff. I might wait until my hair grows in a little bit. I just got it cut as you can see and it’s a little too short.”
“Well, not that it doesn’t look great now, but it’ll probably be a good length in about a week,” she said.
“Okay. I guess I can hang on to this until then,” he sighed. Then he looked lovingly at the brunette again. “Oh. Here comes the waiter. By the way, I don’t want to take so long eating dinner like last time. I’m going to the gym early in the morning,” he informed her in a way that was romantic because he wasn’t outright screaming at her.
“Oh. Yes. Okay,” said Della as she quickly looked at her menu in this restaurant she used to love coming to so much with James.
The magi, as you know, were wise men — wonderfully wise men — who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. But Jesus was not the Son of God as such a thing does not exist. In this way too, Della, gave and gave to a love that wasn’t there. But she thought she might not find anyone else, so she stuck with this. She was the magi.
In the Democratic presidential campaign debate two nights ago in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, hosted by the Congressional Black Caucus, the candidates were asked questions posed by the press. The one TheDirk offered was “What is 2+2?” This is what followed:
Moderator: What is 2+2?
(None of the candidates stepped forward to answer first, so the moderator pointed to Mrs. Hillary Clinton.)
Clinton: I’d be happy to answer that one. You know, one of my heroes has always been of course Frederick Douglass. You can ask Bill. I uh I know everything about him. Did you know he had kind of wild white hair? Also… But he probably answered this very question when he was just a young boy teaching himself math in the ramshackle library in his parents’ slave quarters. And he probably answered it as well as anyone could. Now, in my 35 years of service on behalf of–
Obama: But you’re avoiding the question. The American people need to know that you can be direct with them and, right now, you are not.
Moderator: Mr. Obama, could you answer the question? What is 2+2? Just real quickly.
Obama: Absolutely. But I don’t think the American people want to hear the same old answer to the same old questions. Do I have an idea of what these two numbers added together will be when I’m in office? I’m figuring that out. But I’ll surround myself with only the best and the brightest and the most inspired to join me in changing business as usual in Washington and in answering mathematical questions such as this one. One thing that Ronald Reagan was sort of smart about is–
Clinton: You want to be just like Ronald Reagan? Wow! And you think Reagan’s ideas are better than anything Democrats every thought of? And you want to lead a murderous cult of fanatics with Regan tattooed on their eyeballs?
Obama: Uh…no.
Clinton: Well, you just said you did! I mean…Ha! Ha! Ha! HA! You heard it, right, folks? Listen, I’ve been changing business as usual for 35 years. Come on! The question is what is 2+2! If we can’t answer that, what can we answer? And I can tell you the answer without the help of a bunch of bureaucrats. You know, John Brown Russwurm, I think I’m pronouncing that right, has of course always been one of my heroes. Russwurm, 1799 dash 1851, was an African-American abolitionist from Jamaica, known for his newspaper, Freedom’s Journal. The words “African-American,” “abolitionist,” and “Freedom’s Journal” all link to other articles particular to those subjects.
Moderator: If we can just get the answer.
Obama: Well, that’s really for the voters to decide. But hopefully those voters trust that the answer they think it is is actually the same one I think it is too. Definitely. I’m not afraid to say it. By the way, I’ll tell you one thing 2+2 is. It’s a lot less than the number of dollars we’re spending in the Iraq war, a war Hillary voted yes for.
Moderator: So you said that that is one thing 2+2 is. Are there other things 2+2 can be?
Obama: It can be up to as many as probably three other things.
Moderator: Ah ha! So can I assume you mean to say that 2+2 is four?
Obama: For? For what? For change in Washington or for business as usual? For continued erosion of our reputation throughout the world or for a return to when the United States was seen as a beacon of hope? Martin Luther King Jr., whose birthday we celebrate tonight, was, he was a great man and I always try to emulate him when I speak. His message of hope, his –
Clinton: He was a tremendous leader but he did need some slight amount of help to get his initiatives passed into law.
Obama: I resent that extremely racist remark.
Clinton: See, you’re using the race card to avoid the question that was asked of us. You know, one of my heroes has always been this black gentleman I don’t know the name of. And when I’m faced with a tough question such as this, I take a look in the mirror — and, by the way, it’s the type of mirror most widely used by South Carolinians, whatever that type is. There’s no other kind; it’s the best! But, anyway, I–
Moderator: 2+2, please.
Obama: Brutha! I forgot to say “brutha” in this debate so far. So there it is. I’m sorry, continue, Hillary.
Clinton: Well, I certainly will. Ha! Ha! Anyway…
Edwards: Four. The answer’s four.
(The audience applauds loudly. Clinton and Obama take note of this.)
Clinton: Four. That’s what I’ve been saying all along here. I mean ha! ha! HA! HA! HA!
The following are the great (so far) unanswered jokes of our time:
– How many Pollacks does it take to make a village of 4,009 Irish forget that Italians even exist?
– What do you get you when you combine Dracula with a roasted turkey in a world where Fangsgiving is simply not possible?
– What time was it, exactly, when the unusually small elephant sat on the very sturdy gate made of granite?
– What is Frankenstein’s favorite flavor of ice cream?
–A pessimist walks into a bar, orders a drink and proceeds to gulp down half of it. He then, says, “Bartender! My drink is half empty!”
An optimist then walks into the same bar and orders a drink. He also, right away, drinks half of it. “Bartender! My drink is half full!” the optimist proclaims loudly (for some reason).
A humorist then walks into the bar and also orders a drink. He then begins to tell this very joke. The optimist and the pessimist (the pessimist slightly less so) are amused in their fuzzy haze of drink to realize how their situation is just like the one being described in the joke. But before the humorist gets to the punchline, he keels over dead.
In effect immediately, TheDirk is switching to a once-weekly format. No, it’s not about getting lazy and, soon, the whole site just stops. What it is is a way to ensure that the site can be as good as possible with what is posted.
It’s kind of a hard decision because the site is gaining more and more support (it seems) but it’s important that the material is funny, so this seems the best way considering the limited creative resources. (And it doesn’t necessarily mean stuff won’t be posted more frequently than once-a-week.)
So, on January 14th, please check for the new posting.
Our staff is headed to the country for the holiday. Do not try to squat in our building; the furnaces have been inverted and the cold will overtake your sleeping body.
We’ll be back January 7, 2008.
Meanwhile, see about the move to impeach Cheney here!
One of our staff riding around in his sleigh with his wife and four things
‘Tis the season…for the holidays, that is! And greeting cards provide words, which are a way of conveying those holiday sentiments that just can’t be fully expressed through mere silence or acts of compassion and love. And what better words than those of our most classic songs and films? Huh?
When you’re pretty much the only one left in the office (everyone else has left town for Christmas with family) and you haven’t gotten a personal e-mail in 3 days, go to the restroom and wave your hand in front of the toilet sensor. There’s nothing better than that flush echoing in the empty bathroom proving to you that you exist to some extent!
Dresednya was the most beautiful woman in the hamlet. So glorious was her porcelain skin, so lush her feathered raven-coloured hair, and so unsettling the shape and movement of her bustle that she could only take her outdoor daily constitutional once the evening was established. Through this strategy, Dresednya believed she would not be as likely noticed by the town’s gentlemen, male beasts of burden, and women who shun the ribbons and frilly nature that otherwise typifies their gentle gender.
Still, the occasional businessman, barrister, exploiter, or ladies’ advice columnist would often, after a supper probably not worthy of his day’s efforts, step out onto his veranda to escape the stifling environment created by the wife who insists on interaction. And, while enjoying a session with his snuff or performing a deserved release, such a gentleman could not be expected to but not but help glimpse Dresednya’s smooth-edged shadow even in the night and find a story in his visionary mind in which he assume the role of strapping young hero, who bravely follows her shrieks of distress and, upon finding her, shoves that which dangles from his less cultivated regions up within her.
What also added to Dresednya’s aura of mystery was the simple fact that no one could answer whence she came. She was simply a part of the hamlet’s dramatis personae as long as anyone could remember. No one could have not either nor neither claimed to have seen the inside of her home as well. Those gentlemen who imagined breaking into her abode and forcing themselves upon her were at a loss as whether to daydream bending her over a Rococo chair, laying her acrost a rough peasant-style table, or pouring her into George III-style gravy boat .
Dresednya also wore always a blood red-coloured ribbon around her single soft delicate neck.
(to be continued)
*Beautiful, even though the word sounds like it should mean the exact opposite.
