| December 16, 2002 |
After quite the pleasant, albeit narcotic induced, slumber, I have indeed arisen again to fulfill my self-imposed responsibilities of public flagellation and self-abuse. Hallelujah. It has been too long.
Nevertheless, although I admit it is oddly comforting to be putting electronic pen to paper once again, in my current state of sobriety it has become apparent that I am quickly becoming the staggering embodiment of the proverbial broken record. This drill has become all too familiar. A paragraph of apologies, a few words promising my passably sincere desire to maintain a more predicable publishing schedule in the future, followed by several paragraphs of grossly over-written blather and drivel without point or substance, and concluded with a hastily composed epitaph which is as satisfying as the final ‘out’ line of a badly written coupon copy block. I am boring even myself, but unlike you I do not have ability to simply stop reading. Nevertheless, as I am once again traveling down this familiar path, I might as well follow it to its conclusion, predictable as it may be.
So let us see where this is headed, shan’t we? Hmm, it appears by my questionably accurate tortoise-shell and rhino-horn adorned chronograph that yet another year has passed, and so as convention holds, I could use these few moments to reflect on what has been.
I believe there is precedent for such, with special “Year End” issues of various publications being a well-known means to add a little revenue to magazine coffers with very little effort on the editorial end. And fortunately, as it has been a slow year, both here in my moated compound and within the equally impenetrable walls of the advertising factories in the land North, I won’t have much to cover. (This is good, for my attention span has grown shorter and shorter during my years in exile, and I fear in but a few moments the brightly coloured moth which now circles my workspace in a fluttering, hypnotic path will have fully captured my attention, leaving this issue to once again languish unpublished for yet another week or two.)
But then again, perhaps this space would be best served by Larry King-inspired snippets of whatever thoughts might enter my cerebellum in the next few minutes. Yes, that sounds particularly non-labor intensive. And so, as time is of the essence (the moth is shiny in this light. So shiny…) let me begin.
The Lincoln automobile signature theme music is getting more annoying by the minute. Please make them stop.
It has been brought to my attention that of the three largest bankruptcies in American history, the two most recent were clients of Fallon. Oh, the money they’ll save on Effie award entry fees next year.
Jack used to be funnier.
I believe there is not an abacus in the world large enough to calculate whatever Catherine Zeta Jones is getting paid to shill cell phones. But kudos to whoever cast her, assuring themselves of hours spent in close proximity of her many charms.
"Mr. Cordner, I've been writing Ford ads for over 23 years. 'No Boundaries'? That was mine! So what do you mean I'm fired?"
There is perhaps no greater gift a woman could desire than a cheaply made thong for Christmas. Especially a thong adorned with cheesy advertising related innuendo.
Speaking of which, we are still waiting for photographs.
Whatever happened to holiday bonuses? Time was they were as expected as the large baskets of chocolate-laden graft which enveloped the print production departments come every December. Perhaps agencies should be more attentive to laying off the deadwood on a pre-seasonal basis so the remaining employees can once again enjoy a bit of holiday cheer on their behalf.
I have no idea, be it in a sober or besodden state, what the new Hyundai tagline means. The focus groups that gave it their blessed must have been fascinating. Or agency relatives. Or quite high.
No, I am still not in a position to accept outside editorial contributions, but thank you for offering.
Hmm. Alas, my bon mot reservoir is empty. I can think of nothing more.
However, according to my most recent word count (to which I have been slavishly appealing throughout the course of this painfully extemporaneous harangue,) it appears I have once again successfully filled a page with readable characters, and for this, I am relieved. Huzzah. My work here is done. A mild achievement, to say the least, but an achievement nonetheless, and one for which I will now celebrate with many a tall glass of 101 proof Wild Turkey bourbon, followed by a lengthy visit to the commode.
Perhaps in the coming year, I will finally put serious effort towards shaking this chronic lethargy brought on my too many months in the dense jungle underbelly, and once again seek gainful full-time employment. It is a thought which has admittedly entered my mind during those rare moments of clarity, and one which may very well lead to the new editorial fodder for which I appear to be so desperate in need. But for the moment, there is a bewitchingly shiny moth which is deserving of my attention, and I can resist its lure no more.
The best of holidays to one and all. Salud.
—The Editor
