I have been saved from myself

Some of you might remember that, a few months ago, I was a regular jogger. I might even have described the act of running as being merely “unbearable” as opposed to being “only preferable to having nails pushed through my eyes”. By golly, I might even have harboured thoughts of completing a marathon. Clearly then, I was deluded and in need of severe medical attention which duly arrived because, after one particularly long plodding session, my back gave way.

Now, before all of you start pulling out your tissues for a good cry, I must say that that was a few months ago. I’m all better now. So much better in fact that, last night, I imagined myself once again pounding the asphalt, cleaving the night air in twain with my svelte runner’s physique. And all while stuffing my face with some fried chicken. Hell, just ten minutes ago, as I popped some nuggets into my maws, the thought of running was running around in my head.

It is with considerable gratitude, then, that I sniffle pathetically into this handkerchief as I have been doing for days now. Thank God for this divine flu or who knows what madness I might have committed.

Once again, unhealthiness of body has proven the remedy for unhealthiness of mind.

My hair is useless

Yesterday, I had my hair cut by someone called Bay. As to why he named himself after either (a) a body of water; or (b) a deep, prolonged growl, I haven’t the faintest idea. What I do know, however, is that the more unlikely the name, the more unlikely it is that the person will actually be able to speak English. Quite naturally, then, he fluffed up my hair and started motoring along in Mandarin. This posed a problem since my grasp of Mandarin is about as firm as Britney Spears’ grip on reality, and I reacted as I would to anything I do not understand: by adopting a pleasant expression and nodding.

This, by the way, is how I got through philosophy class. The lecturer would ramble endlessly about how all renates are cordates or something or other and I would, despite not having the foggiest notion of what was going on, nod sagely all the way through. Note that this is much more commendable than what John did, which was try to mask his sleeping head with just an A4 sheet held discreetly in front of his face. And it might’ve worked too, had we not exposed his devious plan by guffawing.

Another secret to my pass grade was an ability to paraphrase absolutely anything. Except Heidegger, he was completely unparaphraseable.

But back to the salon.

After much Mandarin and nodding and smiling, the actual cutting began. I don’t mean to complain but I’ve lost all faith in hairdressers. No one so far has been able to tame the unruly mess that inhabits the top of my head. One guy came close but the only implement he used was an electric shaver and his “salon” consisted of a single chair which he moved from army camp to army camp. He gave me the sheep treatment but still, just two weeks later, I looked like a dandelion. Yes, my hair’s rate of growth is so rapid that it should, ideally, be measured in km/h.

Oblivious to all this, Bay started snipping. It was a long and laborious process largely, I suspect, because my hair was reproducing faster than he could cut. Still, by sheer force of will and ever larger scissors, he managed it, finishing off triumphantly with what looked like a pair of garden shears.

Then, he started styling.

Actually, I’m using that term loosely because a more accurate description would be threatening my hair with grievous bodily harm. He rolled up his sleeves and, with both hands, pushed up and down and sideways with such force that, at various points in the process, I thought to myself “that’s it, my head’s coming off.” Still, I was rather pleased with the results.

This was, of course, utterly pointless because everyone knows that no matter how good your hair looks in the salon, there is no way in the world that you are going to reproduce that look at home. I have walked out of salons looking like David Beckham (oh, you laugh) and then, just the day after, gone back to being Rene Higuita.

And it was no different this time.

I went home and analysed studiously the waves he’d somehow created on my head. I made careful note of the swirls and the crests and re-enacted the motion of his hands. And yet, this morning, I applied some wax onto my palms, rubbed it vigorously into my hair and miraculously achieved the helmet hair effect. I was distraught. There were no waves whatsoever. Just tears. There’re always tears.

I wish I felt differently

I suppose I left that last post dangling a little. So let me elaborate. I haven’t really lost interest in advertising. But that’s simply because I’ve never been interested in the first place. It’s always been a job. Not a passion.

Now I know many folks in the industry who will say that passion should be our driving force. They will doubtlessly believe wholeheartedly in the power of ideas and their own creativity. They will demand that we constantly push the boundaries. They will proclaim that the metaphoric box is there just so that we can do our thinking outside of it. It’s the usual mumbo-jumbo you see splattered on the pages of Marketing magazine. But seriously now, come off it, why don’t you?

I’ve always wondered how so many smart and hugely creative people could be so enamoured with an industry that’s essentially a pest. A huge wart on the side of this capitalist beast we’ve nurtured. Surely, if you believe so fervently in the power of ideas, you can do better than to use these amazingly powerful tools to sell washing powder. And what about all this pushing of boundaries? The boundaries of what? Creativity? What does that even mean?

And by the way, who cares?

We in the advertising business are just so full of ourselves. We’ve got all our cosy award shows. A gazillion websites filled with ads for the world to marvel at which we then, almost always, proceed to massacre with a juvenile fervour that I am truly ashamed of. We buy and read endless books about our own industry legends, aspiring to be like them while simultaneously hating their guts for profiting from their peers.

Yet all this gloss does nothing to hide our niggling insecurities. The truth is no one outside of advertising gives two hoots about what we do because, in the larger scheme of things, advertising doesn’t come anywhere near the top. Or even the middle. We’re just the shit that’s settled at the bottom of the bowl. And we’re making hell of a din about it.

Silver. But so what?

Despite doing absolutely nothing, I have found myself with a silver award. Look here if you don’t believe me. And get your damn jaw off the ground.

This is all thanks to Daphne who, after much tenacious cajoling, finally got me to put some words to her ideas.

Ah, sweet is the taste of victory.

How odd then that the urge to quit advertising has never been stronger. I’ve simply lost interest. Again.

Oh, fuck it.

Deleted

There used to be a different entry here. But after reading it twice, it all started to sound somewhat convoluted. And so, since Pat also concurred, I consigned it immediately to the bowels of my dog.

Even though this blog is titled ‘Drivel Drivel’, it is, after all, still drivel from a mouth accustomed to making tooting noises at golden spittoons. One must be firm when there are standards to be upheld. And I was.