I know it's hard to believe, but that really is Miss Ive. And that is her lucky writing dress.
And Miss Ive is popping in here for a confession. For once in her flippin' life, she's going to admit out loud that she has way too much on her flippin' plate.
Shockingly, she pitched another project as soon as the Lark Adventure wrapped (BTW, it's finally on YouTube—click and be dazzled).
And she loves this project. Can't you tell from the smile on her face in the picture?
And so she will leave a link to it here, because that is where she will be for next few weeks. Rather than here. So if anyone misses Miss Ive, they can pop over and see her latest shenanigan unfolding.
A collaborative screenplay written by six contributors at Peterman's Eye. None of whom have ever been properly introduced.
How Brave New World is that? Hah? Stop over for a peek. I dare ya.
I'm glad I saved this for a Friday. You all know Miss Ive, the crazy girl who vomits her own brand of humor and thanks you profusely for reading it over your coffee.
And from the emails ya'll send, asking me what any of this has to do with the 'marketing' I listed in my profile, I figure you know what Miss Ive does during the day.
She markets. She markets for . . . duh, duh, duh, DUH . . . ONE of the Notorious B.I.G. Three Auto Makers. She markets with men. Men who wear suits and gray hair. Men who love to say things like "viable growth." And sometimes, after consulting her thesaurus for the umpteenth time, Miss Ive walks from board meetings into the ladies' room and presses her forehead against the mirror. She looks herself in the eye and asks, "what does that mean?" And then she swallows the bile accumulating in her mouth, puts her chin up, walks to her Mac and forces her heretic fingers to type the following Web Blast: "Don't wait—Buy NOW. Recent legislation has allowed you to pollute for one more FULL YEAR!!!!"
But, lately, Miss Ive's serious, straight-laced marketeer persona and her nightly shenanigans for non-profits and chivalrous clothiers have become, well, a lot to reckon. Ever stand on a dock with one foot on a drifting boat? Yeah. That's how I feel.
And then last week happened. I (Miss Ive—see how she's slipping away?) made a call to a client. And he accidentally got sidetracked. And he mentioned a man he really admires, Robert Young, who runs a non-profit. Red Feather dot org. And he told me that he's building homes for the Native American families who are living in dilapidated trailers. And he said that he doesn't GIVE them homes. He teaches them how to build the homes. And that really wooed me.
So I called him. Surely that doesn't surprise anyone. And we talked. And he told me that he already drives nothing but my client's (the Notorious B.I.G. Three Gang) trucks. And he needs new trucks. And so Miss Ive went to the ladies' room once again. She paced. She said, "It's time to storm the tower." This one is going in. This is good. This is good for my client. This is good for an Awe-Some non-profit. This is good for Miss Ive's ever-splitting-dock-and-boat-standing legs.
But they smirked. "No," they said. "Not the time for risks like that," they said. And the Charlie Brown theme played in Miss Ive's head. And she slumped back to her Mac to compose a long-over-due letter of resignation.
And to wrap things up, as I'm sure your coffee is gone by now, I found this man yesterday. John Haydon, Esq., of Boston, MA. A random find. So timely, though. He made Miss Ive (pause, and really listen here) BELIEVE IN MARKETING AGAIN.
Pour just one more mug. It's Friday. Go crazy. He's awesome. I know a lot of you are in marketing. But you'll re-imagine what that means when you read this page. Or when you find him on Twitter. He gave me what I needed to get past the smirk. I'll get those trucks for Robert and Red Feather. You all know that, though. Miss Ive always gets her way.
I had a dream last night that I was a serious business woman. It was so vivid that I awoke inspired. I grabbed the pad and pen on my night table and jotted a list of things I must change in my workday regime:
1) When invited to sit in on serious strategy meetings, do not inquire about the likelihood of snacks being present. 2) When asked my opinion on marketing strategies for major corporations, do not use words like 'blog' or 'YouTube.' 3) And, finally, add articles to wardrobe that clearly say, "serious business woman," like shoes with tall, pointy heels that make lots of noise on linoleum floors and announce that I have 'arrived,' and shirts with buttons and collars that require at least a pedestrian familiarity with an iron.
When I left the house this morning, in buttons, freshly-pressed collar and one-inch heels, I was fully optimistic that I had been wise to keep my list short and reasonable. Baby steps.
Unfortunately, it seems, that even baby steps are challenging whilst trying to operate with ankles elevated to new heights, even ONE single inch higher. I believe my feet were suffering from altitude sickness, as there is no other way to explain why they could not perform the simple functions of 'clutch' and 'break' on the morning commute. The shoes lasted only five miles down the road before they were relegated to the passenger seat, where I could keep my eyes on their bewitching powers.
Though you can probably see where this is headed, I'll fill in gaps of the sequence of events that led to my inevitable fall from the 'serious business woman' wagon.
Arrived to work, list still in hand, ready to take on the day.
Checked rearview mirror for mussed hair or rogue breakfast remnants attached to my person.
Got halfway to the building before hot blacktop reminded me that I was still sans heels.
Got halfway BACK to car when president of company pulled into lot—spotting me—sans heels.
Have since restored the natural order to my workday routine and created new list.
1) Will refrain from allowing dreams to leave the bedroom. 2) Will maintain high expectations for snack-endowed meetings. 3) Will roam the office all day long sans heels to remind myself, and everyone else, just who the hell I think I am.
Last time Miss Ive wrote about her friend Jenn, she thanked her politely (read: asked that she never do so again), and wished her luck with her future endeavors. But then she went and sent Miss Ive this for Christmas:
Yeah. She did.
And then, when Miss Ive called her, and she answered (read: Miss Ive has mastered the art of showing up as 'unknown caller' on Jenn's phone), she went and told Miss Ive that it was nothing, really. She just grabbed the photo off Miss Ive's Facebook page, blew it up, converted it to black and white, cut up a 2 by 6 in her basement (btw, Miss Ive would give her monkey's uncle to see her dainty friend Jenn lug around a 2 by 6, let alone operate a saw) . . .
. . . planed off the edges, threw on a bit of stain (with uber-cool, age-worn edges) . . .
. . . popped on an ole' bow and shot it off in the mail.
"No biggy," she says.
So now Miss Ive will no longer be taking calls from Jenn. Because though Miss Ive had long suspected it, prior to the photo block episode, she had no tangible proof that her friend was so far superior to her in every way. And Miss Ive has a reputation she's trying very hard (read: with the help of her attorney and four publicists) to uphold.
But since Miss Ive also suspects that many of her readers are also mildly (read: completely) superior to her, too, she may as well get the lot of them together, so they can trade bona fide crafty secrets and think of some way to bring poor Miss Ive up to their level.
Or, at the very least, how to successfully block her calls—once and for all.
If ya wanna talk blocks with Jenn, shoot her a note. Apparently, her Christmas gifts were such a success that word spread like wild fire and she's now on her way to fame and riches making these for everyone she knows, along with a few random child celebrities. JFree5303@yahoo.com. And if you're more clever than Miss Ive, you'll convince her to do one with a pic of her toting lumber and sawing blocks, especially for Miss Ive's wall of fame.
First, they'll look at it skeptically. After all, if big people dig it, how cool could it be?
Then they'll find out the secret that all big people have been trying to hide from little people (and their bosses) the world over—that the term 'phone' is a bit misleading, because when you have an iPhone you'll never have to talk to anyone in the real world ever again.
And then their tiny, innocent little fingers will accidentally brush the dancing array of colorful squares . . . What was I saying? Oh, yeah, they'll find what is known in the big people world as compu-crack.
And then their skeptical look will gloss into the all-powerful iGlaze.
And then it's too late. You'll never see your phone again. Just look at the grin.
Please forward all texts, Twitters, blog comments and emails for Miss Ive to old-fashioned Pony Express, because though she has tried diligently to retrieve said iPhone from said kid on numerous occasions, she has had her hand slapped more times than a Twittaholic refreshes her Twitter (Read: A Lot).
As a marketeer by trade and nature, I often wonder why an entire demographic is sometimes left out of an ad campaign. Obviously, you don't sell Scotch to toddlers (although TEETHING toddlers are 'sorely' under-represented in the hard liquor industry). But then there are campaigns that seem to preemptively say, That group won’t buy this, so why waste dollars trying to sell it to them?
But does anything about that sentiment make sense? Hey, let’s spend lots of money trying to get the attention of people who already buy it. Hmmm? I really do get it. I do. But I'm too scrappy not to go after the elusive fish. And I feel like writing this ad 'outside the demographic' so I'm just gonna do it. This is my land. The land of 'off brief.'
Take Ford’s F-150, my all-time-favorite vehicle. And I’m a girl. And I’m a girly girl. And why, then, might I like this truck? Because it’s manly. Duh.
Imagine what you could do with an ad campaign that sold the Steve McQueen of vehicles to women, complete with a key.
I call this The Trade In:
Ext. Ford Dealership sales lot
Salesman (Standing with man and woman next to new F-150, addressing the man, of course) It has the new Tailgate Step. You open the tailgate, pull down the step and it helps you climb in.
Pan to woman. V.O. of her thinking
Woman Help me into the truck? What a gentleman.
Woman climbs into the cab, shuts the door and rolls down the window to hear more.
Salesman (To man) It has a 5.4-Liter, 3-Valve Triton V-8 engine.
Pan to woman. V.O. of her thinking
Woman And he’s strong . . .
Salesman It has Voice-Activated Navigation
V.O. of woman thinking
Woman And he’s good with directions. . .
This continues for roughly 15 more seconds of the spot.
Woman (leans out window and addresses salesman) Didn't you say you take trade ins?
Salesman (beaming at the scent of a sale) Absolutely.
Woman (Pointing to the man still standing in lot with salesman) Fantastic. Then you can keep him. I’ll take this one.
Woman and F-150 peel out of lot.
Salesman (A bit confused, to man) Um, I did't see that one coming. Did you?
If you haven't seen this movie, put it on the queue now. Now. Not gonna say another word. Just that it's all about the can-do spirit that I dig. And the more I push my way through things, with a generally subpar performance at best, and realize that you still come out on top if you just keep going, I dig it more.
The movie is grossly offensive to just about every religion and creed, but still suprisingly uplifting. These clips give you a good sample of what I'm talkin' 'bout. But if you're in the office, keep the volume down. Seriously. Offensive.
I'm sure all of you heard about this today. Maybe, if you're as impetuous as Miss Ive, you even mailed a resume. But, then she got sidetracked (shocking, I know) by pondering just how brilliant it was for them to bring attention to their need by posting it as an appealing job. And then Miss Ive got sidetracked again by thinking about her albatross of a house that she has to sell. And then. . .
(You know where this is going, don't you?)
. . .She had a grand idea.
The Actual Best Job in the World:
Who wants a job that only lasts for six months in paradise? Especially when you can get a lifetime as guardian of one, recently-restored (at expense of owner's lifeblood) bungalow? And who needs the burden of taxation on 100K of income? Especially when you could PAY twice that to lil' ole Miss Ive and actually get a TAX BREAK for home ownership. And, as this endeavor legally qualifies as 'helping the poor,' an additional right off for philanthropy is acceptible. Who wants to set up camp on someone else's island, when, if you buy this home, complete with hazzardous sump pump, after a few heavy rains, you could OWN an island of your OWN?
And though blogging is not required for the bungalow-ownership position, as it is for the Australian Island job, it is wholeheartedly recommended if retaining sanity ranks highly amongst one's personal goals.
To Apply, leave comment below listing your unique qualifications.
Everyone knows about the recent wave of movies that have come to Michigan. Overnight, Detroit has gone from pretty scary to scary pretty, graced with faces like these:
If you read articles like this one from The Ann Arbor News, you'll see that how much growth the film tax incentives had actually brought. "Two months after the bills were signed, the Michigan Film Office had received 49 applications from production companies interested in filming within the state. During all of 2007, it got just three applications."
Now, most of you know that Miss Ive writes A LOT. And some of you know that she is working on her second GO at a screenplay. And some know that she is also toying with the idea of making a switch from marketing to producing.
What you probably do not know is how much she is not hip to the idea of ever (EVAHHHH) moving to LA. And what you CERTAINLY do not know (possibly because it is absolutely untrue) is that it was all her idea that the movies come to her.
One thing that nobody can argue, is that this news confirms Miss Ive's sneaking suspicion that she leads a charmed life. And her favorite thing about the film business—truth is pretty irrelevant. It's whatever she says it is. So there.
Anyone wanna be in her first film? (VERY SMALL PRINT: must be willing to rollerblade buck nekkid downtown Detroit in a foot of snow.)
I spent some time over the weekend wandering around Twitter, checking out people's sites who are A) In my field (marketing writing) and B) experiencing at least a modicum of success.
It was meant to inspire me.
But most of them were nothing more than jargon wrapped in jargon. And then more jargon on top.
So, in the end, it DID inspire me . . .
to change my career.
The shiny look and the shiny language, with absolutely nothing behind it, has made me feel the need for a long session, sitting on the floor of a piping hot shower.
I think it's time to do something that somebody else wants to market, one can only hope, with RED HOT COPY.
Can't tell you how hard it was to bring myself to title this post with that . . . that . . . you know.
It's not that I don't love a good four-letter word. I'm no prude. But excrement talk is different, right? Unlike other obscenities that can be used to bring home your point, show passion and maybe a little 'Yeah, I said that, what are you gonna do about it?' grit—potty talk just makes you look like a filthy ten-year-old boy.
But here's the dirty truth. I've been wooed by the new addition to an increasingly long list of apps for iPhone.
First there was iBowl.
That was fun for a few minutes.
Then there was UrbanSpoon.
That was great just for shaking the phone and seeing the dials roll like you're in Vegas. But let's face it, it's not that practical.
And then (clouds parting, the angelic sound of Gregorian chants coming from the sky) they gave us iFart.
For the very fair price of 99 cents, you too can experience the sheer pleasure of spinning the wheel, selecting your favorite stinker (Brown Mosquito, Squeezer, Splatter, The Muffler, Butt Socket, Jack the Ripper or, my personal favorite, Bombardier), and then push the big red circle that simply reads "Fart Now"—exhibiting a spartan sensibility that even Ms. Stewart could appreciate. Am I right?
And lest you think this application is for the simple-minded, there are numerous sidebar options that allow you to build a complex algorithm of customized farting. For example, you can record a fart and email it to a friend. You can also select a fart and set the timer, so that the bomb may be dropped at any time, say, in a board meeting, without lifting a finger to give yourself away. Seriously. You could even place it under the boss's chair if you were feeling brazen.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, apparently I am a filthy ten-year-old boy. And I'm loving it.
Does anyone remember how I kept hoping Tina Fey was pulling off the hugest SNL skit ever and actually running for VP? I was serious. Though, understandably, since I share her dry wit (pause for patting own back), you may not have realized I was. But I was. She's brilliant and politically savvy and, let's face it, you have to have a sense of humor to take on this mess.
So then I read the headlines today and learned that Stuart Smalley (aka Al Franken) was just elected to the US Senate.
And why wouldn't he be? The state of Minnesota, home of the great Lake Wobegon, has legally declared that he IS good enough. He IS smart enough. And gosh darn it, people DO like him.
Though I know very little about politics, my extensive knowledge of late-night, juvenile comedy may someday qualify me for a senior cabinet post.
I've been reading a lot of speculation lately that Steve Jobs' cancer is back. And certainly, the pictures don't look good.
I joke a lot on this site, but I mean this very seriously (and as unselfishly as possible):
Say it ain't so.
I never hung posters of boy idols as a teenager, but, if it was allowed, I would hang posters of Mr. Jobs now. He's my hero.
His iGenius, iTenacity, and iMadness—a winning combination in my book—have quite literally transformed my life.
Just yesterday, I was driving home from work and this song came on the radio (while scanning between very serious talk radio programs)
Remember this? Please don't send me hate mail about adulterating a Steve Jobs post with Wreckx-N-Effect. Please.
Anyway, it made me laugh. So when I got home, I ran upstairs, pulled up iTunes, bought it, slapped it on my iPod, and voila, added at least a mile to my next run. No stores. No need to buy nine other offensive songs. And, most importantly, no need to attempt to get through the tape sticker thingys on new CD jackets that were invented to drive people mad.
Jobs cut through all that.
And I wouldn't be here, on this blog, without him.
Raise your hand if you're a little bent out of shape about returning to work today after all the holiday revelry.
Though you can't see it, Miss Ive will have both hands raised all day long.
All coffee intake will be done intravenously.
Watch this clip and remember just how great it was to be a kid. Why—O—why did we want to grow up? Why?
And can anyone guess what Miss Ive got for Christmas? Please be patient while she gets all the boring home videos out of her system. Feel free to nudge her discreetly if she begins to post video seminars on how to fold fitted sheets. Especially considering she does not, in fact, know how to do so properly. Even though she watched that episode of Martha TWENTY CONSECUTIVE TIMES WITH SHEET IN HAND, FOLLOWING HER EVERY STEP. But that's another story for another day.
