Copy Writing Work- Dan Oh

Smith Barney Spec Print Ad Campaign

Concerta Concept Boards

Cin Cin Restaurant- Asian French Fusion

Spec Print Ads

Swiffer Sweeper Spec Print Ads

Mike's Hard Lemonade

Spec Print Ads

CarFax Vehicle Reports
Spec Print Ad Campaign

PRO BONO
Good News Mission
Spec Subway Advertisements
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Power of the Pen...err...Keyboard.

So, I'm taking this playwrighting class and it's very interesting.

Our assignment was to write a monologue for a character that we must conjure from an obituary listing. I felt uneasy doing it at first, but was startled by the results.

Check it out if you want.

I won't ever forget this one time. Ok, I think it's was the fall of '76. Our agency's pitched new business to FedEx. Formally, Federal Express. Anyway, I wasn't a creative, never touched a paintbursh or messed with type settings in my life. I mean I was the president, finding the right pond so my creative directors could fasten the bait to the hook and fish. All right. So, I'm in the middle of this pitch; we have to present this new logo. Back then, agencies first had to show their chops and then the company chooses to fork over the ad account or not. So, I'm sweating bullets right out of a turret gun and we haven't even shown the damn thing yet. Then my creative guy unveils this...this "type treatment." I mean I am not seeing any monumental, game-changing concept here, and he has this big, proud smile on his face like he just won the fucking lottery. Trust me, if you could've seen the look on the face of FedEx's CMO...wait, now wait. It gets worse. The CMO asks me to explain the concept. Me! I don't know jack, understand? We're talking a 100 million dollar global account on the line here. One sentence out of my mouth makes or breaks the agency. And...you know what I say? I'll never forget it. I say..."Well, sir, first of all, this logo mark modernizes the company for not just today's business but tomorrow's opportunities. We also abbreviated your brand name to make it more accessible, as well as give it an air of speediness, which reflects your service." Now, mind you, I'm layin' it on real thick, and pulling this stuff right out of my ass at this point; my dress shirt is soaked, I've got pit sweat down to my belt buckle. And it was then...right then...I see it in the logo. As plain as day, screaming out to me, begging for its subliminal message to be told to...anyone. So, I say to this curmudgeon, "And, sir, notice you can see an inverted arrow between the E and the X in the type. That'll pierce the consciousness of your consumer, not to mention, signify your company moving forward for years, even decades to come." Silence. My creative director's jaw is on the floor. Nobody breathes for I swear, two minutes. Suddenly, a thunder of applause from their board. By this time, I am completely drenched and on the brink of passing out. The CMO's shaking my hand until it's about to clear fall off and I'm thinking, "I can't believe we just pulled this bitch off." And...that's how we won FedEx...

So, Doctor, I know a thing or two about pressure, and hardship for that matter. Don't get me wrong, I'm aware of what sort of mess I'm in here. My myeloma is malignant, and this chemo, at my age, could kill me. Look, I've fought too many battles not to fight this one. My wife of 46 years, my children, and my grandchildren are waiting outside for me right now, so I'll see you first thing Tuesday morning. Oh, and don't forget to get me one of those hospital gowns that doesn't leave your ass exposed.

There is No Joy in August

No joy in August
No holidays to celebrate
Or summers to anticipate
There is no joy

No hope for a last trip
Taking the last dips in pools
or oceans, water
glides off the body for the last time

Memories are real
Experiences are had
Not glad for August
Because there is no joy in August

Birthdays of people
That I am unable to celebrate
Thinking of harboring hate
for August because.

There is no joy
In the upcoming semester
pens and keyboards are abused
Autumn, where things die, whither first, just as bad

A precursor to sadness
Fleeting joys may as well be unreal
Better than to feel
the real joylessness of August.

Pretty inspiring design firm located out of Philly. Check their work out.

www.theheadsofstate.com

It's funny sometimes, what art can do to a person. Move them to tears, to anger, to revolt, to relish, to reminisce, to reflect, to rise up, to let down your world-weary guard. Just the fact that color, form, and canvas of some sort can provoke anything out of anybody. A response, perhaps even a quickened pulse.

It's amazing when you really consider it.

Low Interest, High Return.

President Obama recently awarded sixteen individuals with the Medal of Freedom, an honor that was originated after World War II to acknowledge outstanding civilian service. Since then, it's been expanded quite a bit, and every honoree has been distinguished among his/her peers. These people are real agents of change, they trancend gender, cynicsm, and political borders in order to better the world. I believe in God, the fallibility of man, and the downward spiraling perpetuality of the world we're in, but these people, if this God-damed place ever had the chance, are among closest things to reversing that flow.

A particular honoree that I want to mention is Dr. Muhammad Yunus, founder of the Grameen Bank. Not your ordinary blood(money)-sucking megalomanical curmudgeon of Wall Street. Based out of Bangledesh, this motherfucker loans billions of dollars to poor people. I mean dirt-poor people, and unfortunately for most parts of the world, this means women. Women at home, struggling through their days, not worrying about what purse to match with their stilletos for a night out to paint the town red, but if they are even going to feed their starving children or not.

He runs a bank that loans to this clientele. Borrowing Interest? Fuck it. They'll pay it back in small, low-interest installments, and there are no late fees. They're dirt poor? Fuck it. They'll pay it back, they'll just pay back in really small fucking installments. They don't have a car to get to a nearby bank? Fuck it. We'll go to them and do our corporate banking door-to-door. This shit will never work. Fuck it. We believe in the goodness and virtue of people and will place our bank's success solely in their hands. And it's worked. 98% of customers, low-end down and out customers, pay their balances in full and have forged new lives for themselves, their families, and their communities. Some have even trained to become franchisees for Grameen. Little did I know, he recently began a branch in Jackson Heights queens for the same demographic. I was also given the honor to hear him speak at a recent conference in LA. Low-key, simple, and groundbreaking in his thinking. A pretty amazing man. It's funny to think that the notion of TRUST is groundbreaking.

At one point in our lives, we have to go out in faith. I am talking blind, is-there-someone-lurking-behind-that-dark-corridor-i-hear-noises-but-let-me-go-see-anyway faith. Faith in God, specifically, you know, faith that actually falls into context with the definition of the word. Not seeing, but still believing. Otherwise, we will toil in mediocrity, live a Godot life, and die regretting more than cherishing things we will by then have experienced. Faith is the name of the game, if you want to make lasting impressions on the world and for yourselves, not to mention the ones that will carry your legacy onto the next generation.

To believe is to see.

Grameen Bank Stockholder Meeting. I shit you not.

Fat Men Riding Bikes.

When I lived in Philly, Cottman Avenue was my most frequently driven-on road. My apartment building was attached to it, all the major amenities were about 3 minutes down South, and I took it to New Second Street in order to go to school. Never a day went by that I didn't drive on Cottman.

During this road more traveled, I would often pass by Five Points, where Rising Sun, Oxford, rt. 232, Cottman Avenue, and another insignificant byway would intersect. And I'd swivel my way through hordes of confused motorists and asshole truck drivers who would intentionally turn to cut you off. I'd tiptoe my Ford Taurus through three consecutive stoplights which did not properly synchronize (A Feat in Itself) and finally burst through the melee, smoothly coasting down a few more blocks until the next light. A bat out of hell, a baby out of the womb, a butterfly out of its cocoon, I would be.

Then I'd see him. The same poor bastard I see at least once every two weeks. A lard of a man, nearly 300 pounds, easy, sweaty and unsure of himself as he teetered on the crack-ridden sidewalk on an old bicycle, you know the ones with really thin tires and a suspicious frame with brakes on the handlebars. Oh, they're all like that? Shit. Anyway...ok, rusted! Bike aficionados can slay me later.

The gelatinous fat that spilled out of his shirt over his pant waist jiggled as he rumbled slowly down the pavement. It was a sad sight to see. I wouldn't be able to tell if he was doing it for fun of to get some exercise. My hunch was always on the former because he never pedaled. He would just coast from block to block because Cottman going North was a downhill until the Ryers train station. It was a cumbersome, uncomfortable sight. I'd sit in awe for 1.5 seconds as I passed him in my car, looking at the shame and the absurdity of it all. A 300 pound man with a messy, lumberjack beard, balding, and trying to steer himself to freedom. From what, I don't know.

Looking back on it, it must have taken a shitload of courage to do what he did. He may have not been consciously aware of how stupid he looked, but he did it because he wanted to do it. It probably wasn't easy for him to drag the bike out of the garage, manage to seat himself on top, checking the air in the tires to make sure he doesn't fall "flat", both in the tires and on his face. I wondered about how he felt at the end of his ride, perhaps when the sun was setting, that feeling he had when he put the bike back in the shed, and locked the door, hoping he would make it one more week so he could go for his ride.

I don't have moments like that anymore. Moments where I do not care, throw caution to the wind, and get out there and do stuff that people may look at me weirdly for. I've done a few things like it in the past, and it was liberating. Now, I'm in a laboratory maze. Convoluted enough that I feel challenged, but ultimately, something that goes nowhere. I cannot yet tell whether it's the circumstances or my own shortsightedness that I feel this way. But, I do. I wonder when I'll once again, hop on my bike, ignore my pedals, and concentrate on going for that gentle, but risky ride.

It's Time to Type for Meaning Again.

Back in the day, I used to intern for a small branding agency in Philly. My day was composed of running fed-ex packages to the drop box, painting walls, washing dishes by hand, fu**ing up photocopies, and mishandling huge outside vendor checks. Not to mention arrogantly blasting hip hop music and begin chastised for it by the entire creative department.

But, it's where I developed a passion for creativity, as well as writing to sell. These days, I feel like that bug is dying, or dead, or was it ever alive? (Beckett-esque sentence just now, I rock.)

I haven't blogged since my medieval days on Xanga. Couple that sad fact with my creative spirit slowly dying from a combination of dehydration and paralysis, I decided to open up this one.
I'm gonna rant, rave, and reinvigorate myself through the medium that is the blogspot.

Get money.