Make mine a moist one

So what’s with Coors Light owning cold? Is this not the most underachieving brand proposition of all time? Any beer can be cold. In fact, any “thing” can be cold. Put it in the fridge and viola, it’s cold.  While other beers celebrate their brewing tradition or the quality of their ingredients, Coors has decided to tell the world that their beer reacts favourably to your fridge. It’s like a frozen pizza company puffing out their chests about how hot their pizza gets if you put it in the oven. Or a clothing company boasting about how their t-shirts get incredibly dry. “Hey man. Let’s go grab some Coors. I’ve heard they get really, really, really cold. Can’t wait to pop a few in the fridge to see what happens. Oh, we’re drinking cold beer tonight let me tell you”. Maybe I should start my own beer company and make my point of difference the fact that my beer is wetter than other beers. The wettest beer around. I mean this stuff is wet.

Short, curly and mysterious.

I can’t believe how many times I’ve encountered pubes in strange and unexpected places.  I’ve lost count.  On the subway.  My desk at work. Boardrooms. Coffee shops.  The list is endless. But the one short and curly rendez vous that will always stand out in my mind took place at an advertising portfolio show I was involved in a few years back. One of those things where creatives look at aspiring students’ portfolios to offer guidance or spirit-crushing insight into their complete lack of talent. After looking at an endless line-up of books, I landed on one that stood out from the rest. It was arresting. Mind blowing. And life altering. Not because of its conceptual brilliance or artistic flair. No. What captured my imagination and attention was the single pube that had somehow fallen in between one of the ads and the plastic covering. Not only was it there, but by chance, the ad it was pressed against just happened to be white and laid out in a way that brought attention to it. As we both looked at the ad, and took in the pube, silence fell over us. I fell into a trance. How was I to give feedback under these circumstances? She saw it. I saw it. WE SAW IT! Do I bring it up or leave it alone? It’s staring right at us. The tension is unbearable. I’ll just turn that page. She knows this interview is over. No matter how brilliant her work may have been, it’s been tainted.  Haunted by a short and curly. I could make a joke about it but I think that’d make it worse. I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. The 15 seconds of uncomfortable silence definitely says that I have. She knows. I know. The pube knows. This story’s over.  Next portfolio show I’ll be sure to advise students to do a thorough pube- check before finalizing their portfolio.  You don't want to make a first impression with a short and curly.

Leave our teeth alone

While walking through Kensington market today, I saw many things. Many strange things. But the most bizarre encounter of the day was what can only be described as a hipster dental office. I kid you not. The sign looked all ironic. The work of a giant hipster asshole, no doubt. The clientele looked like members of Broken Social Scene. It was a sea of messy hair, skinny jeans and snarky, sarcastic glares. I could not believe it. Do hipsters have to infiltrate everything? So instead of intentionally looking dirty and messy are they going to get their hipster dentist to fuck up their teeth, but in a way that looks like they didn’t do it on purpose?  Maybe the hygienists with break into spontaneous burlesque shows or pillow fights.  The fluoride might come in crazy, out there flavours like pink popcorn. This way, the hipster patients will have ample fodder for their post appointment hipster conversation.  They’ll also make it open 24 hours a day. That’s so different. Another conversation piece they can bring up. Right after they tell everyone about the Ethiopian meal they had last night. The dental office was actually closed but I bet you it sucks as much as I think it does.

A five without an answer...

I think high fives are ridiculous. Low tens are just absurd. But, I will admit to offering my hand up a few times over the years – mostly during my hockey playing days when the alternative was an ass slap or god forbid, a ball-shaving. The most amusing thing I’ve taken away from the whole thing are the times when the high five is not returned because the person being propositioned did not see the gesture. The incredible seconds in which the person with their hand in the air just lingers, not quite knowing what to do. They know that others have seen their attempt at a high five.  All eyes are on them. It must be a very lonely time. I love seeing the person standing alone, sheepishly moving their hand, desperately hoping that their efforts do not go unnoticed. Seconds pass. Ten. Then 20. They have to do something.  I’ve actually seen people pretend that they were in fact fixing their hair or itching their scalp to cover up the failed high five. Futile. Everyone saw the boyish exuberance in their eyes as they raised up their hand. It’s no use.  Lower your hand and put it in your pocket. Because the only thing worse than a high five is one that’s unanswered. An unanswered low ten? Well you’ve just opened Pandora’s box.