Thinking of taking things into your own hands in public? Then let it be your... um..ahem...er, rather than your beloved.Kiss in public and you're likely to wind up with a bloody nose. So what if it's just a peck and the lady is your wife of several years. This is a decent society. Respectable. And it says you cannot commit indecencies in public. What example are you setting for the youth of this nation? Huh?Piss in public, on a vacant wall, and you will be felicitated for having inaugurated yet another common man's lavatory in the city. A few others will join you. And after you have left, more will continue the good work. Alas, man who drinks water is also a man who must pass water.
So citizens one and all, by the law of the land,
You can unzip quietly and take in your hand
You can do it in public, just do it on a wall,
You can do it anytime, spring, summer or fall.
You can display your phallus to an unsuspecting crowd,
And draw absolutely nothing but an indulgent frown.
But smooch in public and you'll catch one on the jaw
Our culture don't allow it, and that's the bloomin' law.
So piss, don't kiss, it's safer that way
And I don't blame you for wondering, who made us this way?
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
BE to CD - Egg puffs, tea and Ogilvy on Advertising (Contd.)
It's a great first book to read in advertising - the A for Apple variety.
It threw light on the ad agency, its departments, its functions, and the position I was trying to make my own. And by the time I had read the last page, my resolve to pursue advertising as a career had been cast in stone.
Nothing to do with the book's selling powers. I just found that I had all the necessary qualifications. No degree (not mandatory). A gift of the gab. Good spelling. A way with the words I could spell. A way of avoiding those I couldn’t. A general curiosity about things that were not my business.
Not that I had other options, but I couldn’t ask for more.
The book also told me one other thing. I was working in the wrong place. An agency which asked for very little work and paid for it might sound like a dream come true, but it wasn’t going to get me my next job. There was a more important currency to be earned, my portfolio. And that wouldn’t happen without work, irrespective of how my bank account fared in a general health check.
By month two however, the alarm bells started ringing. Because the cash registers weren't. My two thousand five hundred rupee salary was coming in instalments. A thousand the first week. Another the next. The rest came sometime during what was left of the month. Was this, I wondered, what they meant by 'salary break-up'.
And then the Lord spoke to me. His words were loud and clear, and exemplary in their economy of phrasing.
“Man does not live by eye candy alone.”
It threw light on the ad agency, its departments, its functions, and the position I was trying to make my own. And by the time I had read the last page, my resolve to pursue advertising as a career had been cast in stone.
Nothing to do with the book's selling powers. I just found that I had all the necessary qualifications. No degree (not mandatory). A gift of the gab. Good spelling. A way with the words I could spell. A way of avoiding those I couldn’t. A general curiosity about things that were not my business.
Not that I had other options, but I couldn’t ask for more.
The book also told me one other thing. I was working in the wrong place. An agency which asked for very little work and paid for it might sound like a dream come true, but it wasn’t going to get me my next job. There was a more important currency to be earned, my portfolio. And that wouldn’t happen without work, irrespective of how my bank account fared in a general health check.
By month two however, the alarm bells started ringing. Because the cash registers weren't. My two thousand five hundred rupee salary was coming in instalments. A thousand the first week. Another the next. The rest came sometime during what was left of the month. Was this, I wondered, what they meant by 'salary break-up'.
And then the Lord spoke to me. His words were loud and clear, and exemplary in their economy of phrasing.
“Man does not live by eye candy alone.”
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
BE to CD - Egg puffs, tea and Ogilvy on Advertising
9 am. Monday morning. I stood at the bakery located around the corner from my new office. Munching an egg puff. Sipping tea. No, I wasn’t playing hooky. The office wasn’t open yet. And when the doors were thrown open, it was the office boy. Not the one bright spot I was expecting to throw light on my morning.
I looked around the office. One large room. Six workstations. A loo. Two shelves that constituted a library.
She came in by 11, as did Late Twenties. Forgive me, it was my first job. My ignorance went as far as not knowing that bosses never sauntered in with the proletariat. Smiling she came to my desk, shook my hand and welcomed me. I promised to do my best. To work as hard as I could. To stand by her through thick and thin, er… the company.
He looked less pleased. No smile. Not even a hint. Just an officious shake and a few mumbles about creating path breaking advertising (also known as rich managing directors).
Over the years I was to hear that bit over and over again. At every agency I worked. Some said clutter breaking. Others called it taking the leap (ironically that agency’s office was on the 7th floor). “We must make it to Cannes”, said a third, and I can’t say that the itch to refer him to Cox and Kings didn’t occur. Never mind. Soon after you joined, you learnt that you really weren’t expected or required to create anything better than your boss could, or had. In fact, you’d better not. Now that’s a different story, and I’ll get there in time.
My first month at my new workplace passed like a dream. There was a lot to clean my spectacle lenses for, but very little work. So I headed in the direction of the 2 shelves that was the office library, in search of some words I could munch on when I wasn’t feasting on eye candy. I found Ogilvy on Advertising.
(To be contd.)
I looked around the office. One large room. Six workstations. A loo. Two shelves that constituted a library.
She came in by 11, as did Late Twenties. Forgive me, it was my first job. My ignorance went as far as not knowing that bosses never sauntered in with the proletariat. Smiling she came to my desk, shook my hand and welcomed me. I promised to do my best. To work as hard as I could. To stand by her through thick and thin, er… the company.
He looked less pleased. No smile. Not even a hint. Just an officious shake and a few mumbles about creating path breaking advertising (also known as rich managing directors).
Over the years I was to hear that bit over and over again. At every agency I worked. Some said clutter breaking. Others called it taking the leap (ironically that agency’s office was on the 7th floor). “We must make it to Cannes”, said a third, and I can’t say that the itch to refer him to Cox and Kings didn’t occur. Never mind. Soon after you joined, you learnt that you really weren’t expected or required to create anything better than your boss could, or had. In fact, you’d better not. Now that’s a different story, and I’ll get there in time.
My first month at my new workplace passed like a dream. There was a lot to clean my spectacle lenses for, but very little work. So I headed in the direction of the 2 shelves that was the office library, in search of some words I could munch on when I wasn’t feasting on eye candy. I found Ogilvy on Advertising.
(To be contd.)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
BE to CD (the last stretch of the first mile)
On that joyous note I return to the newspaper ad, which prompted this flashback. Holding on to it for dear life, I dialed the number listed and sought an interview for the position of a copywriter. The gentleman at the other end asked a few questions in chaste English, and having satisfied himself of my qualifications for the job asked me to turn up in a couple of hours.
The place was around 15 km from where I lived. Following the address I had scribbled down, I made my way across the city in search of an advertising career. Yes, on the same Bajaj Super. And from experience I can tell you it’s a good vehicle to have in hand when you’re looking for a job. No maintenance, and it carried me a fair distance for the extravagant half litre I could afford. On this trusty warhorse, I made it to the interview with some minutes to spare.
There were 2 people there. A young man in his late 20s. And a woman whose age didn’t matter. She was gorgeous. The drop dead and roll over variety. And I couldn’t take my eyes off her, which I think her companion noticed because he cleared his throat.
So with one more reason to want that job, I turned to face Mr. Late Twenties. I smiled sweetly. Had to be nice to him if I wanted to spend any time in that space. So what if he was the least of my considerations. I eagerly answered all his questions, and offered him some short stories and poems I had written, as proof of my writing skills. He took the sheaf of papers from me, and just as I was hoping I could take a break to look in a more rewarding direction while he read my work, he asked me if I could step out and return in 30 minutes. Not amused at all, I smiled and answered in the affirmative. I left reluctantly, nursing a vanquished libido and a grouse against Late Twenties.
Faced with this abrupt change in scenery, the more traditional way to a man’s heart reared its head. I had, in my haste to reach the gates to my career, raced past the dining table on which a sumptuous lunch had been spread out. The situation had to be addressed in a hurry, just so I could focus on the more important things at hand. So forward I ventured in search of my favourite eatery, and easily found a Mallu bakery within peeing distance. Don’t be surprised. This was Bangalore, the Malayalee’s plan B to the ‘Gelf’. There I bought myself a couple of egg puffs, and a soft drink to wash them down. It took me all of 20 minutes and 15 rupees. I was all set now, for another helping of my favourite eye candy.
I hung around the parking area to kill just the 30 minutes Late Twenties had asked of me. Not a second more. And just as the needle ticked over, I stuck my face in. I smiled at her. She nodded back. And then I heard his voice again.
“We like your writing samples and would like you to work for us. We will pay you a salary of 2500 rupees, and want you to start on Monday.”
I’d have worked for free and started on the Sabbath, but this wasn’t the time to give my blood rush away. Two-five was a very handy reward even if I didn’t account for my daily bonus. I rose and shook hands. The lady nodded again. I turned away, then looked back once more.
She smiled.
I rode back home overjoyed. My break into advertising had arrived. It was time to party. Egg puffs anyone?
The place was around 15 km from where I lived. Following the address I had scribbled down, I made my way across the city in search of an advertising career. Yes, on the same Bajaj Super. And from experience I can tell you it’s a good vehicle to have in hand when you’re looking for a job. No maintenance, and it carried me a fair distance for the extravagant half litre I could afford. On this trusty warhorse, I made it to the interview with some minutes to spare.
There were 2 people there. A young man in his late 20s. And a woman whose age didn’t matter. She was gorgeous. The drop dead and roll over variety. And I couldn’t take my eyes off her, which I think her companion noticed because he cleared his throat.
So with one more reason to want that job, I turned to face Mr. Late Twenties. I smiled sweetly. Had to be nice to him if I wanted to spend any time in that space. So what if he was the least of my considerations. I eagerly answered all his questions, and offered him some short stories and poems I had written, as proof of my writing skills. He took the sheaf of papers from me, and just as I was hoping I could take a break to look in a more rewarding direction while he read my work, he asked me if I could step out and return in 30 minutes. Not amused at all, I smiled and answered in the affirmative. I left reluctantly, nursing a vanquished libido and a grouse against Late Twenties.
Faced with this abrupt change in scenery, the more traditional way to a man’s heart reared its head. I had, in my haste to reach the gates to my career, raced past the dining table on which a sumptuous lunch had been spread out. The situation had to be addressed in a hurry, just so I could focus on the more important things at hand. So forward I ventured in search of my favourite eatery, and easily found a Mallu bakery within peeing distance. Don’t be surprised. This was Bangalore, the Malayalee’s plan B to the ‘Gelf’. There I bought myself a couple of egg puffs, and a soft drink to wash them down. It took me all of 20 minutes and 15 rupees. I was all set now, for another helping of my favourite eye candy.
I hung around the parking area to kill just the 30 minutes Late Twenties had asked of me. Not a second more. And just as the needle ticked over, I stuck my face in. I smiled at her. She nodded back. And then I heard his voice again.
“We like your writing samples and would like you to work for us. We will pay you a salary of 2500 rupees, and want you to start on Monday.”
I’d have worked for free and started on the Sabbath, but this wasn’t the time to give my blood rush away. Two-five was a very handy reward even if I didn’t account for my daily bonus. I rose and shook hands. The lady nodded again. I turned away, then looked back once more.
She smiled.
I rode back home overjoyed. My break into advertising had arrived. It was time to party. Egg puffs anyone?
Monday, May 28, 2007
BE to CD - The first mile (Contd.)
‘Wanted copywriter.’
To understand my excitement on seeing these words in 6-point Times New Roman, I must take you back a few months. After being injured in an accident, I’d been laid up (no orgasmic connotations intended) for some months. To kill time, I started writing songs, and putting them to 3 chord tunes. Nothing terribly original. Just rhyming lines about lost love and the rock ‘n’ roll way of life. Trying to be the 6-string toting cowboy from Bangalore.
Once back on my feet, I headed straight for a studio and a recording. I even went as far as calling my effort an album. And if that wasn’t enough I made 200 copies and sold them at 50 rupees a piece. To help me on my way, I had a shark breathing up my pants for the 10K loan he’d given me at 15% a month.
Now sloppy as the recording was, the music wasn’t received badly. Between me and a partner in rhyme, we managed to palm off most of the 200 at our respective colleges. To ease my guilt, I explained to every one of my buyers that the album wasn’t worth the money they were paying. But they were sure I was a budding star. (Blooming idiot I thought was closer home.)
Some even asked me to autograph their copies. Certainly Ma’am. Though I can’t say I wouldn’t have responded with greater enthusiasm if it were a bared bosom and a permanent marker I was offered. I’d watched enough music videos to know that was a possibility, however remote. ☺
Encouraged by the confidence of my mates and helped along by fantasies of permanent markers, I began to think I could cut it as a musician. I decided to start with jingles. A friend who I discussed my career plan with gave me directions. To an ad agency on Church Street in Bangalore. Lintas he said, offering to take me there. Kind fellow. So off we went on a Saturday afternoon.
The reception area was deserted. So we stood around clearing our throats. Minutes passed, and then a head popped out. And then another.
“Yes?”
“Do-Re-Me-Can-Ai-Com-Po-Se-Yo-Ur-Jingles”, I went. Not in so many words. But that was the gist. They got the drift, but to make sure, I also offered to write the lines. At no extra cost. Introducing, Value Added Services, from Manoj Jacob and Partners. Notes for notes and lines for free.
“Buddy”, said a red-eyed bloke. “You’ll be taking away our jobs if you do that.”
Much as I wanted to admit that I quite welcomed that situation, I held my tongue. And instead enquired about the nature of their work.
“Copywriter”, he went on. “We write ads.” (Incidentally, the bloke is now a much respected adman whose latest script is a much talked about romance of cradle snatching proportions.)
Enlightened I stepped out of Lintas, Church Street, Bangalore. With the light shining bright on a new career plan.
“Copywriter wanted?”
To understand my excitement on seeing these words in 6-point Times New Roman, I must take you back a few months. After being injured in an accident, I’d been laid up (no orgasmic connotations intended) for some months. To kill time, I started writing songs, and putting them to 3 chord tunes. Nothing terribly original. Just rhyming lines about lost love and the rock ‘n’ roll way of life. Trying to be the 6-string toting cowboy from Bangalore.
Once back on my feet, I headed straight for a studio and a recording. I even went as far as calling my effort an album. And if that wasn’t enough I made 200 copies and sold them at 50 rupees a piece. To help me on my way, I had a shark breathing up my pants for the 10K loan he’d given me at 15% a month.
Now sloppy as the recording was, the music wasn’t received badly. Between me and a partner in rhyme, we managed to palm off most of the 200 at our respective colleges. To ease my guilt, I explained to every one of my buyers that the album wasn’t worth the money they were paying. But they were sure I was a budding star. (Blooming idiot I thought was closer home.)
Some even asked me to autograph their copies. Certainly Ma’am. Though I can’t say I wouldn’t have responded with greater enthusiasm if it were a bared bosom and a permanent marker I was offered. I’d watched enough music videos to know that was a possibility, however remote. ☺
Encouraged by the confidence of my mates and helped along by fantasies of permanent markers, I began to think I could cut it as a musician. I decided to start with jingles. A friend who I discussed my career plan with gave me directions. To an ad agency on Church Street in Bangalore. Lintas he said, offering to take me there. Kind fellow. So off we went on a Saturday afternoon.
The reception area was deserted. So we stood around clearing our throats. Minutes passed, and then a head popped out. And then another.
“Yes?”
“Do-Re-Me-Can-Ai-Com-Po-Se-Yo-Ur-Jingles”, I went. Not in so many words. But that was the gist. They got the drift, but to make sure, I also offered to write the lines. At no extra cost. Introducing, Value Added Services, from Manoj Jacob and Partners. Notes for notes and lines for free.
“Buddy”, said a red-eyed bloke. “You’ll be taking away our jobs if you do that.”
Much as I wanted to admit that I quite welcomed that situation, I held my tongue. And instead enquired about the nature of their work.
“Copywriter”, he went on. “We write ads.” (Incidentally, the bloke is now a much respected adman whose latest script is a much talked about romance of cradle snatching proportions.)
Enlightened I stepped out of Lintas, Church Street, Bangalore. With the light shining bright on a new career plan.
“Copywriter wanted?”
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