Please welcome Vladimír Clementis to the Barton F. Graf 9000 blog.

Announcing our new head of Social Arbitrage, Vladimír Clementis. "Clemmy" was born in Brno, Czechoslovakia to a middle-class family. He studied literature and aesthetics at the Faculty of Arts at Charles University in Prague. Eric and I met him at a showing of Transformers 3 at the Loews 84th St. Cinema. 

Mouth Birthed

Did you see the pride in Christina Aguilera's face when Beverly McClellan chose to sing "Beautiful" on The Voice? Ms. Aguilera was beaming when she said, "I am honored that Beverly has chosen to sing my own song." Yes Christina, "Beautiful" is your own song. You gave it life when it came out of your mouth. Your voice box is a song uterus.
The one thing that put a damper on the show was the sour face Linda Perry had. Who does this woman think she is? Christina even introduced her, not by name, no, but as "The writer of my own song." Ms. Perry acted like it was her song, not Christina's. All Linda Perry did was write and produce it. What's her problem? I think they should reissue the song as "Christina Aguilera's Beautiful Written By Someone Else But Mouth Birthed By Christina." And it should be $1.49 on iTunes, not .99¢.

Going With Gianni Versace’s Stubble.

Rich Silverstein’s mustache contacted me a few days ago. He’s been freelancing for a few years and is looking for some full time work. He and Rich were partners for over twenty years when suddenly Rich decided to go it alone back in 2005. It's been rough ever since. I really respect Rich Silverstein’s mustache. As advertising icons go, Rich Silverstein’s mustache is up there with Lee Clow’s beard. I told Rich Silverstein’s mustache that I was sorry, I don’t need a mustache right now. I’m going with Gianni Versace’s stubble. But if Barton F. Graf 9000 is ever in need of a mustache, I’d call Rich Silverstein’s mustache first. I told Rich Silverstein’s mustache to stay in touch and I’ll keep my ears open for anyone looking for a really good mustache. I wished Rich Silverstein’s mustache good luck. 

God Himself Was Whispering

While sitting down to dissect the McDonald's 1989 classic "Menu Song" I thought I was in for a study of all that is right with the craft of film making. It was only after a 22-year hiatus from the spot (used to de-mesmirize my brain) that I could finally find a flaw. Sure it all begins with the portrayal of a daily truth, us Americans ordering one of our three daily meals from a McDonald's. And then, amazingly and unexpectedly, the patron at the front of the line orders the entire menu in a stunningly beautiful torrent of song that SHOTS magazine once described to be "as if God himself was whispering in your ear'.

After such a disruptive zig during what should have been an obvious zag moment, it's easy for the final twenty four seconds of film to be one giant swirl of love and emotion in your mind. But nothing is perfect, as I found on my 658th viewing last night. At :06 into the film the McDonald's employees turn from their duties to join the rest of the patrons, in awe of the breakthrough moment. But later, at :14 the same McDonald's employees turn around again! As if they weren't already turned around! Like they never turned around the first time! Its a stunning error that has ramifications far beyond the ad world. It could come back to haunt the goals and dreams of an entire television influenced generation. Even as I type this I wonder if I should post it. Maybe I shouldn't. OK, I will. But please don't share it with friends you think it could affect:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfH3yf-vf3A

Award Show Awards

The award for best award show award goes to the D&AD pencil. So good, the One Show ripped it off. So the One Show pencil is disqualified along with the Andy Award because it's pretty much just the head of the Oscar but really big. The Cannes Lion gets the silver. Short listed were the Art Director's Club cube and the Effie. The Clios missed the deadline.

Goodbye Cannes

As per tradition, we all got together in Michael Lebowitz’s suite at the Carlton hotel to change into our tuxedos, do our hair, take pictures, and gab before the Titanium/Film awards. Michael was playing some Whitesnake. As “Here I Go Again” blasted in the background, Bob Scarpelli helped Jeff Goodby with his ponytail. 

Tiffany Rolfe and Colleen Decourcy crashed. Tiffany changed in the other room but Colleen said she could “give a shit”. Andrew Robertson tried to get in but we got the chain on the door just in time. Jeff Benjamin forgot his cummerbund (just like last year). I got a little annoyed with Iain Tate because he kept sticking me as he tried to pin on my corsage.

As we made our way to the Palais, we all held hands. Michael in the middle of course. Goodby looked at me and said “I hope I win and you don’t”, and we all ran up the red carpeted steps laughing like school kids.

Report From Room 409 Pt. 3

I was coming back to my room kind of late and there was a room service tray outside 407 and I spied an entire basket of bread - two whole grain rolls and a baguette, untouched. So I grabbed them, and just as I was leaving, the door opened and it's Mark Waites from Mother. And I don't know if you know this about Mark, but he talks just like Paul McCartney, I think Mark is from Liverpool too. So he was like, "Hold on there mate, what do you think you're doin' with me rollie rolls? You can't come plip ploppin over here on your tiddliewinks and go away all sneakie sneakie now."
I said sorry and put the rolls back and for some reason Mark pulled the cart back into his room.

Catching Up With Sir Martin Sorrell

Sir Martin Sorrell, head of WPP, was nice enough to sit down for a chat.





Gerry: Hello, Sir.
Sir Martin: You're screwed, you realize this?
G: Excuse me?
SM: With your little jokes and your little bits, I don't put up with that shit.
G: Just saying hi.
SM: Get on with it then.
G: With what?
SM: The money joke. "Give me some money." The crap you pulled with Wren.
G: You guys talk?
SM: Talk? We're all sharing a boat.
G: You and Wren?
SM: Me, Wren, Levy...who's the guy from MDC?
G: Miles Nadal?
SM: Yeah, that guy, he's there. David Jones from Havas.
G: You should call him Davey Jones.
SM: Why?
G: Cuz you're on a boat.
SM:: You and your stupid jokes. Shut the fuck up.
G: What's the name of the boat?
SM The Ha-Cha-Cha
G: Ok.
SM: Say it, Ha-Cha-Cha, like Jimmy Durante.
G: Ha-Cha-Cha.
SM: No. Ha-Cha-Cha
G: Ha-Cha-Cha

SM: We got a Browning .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the back. We blast Halibut right out of the sea. These little Algerian guys jump in and collect all the dead fish for us. You should come out, it's fun.
G: Really?
SM: No. Get the fuck out of here.

SWEET!

I finally ran into David Droga and he was nice enough (he's always nice, btw) to pose for a quick pic and we got to catch up. I asked him about his cool yellow and blue shirt and he told me that it was one of a pair, Ted Royer has the other one, but Ted couldn't make Cannes this year, too busy back in NY. Ted's shirt was also yellow and blue but had the letters "ET!" on it so when David and Ted stood together it would read "SWEET!". And Ted and David are SWEET! so it would have worked. I don't think it was supposed to mean that they were nice and kind, not that type of sweet  (though they are). I think what it was supposed to mean was like when you see something cool like an old Ford Mustang and you yell "SWEET!", I think that was the type of sweet they were going for. And it would have worked, you know, seeing David and Ted together would have been "SWEET!", but like I said, Ted couldn't make it, but David kept up his part of the bargain and wore his shirt.

Report From Room 409 Pt. 2

4:22 am
Hotel Martinez, Cannes

BANG, BANG on my hotel door.
I don't answer.
BANG, BANG
Someone whispers, "I know you're in there Gerry."
BANG, BANG
"I know you can heeeeaaarrr me."
BANG, BANG
"I'm not leaving."
BANG, BANG

I hide under my covers and the banging and whispering goes on for a while. I can't make out the voice but I know it's one of two people: Tom Carroll or Rich Silverstein. Probably Silverstein.

Who's The Boss?

Eric always called me "Boss". Even when he went to Weiden and I went to Saatchi, he'd say "Hey boss, good to see you." when we bumped into each other, real nice and down homey like. And when he joined Barton F. Graf, he was like, "Morning, Boss."

So last night he wins the cyber grand prix. And today he's walking down the Croisette. He's walking toward me with Bob Greenberg and he's either wearing Bob's beret or he purchased his own and he says, "Hey Graffy do you know Bob?" Yes "Kallmanny", I know Bob. Thank You. Enjoy your chocolate chip cookie while it lasts.

Catching Up With John Wren

The Carlton Hotel seems to be the place to meet up with people. This morning, I ran into Omnicom CEO John Wren and we had a nice conversation.

Gerry: Hi

John: Hello.

G: Can I have some money?

J: No.

G: Ok.

J:

G: Bye.

J: Bye.

Report from room 409

The Gutter Bar is right next to the Martinez Hotel. And if you're staying in a room in the front of the hotel there's this sound proof curtain you pull down to block the screaming and yelling that goes on until six in the morning. I would like to lodge a formal complaint against the Pierre Frey Rideaux Co. Your sound proof curtains do not work!

I don't know if you know David Lubars, but if you did, you'd make your curtains thicker. We all love and enjoy the Neil Diamond classic "Sweet Caroline", but Jesus Christ.

Catching up with Jean-Marie Dru

I bumped into my old boss and good friend Jean-Marie Dru, former Worldwide CEO of TBWA at the Carlton Hotel terrace and got a chance to catch up.

Gerry: It’s good to see you again.

Jean-Marie: Very nice seeing you. How is Saatchi?

G: I’m not there anymore.

JM: Oh. I thought that’s where you went.

G: I did, but I quit a year ago. I started my own agency.

JM: Really? I didn’t know.

G: It was in all the trades.

JM: I read most of them, I didn’t see.

G: You must have missed that issue.

JM: In Adweek?

G: Yes

JM: Hmm. Adage?

G: Yes.

JM Shots?

G: Yes, a lot, most of them.

JM: I don’t recall seeing anything about you or an agency.

G: That’s funny.

JM: Why is it funny? It’s a little sad, no?

G: No.

JM: What is your agency called?

G: Barton F. Graf 9000.

JM: I’m sorry, what?

G: Barton F. Graf 9000

JM: That’s really the name?

G: Yes.

JM: Really?

G: Yes.

JM: Barton what?

G: Barton F. Graf 9000.

JM: Oh well.

Jose's Chocolate On My Lips

This is the French I know:

-Je voudrais une croissant

-Je suis enchante

-Ou est le bibliotheque

-Voila mon passport


-Ah, Gerard Depardieu

I’m practicing my French on the Delta flight, the good one that goes direct to Nice. I’m sitting in seat 27B, not even Economy Plus. But that’s what you get when you spend your own money. I can see through the curtain to Business Plus and Bob Greenberg is munching on his chocolate chip cookie and licking his lips and his fingers. Screw you RG! And your chocolaty fingers. Now he’s talking to the guy next to him, can’t see his face but by the swarthy slicked back hair I’m guessing it’s Jose Molla, and Bob is saying something. No! Jose, don’t give him your cookie, NO! Aww, Jose gave Bob his cookie. Bob’s got the biggest smile on his face eating Jose’s cookie. The rep sitting next to me just asked if I could stop leaning across his seat. AND YES, I SEE YOU READING MY BLOG POST AND I’M WRITING ABOUT YOU. Anyway. Bob knew I was back here. He could have given me Jose’s cookie. He’s got chocolate on his lips. Jose’s Chocolate is on Bob’s lips. I wish Jose’s chocolate was on my lips.

-Gerry

The Dude At TNT Knows.

You know who should get an Emmy for Lifetime Achievement In The Category Of Television Programming? The guy who picks out the TNT movie. That one movie that TNT buys and then runs everyday, four times a day, for the next two years. He’s a genius.

It started a long time ago with The Shawshank Redemption. That movie went basically unnoticed in theaters. It came out the same year as Pulp Fiction and Forrest Gump. But guess what happens when you put it on TV twice a day for two years? The dude at TNT knows. You realize that it’s way better than stupid Forrest Gump and even a little better then Pulp Fiction! And we’re talking about a movie that, on TV with commercials, is four hours long.

After we all watched Shawshank a billion times and TNT made a trillion bucks you know they asked the same guy to pick another movie. So then the dude decided it was time to show off and picked An American President. Seriously, An American President! And guess what happens the 1^st, 14^th and 37^th time you flip to it? Somehow you watch it and enjoy it! I’m convinced young people aged 18 to 25 only know Richard Dreyfuss as ‘My name is Bob Rumson and I’m running for President!’

Anyways, this dude has a legacy of buying and constantly airing OK movies that become crazy good in our minds like A Time to Kill and The General’s Daughter. Yes, The General's Daughter. He should be honored. Seriously, someone look him up and we should make some type of plaque for him with wood and brass and engravings. Because trust me, one weekend this fall when the weather turns or you get a cold you’re going to sit on your couch and turn on The DaVinci Code or GI Jane ten minutes in. Then, three commercial-ridden hours later, you’re going to be like ‘that was really good’. Will you be right? It doesn’t even matter, because that guy at TNT was.

Balboa Beach Wraps Need Room To Billow

I was using Google analytics and I did some trend analysis on Scott Vitrone with surprising results. At first look, there was very little info to analyze, and knowing Scott and his wonderful work, this surprised me. Of course, I forgot that I live in this delusional bubble called advertising where we think just because someone made us laugh about multi-colored sugar candy that the entire world should not only bow down to him but his chief creative officer too. There are more important things to care about. But one of those things is definitely not people who run fashion shows in restaurants in the strip malls of Newport Beach. That is not more important and we should care about these people less than we care about advertising people. A strip mall restaurant is no place to highlight a breathtaking new line of causal beachwear. There simply is no strutting room. And the flowing pastels of a Balboa beach wrap need room to billow. That is fashion 101. It is an absurd over promise from a strip mall restaurateur and a blatant grasp for the limelight to try to convince a hardworking fashion designer that a front dining room would work and I have already given too many words about it.

So I should not have been surprised when the Google trend graph was blank when I attempted to analyze Vitrone. Except this huge spike in May of 2010. What? Where did that come from? Further research on what can hardly be called a blip, or even a spike, but a seismic upsurge in the graph, further research indicated all the trend info was coming from Milan, Italy. Huh? Did Vitrone fly to Milan in May of last year and strut down Via Vitruvio with that second shirt button naughtily undone? Is that what caused the graphic spire? Did someone stop him and say, you signore should design your own line of shirts. A line of men’s tops, Via Vitrone (pronounced Vi-troh-nay) Pour Homme, shirts designed with casual elegance where you don’t have to be insecure about undoing the second button because THERE ISN’T A SECOND BUTTON. The top button is the third button. Genius Scott. Genius. You should own that spike as well as the city that created it. But please, please listen to me. I know you want to showcase your talents somewhere. But please take great caution when approached by strip mall restaurant owners from Newport Beach. They will promise you the world, but THEY ARE PHONIES.

Vagabond Condensation and Spanish Galleons

I was raised in California. In the winters it sometimes dips into the high 50s, the summers are wildly pleasant and there is no such thing as humidity. So you could imagine my shock moving to New York City, where the summer heat and humidity evaporate and condensate the vagabond’s urine right at nose level and the winters are what the less experienced to such things might call the demonic storms of a frozen hell.

Throwing myself into such new meteorological experiences got me thinking about East Coasters, why they are where they are, and what I learned in school. Apparently, hundreds of years ago groups of Europeans risked their lives to sail west, cramped on small boats for months, in hopes of making it to a new land mass that they had heard might be there, maybe. And it just might be better then where they were coming from. Have you ever been to Madrid? Or Barcelona? These are fabulous places but, apparently, not fabulous enough. These picky people were taking a big risk and making a really bold move.

So, what did they do when they finally made it to a wide-open new land and experienced the suffocating humidity and frozen death storms? Instead of continuing west, the same people who sat in place on a boat for three months and ate their uncle’s poop (because he ate the biggest meal before they left) decided they had made it. ‘We’re here!’ they said, lying to themselves. They basically quit and in doing so, they quit on America.

But as school also taught me, some continued heading west. It wasn’t easy, but at least Thanksgiving had happened and the Indians gave them turkeys for their journey. These were the types of people who fell asleep asking themselves ‘Did I just risk my life spending three months in the hull of a tiny boat suckling on Uncle Steve’s poop for this kind of weather?’ And they woke up and yelled ‘No way!’ And their confused wives said ‘What are you yelling at?’ And they said ‘Just get in the car.’

But then another curious thing happened. A good number of these even-more-adventurous people who made it across an entire ocean and then began moving across an entire continent just decided to stop, right in the middle, and lied to themselves saying ‘We made it!’ And a guy said “No we haven’t!” and they killed him. There were no geographical indicators that they had made it anywhere. So the dead guy was right. Have you seen the Midwest? It’s just flat, in all directions, and there’s nothing. In fact, if you flip to a movie and see a car driving through such an area, or even an old western and see a wagon going across the plains, you know that movie has just started or, at best, is right in the middle and you want to see where the characters in the cars and wagons eventually end up because they certainly aren’t stopping where they are. It’s an entire region that is impossible to serve as the geographical conclusion to anything. And Vitrone, I don’t want to hear your Wizard of Oz argument.

My best hypothesis for this second wave of quitters was not learned in school, but rather from the rotating headlines on Yahoo.com which seems to do a story twice a week about morbidly obesity in America, and it turns out most of these people live in the Midwest. Now it’s one thing to sail across the sucky ocean and just flat out quit, but its quite another to continue moving west, get super fat from the Indians and their never ending supply of celebratory turkeys and just get lazy. A few months ago all these guys had were a couple of ounces of Uncle poop in their bellies, now they have stoked Indians shoving a never-ending supply of rotisserie turkeys in their face. I mean you can’t really blame them. But we will anyway.

Then there are the Californians. The few that made it all the way across the ocean, through the crappy East Coast weather and past all of the turkey and meat products to a place that probably looked as beautiful as that Avatar planet (the Avatar planet before the war with the humans, when that giant tree was still up). The type of people who weren’t about to settle for snowstorms or humidity, and probably just didn’t like turkey. One would assume these people, my people, would be the winners. But another trip to Yahoo.com’s rotating headlines proves one wrong.

Yesterday Yahoo reported that the median cost of a home in my hometown of Palo Alto has gone from 1 million to 1.6 million dollars since 2008, even as the rest of the country has tanked. Meaning that to enjoy the beautiful Avatar tree of California one must spend all the money that multiple jobs could ever muster up just to rent a single Avatar leaf to sleep on. Hardly a goal the poop-eating risk takers had in mind a few hundred years back.

So, unfortunately, my people lose. And the winners aren’t the East Coasters either. They’d laugh at the Californians, but their rent is almost the same plus laughing at anything is hard when there’s 90% humidity and your lungs are half-full of evaporated hobo pee.

It turns out the Midwesterners come out on top. Their strong personal motivation coupled with their love of turkey meat has left them at the perfect quitting point. In sprawling eight bedroom homes on three acre lots with eight hundred dollar monthly mortgages and all the left over cash they need to go crazy on the dollar menus. So notch another hole in your 52-inch belt middle America, your love of slightly decent weather and rotisserie-styled anything has gotten you to a much better place than Barcelona.

-Eric Kallman

Run Paco, Run.

I have an unopened box that has been with me since I left BBDO for the first time in 1997. It has traveled to Goodby, back to BBDO, over to Chiat, to Saatchi and finally here, to Barton F. Graf 9000. It’s labeled “Office Things”. It has remained unopened for so long that it has developed a sense of mystery. It’s turned into a magic box. What’s inside the magic box? It’s just like that box JJ Abrams had at the Ted Conference with the question mark that his grandfather gave him. He’ll never open that box because inside there is mystery, actual Mystery, and if he ever opens that box he feels he will lose his sense of mystery, his sense of wonder.

So I opened my box and there was a bunch crap inside. Expense reports from the Four Seasons, a filofax with numbers to some guy named Ed at some place called Mad River Post. But then, underneath a 3 hole puncher, was a bottle of Drakkar Noir.

Oh lordy, the mighty Drakkar Noir! Woman slayer! Squirt-Squirt and it was over. It’s coming back to me now, I had to retire the ebon bottle when I got married. But that was some sweet-scented scent. Created by the Uber-Frenchman Guy Laroche. And if that’s not a name I don’t know what is. That would be my spy name if it was the fifties and I was in a place with spies. I’d say my name is Guy Laroche and crack my spy whip and laugh and they would all be afraid because I didn’t just smell like some ordinary Huguenot wearing Drakkar, I smelled like Drakkar Noir, the dark side of Drakkar. And they would run, run like that little runt Paco Rabbane used to run. He and the rest of the cowardly Rabbane family from Guy Laroche and his sexy smelling spy whip.

Excuse me, I was talking. Can I finish?

On the RHOC, Alexis was explaining to Peggy how she and Jim started their lives 7 years ago and whatever happened before that, they don't talk about, so it didn't happen. The world began in 2004 according to Jim and Alexis. But Peggy was still trying to talk about the time or times 15 years ago when she and Jim were sleeping together. But Alexis, who you have to admit is the poster child for plastic surgery, she looks great, as opposed to poor Vicki. I mean, oh my god. Four or five years ago Vicki just looked like one of the Whos in Ron Howard's mess, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. But last night on Andy's reunion part 2 it looked like she got Jowl implants. Her nostrils are still perpendicular to the floor and she still has those sunken, beady eyes, but now her jowls sway from side to side whenever she disagrees with Tamra.

Alexis was blabbing with her self-described perfect lips about how nothing has ever happened in the world before '04 and Peggy went to interject the fact that Jim had interjected her 15 years ago, and Alexis pulls out the old stand by, "Excuse me, I was talking, can I finish?" She then went on for the next 5 minutes explaining how she was talking and if she could just be extended the courtesy of finishing her thought, that would be the lady like thing to do. Peggy didn't help, she just kept jumping in every time Alexis tried to grab a breath - Can, "I fucked him", I, "fucked him", just, "fucked him", finish, "Bang Bang", talking?

Every time someone says "Can I finish?" or "I was talking" what they really mean is "I know I am losing this argument, but I am going to filibuster by talking about the fact that you won't let me finish even though I have nothing more to say." The best thing to do when someone yanks this debating tool out is to shut up. Don't say a word. Because if they actually had something to say, they would be saying it. They are talking when they are asking you if they can finish talking, you have not interrupted someone if they are telling you that you have interrupted them. Just smile and let them flounder away. If that doesn't work, stare at the part of their face that they have had plastic surgery on, like their fish lips or swinging jowls. That works too.