Adman(iac)

Back when I was a young buck at the QVC editorial department (my first summer job in high school) I engineered a pretty intense thirty-second spot for an Amethyst Mosquito Broach collection. Shit was way overstocked, and to make matters worse, the targeted Midwestern baby-makers weren’t biting, So naturally, the QVC brass were getting antsy—worried they wouldn’t have enough warehouse space to stock the shipment of early seventies-style black brass Spanish conquistador statuettes coming in on the first of the month. My boss, Alan, the resident dinosaur/senior copywriter, was pitching absolute dog shit to the creative director. His idea of a slam-dunk was a dialogue parodying Jurassic park’s amber encased mosquito theme fused with the bon vivant sensibilities of a 3pm ABC daytime drama birthing scene. Everything was getting crazy. The cable affiliates were calling in and making a lot of noise, bitches in the media department were losing their minds—spending entire workdays cross-armed and smoking outside the building’s main entrance. Even the normally intrepid showcase hand models were starting in with the Jungian knee jerk cutting escapades. The place was like the 7th inning stretch on 10-cent beer night.

In a last ditch effort, the grown-ups in charge tapped me to try and save the day. They were desperate and figured what the fuck? How bad could I be in comparison to Alan’s milquetoast attempts at career survival? So I came up with the big idea that launched my short—yet distinguished—advertising career.

It was a think piece: picture a Nam vet in the VA hospital flashing back. He closes his eyes, and reopens them. Going from dreary fluorescent light to the soft moonlight—from the pallid stucco bumps of styro-core ceiling paneling to swarms of mosquitoes churning in the Mekong. Big colorful bursts of purple psychedelic trails interspersed with obligatory tracer fire. Imagine him reaching out into the stale, fetid air of the VA hospital. He thinks he is lying on his back on soggy flood plain. The mosquitoes move fluidly, like a school of fish through a kelpy seabed. He reaches to grab one. He is mesmerized. Catches one, brings it close to him, slowly opens his hand— there it is… the Amethyst Mosquito Broach glimmering in the reflection of an artillery round exploding in the distance. He closes his eyes, a tear streaks his face, Salisbury Hill by peter Gabriel plays, and the broach comes to life. It flies out of his hand and into the foreground. We pause. VO comes in: The Amethyst Mosquito Broach Collection—For those who didn’t make it.

Of course we had to re-jigger the media-plan to accommodate the late-night flashbackers and nam burnouts—but nonetheless, the skeeters started flying off the shelves, and voila, I got Alan’s job, a subpoena to testify before congress, death threats from the Veterans Affairs Committee, and honorary citizenship to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. After the dust settled and after Jane Fonda gave me some much needed post-treachery advice on how best to negotiate the pitfalls, I decided the Ad game would be best left for those among us who can thrive without trying to trip the light fantastic.