If You're Lost You Can Look And You Will Find Me.

It has been brought to my attention, by my proof reading team (picked up a few more cheap from News of the World (current events joke, check.)) that this post is apparently sad. That was not my intention. Therefore if you would not like a sad post go back and read a funny one, like the one where the Wiggles touched me, or one that proves that stumble upon does work and got heaps of views over the weekend.


We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.


Have you ever been through a horrible break up?

I have recently, but it was no ordinary break up. No this was no mere girlfriend. This was worse.

I feel as though I’m sitting the kids down at the table to tell them mummy and daddy won’t be living in the same house.

My art-director Hugh and I are *bites fist in an over-dramatic way* seeing other people, creatively.

He is becoming a suit. Hopefully one of the good ones.

And I am holding steadfast to the idea that I am a copywriter and I'll be damned if you try make me do something else.

But not before I do all the best clichéd break-up activities.

I must sit on a couch eating rapidly melting ice cream, whilst listening to Cyndi Lauper's “Time After Time” and watching “He’s Just Not Into You”. Crying throughout, of course, and wailing what might be the lyrics to the aforementioned Cyndi Lauper song, or perhaps the words “He just isn’t that into me”, or even just having a wail for the sake of it because you know, why not, I have nothing else to live for, especially not my dignity.

What am I going to do now then, you ask? Well, I feel as though I’m going to run away for a little while. Visit friends I have all over the country and (if you're willing to donate me some money) the world.

People from my old life will see me walking the streets of some small New Zealand town. I will have on a fake moustache. You’ll have forgotten my name and I’ll have forgotten it too. You’ll call out to me but I will have walked into a toffee shop and by the time you kick through the door I’ll be gone.

Was I really there? You’ll never know.

Later you’ll be by a lake and see my reflection in the water behind you, on for you to turn and find that I'm gone.

Then, later on the bus, I will sit across from you. You’ll look at me, wondering if I truly am the who you think I am, or just another extremely handsome stranger. My fake moustache will come unstuck slightly. No one else will notice, but you did and now you know. It truly is me.

Then, after a very long and difficult conversation, you’ll talk me into coming back for one last ad.

But I swore I was done with that life.

And then there will be some bad sequels that I’ll refuse to act in. I’ll develop a drug habit. Date some porn stars. Start a warlock on World of Warcraft. Finally, Ashton Kutcher’ll replace me.

Either that or in a week I will get bored of being unemployed and go out looking for a job.

Yeah. I think I might do that.

So to everyone that works in the industry, keep your eyes and ears out for me.

P.S Remember to hit those like buttons below, tell your friends and follow me. Remember when I have enough loyal followers we'll buy an island and go live there. 

Adam Martin is a copywriter that lives in Auckland. He has been working in the industry for 6 months and would love to come show you his work. He has no problems relocating especially if it's to New York or London.

I It Love So Much That It Pisses Me Off.

You're probably a very level headed person aren’t you?

I am sure you are. So am I really. Except for my one true love; the rant.

This passion of mine comes in handy on the regular,  because when I am pissed my ability to easily complain anything and everything usually makes me feel much better (or ocassionally, like a dirty whore in need of a scrub down and a weep whilst curled into the fetal positionat the bottom of the shower).

There is, however, one problem with the love of ranting, well apart from no one wanting to talk to you because you complain a lot,  people constantly having to tell you to shut the hell up, and the same people possibly hitting you with a nearby book or failing that, flinging a wheelie chair across the office at high velocity (true story).

The true problem occurs when everything is going so well you have nothing to rant about. On those rare days, I sit in my office yelling things like ‘GODDAMN IT THIS COFFEE IS DELICIOUS’ and “THAT SOUNDS LIKE A COOL BRIEF, AND YOU'RE OFFERING ME ALCOHOL AT THE BRIEFING. BRILLIANT! JUST FUCKING BRILLIANT!”

It’s a tough way to live, I am not going to lie.

You start thinking up cool insults like, “Talking to you is even less entertaining that giving a Cornish game hen a roofie and feeding it chicken bacon” (in the vain hope that it will go crazy, or even better, form some sort of giant super chicken, duh), and “That idea is worse than The Situation and Gilberg Godfrey telling jokes about Lisa Lampanelli” (The Situation because he isn’t very funny, and ol' Gil cause goddamn I hate his voice. Either way, the way Comedy Central roasts are written, the joke would be about Lisa’s love of African American penis).

Anyway, it's Friday, which means that I get to go drink the agency's booze (because I get paid nothing as an intern- look forward to that blog in the future), and I will see you all next week.

Hopefully I may have some good news for you all as well, stay tuned.

Love in the time of Swine Flu.

As some of you may know, I am in fact a writer of more than just these blogs. Not only do I write these masterpieces some call mere blogs, but I'm also a copy writer for an advertising company.

I write all sorts of things: ads, shopping lists, stories, notes telling people to clean the fucking coffee machine so my coffee doesn’t taste like it was strained through ass, all sorts really.

Of course, I am also writing a book. It is called “Love in the time of Swine Flu”, my modern adaptation of a little book you may be familiar with called Love in the time of Cholera.

Production has halted momentarily however, mainly due to the fact that I have never read LiToC (abrevs, god I’m cool) amongst other things.

But with my limited understanding (i.e. two people fall in love, lots of people have cholera, one of them gets cholera, they both die happy even though they were probably only in their twenties and the dude was cheating anyway be he still totally loved her) I have managed to write for you, seen for the first time on the interwebs right here, the climactic scene where Franco and Cynthia finally realize their love for each other. In fact, it could be a short story and this could be the epic second half, not sure yet.





This is only the first draft, but its pretty much done.
I have also made the book classy by setting it in the not to distant past. Note the iPhone 3, get with the times.

“I totally love you.” said Franco, as he looked up from texting his boys.

“Do you really mean that?” said Cynthia, who was on facebook and so totes ready to change her realationship status.

“Yea, like, fully aye.” Franco said, casting his phone aside but making sure it landed on the soft part of the couch, because it was an iPhone and that shit was expensive.

They moved towards each other, angelically dancing across the room, dodging all of the discarded clothes on the floor because they both knew there was a playstation controller in there somewhere and you don’t want to stand on that.

When they reached each other they embraced, made out for a bit, then suddenly Cynthia turned her head.

“Hold up a sec.” she said before letting out an almighty cough.

“Ew that’s gross,” said Franco, “Do you have Swine Flu or something?”

“No, shut up!” said Cynthia defensively. But it was too late, Franco knew.

The anger welled up inside him and he imagined uppercutting the bitch, but didn’t because he didn’t hit girls.

“Bitch you know I have underlying medical condition that, if exposed to a disease such as swine flu, could cause me to die.” he yelled angrily.

Cynthia was taken aback, where did this sudden burst of intelligence come from? Despite her love  for him she thought Franco was a dumb shit, but then she realized he was reading it off the Internet.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I cried a little writing it, I’m not going to lie. I think it could be a best seller, mums will relate because the characters are like their kids, girls will love it cause they relate the complicated relationship dynamics, dudes will find the swearing funny and emo kids can write fan fiction about dying.

It’s the book that has it all.

I am of course looking for a publisher, so email me, it will be the last thing you ever do as a publisher… (Because of all the money you’ll make).

I'm Like The Beatles, Only I'm One Guy. And Only A Blogger.

Me: What should I write about today, Hugh.

Hugh: What you write about everyday, Adam. Trying to take over the world.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I prep for my writing.

Almost everyday Hugh and I have that conversation. It is usually after we have gotten annoyed at each other for not being able to come up with ideas, because let's face it, it's his fault (I can say that with some confidence knowing that he rarely reads this, despite now having a button for my blog on his blog).

So, at that point of the day we call a truce and go write a blog each.

Mine made up of my pointless ramblings, much like you're reading now. His a well-structured deep and meaningful jaunt through his thoughts… nerd.

And I think this defines us as a pair, unit, collaboration, whatever completely heterosexual way you can describe two incredibly good-looking males that hang out a lot. Hugh is the logical-ish one and I am the “fuck advertising let's ride bikes” one (due to this being my blog I have to be the one that sounds more awesome). From that cool shit usually evolves.

So my friends, as the weekend approaches and our spirits are uncharacteristically high because of the amount of praise and adoration we have received over the last few days, I muse (yeah, that's right, I muse. I muse so hard Chuck Norris made a motivational poster about me), about the power of the human mind.

Seriously it is insane. Last week we didn’t have any ideas for any of the briefs we were working on. Today and yesterday we presented them and got pats on the back, literally (to be honest it was weird because the guy giving the pats was old and has a pedo-stache).

UPDATE: Remember the competition, read all about it here. I have an actual prize. The prize is you! And by that I mean that a robot-you.

Hugh and I spent a good few days last week with very little to do but make robots, paper ones, of some of our favorite characters. 

So your prize can be either you or your favourite character in robot form! How badass it that? (Pretty badass, don't deny. You are probably entering the competition multiple times right now, because let's face it, I have awesome prizes).  So get creating me some banners people. (Please and thank you, obviously).
Also check the casual lean and displaying of bling I have going on in this picture. That's all you really need in advertising - a casual pose, a bit of bling and a cardboard Invader Zim.



*Allusions to myself and Hugh being good-looking heterosexuals, mentions of Chuck Norris and the insertion of manners were actually the work of Beka.
*Footnote is also the work of Beka, who didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about Adam's self-image, sexuality, fondness of Chuck Norris or ability to be polite.

The Day The Magic Died.

A week or so ago I worked at Subway for a morning. Because apparently that’s what you do as a junior copywriter.

The first thing this allowed me to do was fulfil a dream I have had for a long time. Not a Martin Luther King style dream of racial equality, or even a dream of curing the world of some disease, because beyond leaving the bread out and inventing penicillin the field of sandwich artistry has stayed pretty much the same for the last 50 years or so. No, it was a dream of being able to actually get behind the Subway counter and make the sandwich I have always dreamed of.

Oh, you’d be jealous of this sub.

It looked amazing.
Bread cut at the recommended 45-degree angle.

2 meats (say what?).

A pig load of bacon (slow down buckoo!).

At least 2 avocados worth of avocado.

More than the company's recommended 6 tomatoes slices (you fiend).

More than the 42g of lettuce (are you mad?).
Even more than the suggested 12 grams of onion (he did what?!).

Only 3 sauces? Bah, I bend not to your rules!

I, ladies and gentlemen, thought of myself as a sub-shaman.

Like Jesus fed a whole lot of people with bread and fish, I fed myself with bread and chicken and bacon and Subway goodness.

However something went wrong. Firstly, my manager looked at me weird and scolded me a little for my liberal use of everything.

And secondly it tasted like ass. Well, not so much ass as that taste you get in the back of your mouth after you throw up. It had too many sauces, including the weird new sauce that I had never battle-tested. Foolish.

Day one sandwich artistry fail.

But gather round boys and girls, because there is a moral to my tale of misery and woe (I know none of my posts have really had morals before, but this is one lesson I think we can all learn from).

Lesson: You know all of that 'less is more' bullshit people keep telling you, that you only pay attention to because you cant afford to put all of that extra shit in. Listen to it. They be spitting the truth.  *Tips 40oz of Jack Daniels to the curb*

Word.

Also my art director and creative partner Hugh just started a blog. He is a cynical douche but go read it, it has pretty pictures and if enough of you go to his site from here he might design me a header that isn’t average.

EDIT: I also got stuck on a problem at work and as part of my research on said problem I put buttons down the bottom for Digg and Stumble. Click them so even more people can come and enjoy the fun. If you came from one of those sites, welcome! Click the like button... please.