Everyone Inevitably Posts Cats

I had a cat once.

It died.

It wasn’t due to my neglect or through any fault of mine it was just really old. Like super old. It was born in a cupboard with my then 3-year-old sister (now 17…ish?) burbling next to it.

I was young and wanted to give him a cool name like Goku, Crash Bandicoot, Zelda (Young enough to have played Zelda on a friends N64 but not old enough to know that Zelda is a girls name.) or Shield Liger  (Does anyone still remember Zoids? That almost deserves its own blog). Both perfectly legitimate names for a cat. But my mum made us call it Charlie. A fact that even though I never really loved the cat all that much, made me love my mum a little less.

He was a good cat. He killed rats. Wore hats… hunted bats? (We don’t have bats anywhere near my house but it rhymed.) And above all else he was a firm supporter of Anwar Sadat (10 points for an I love you man reference.)

I never really cared for it too much.

I’m not a cat person. I’m not really a dog person really. If, when I am charged with your care, you die when I forget to feed you for a few days I will probably only tolerate you at best. But if you can cook well (read: order me take out) I’ll love you for always.

This of course is my round about way of bringing up the phenomenon of cats on, in and around the Internet.

It is getting a little old don’t you think.

Now I’m not as cold hearted as you all think I am right now. I still like to have my heart melted by /r/aww and I will have a “lol” to my friend and yours Maru the Cat.

But when I want to surf the Internet I don’t need everyone trying to show me the crazy things their cat can do.

When I am rich and famous, (mark my words those days are coming... I just need to find my pants and check my emails. Oh and the laundry is still on so I cant leave until that is done.)  I will form a governing body, primarily of people who hate cats, to limit the number of cats on the Internet. A battle with anonymous will ensue where the fate of the world will hang in the balance and Ill probably have to invent Agent Smith style robots.

That could work quite well. I make them out of metal, then every hacker who thinks they are Neo will run head first at it and knock themselves out. Game Over.

Who’s the goose? You are.

Also, as my apology for one of those unfunny ranty type blogs (as opposed to what I normally do? Which is?) here is funny a picture.

Photo Credit goes to Christine. She writes a blog about fashion and other girly things  and lets be honest it's much better than mine.

Meme Monday: Let's Make Hugh Internet Famous

It is Monday. 

Or perhaps it is Tuesday for you. 

Perhaps it is the future and the Gregorian calendar has ceased to be a relevant or accurate way of telling date and time.

Perhaps, the universe you live in has expanded, contracted and generally warped itself in such a way that if I were to travel there my mind would instantly explode, and then implode, and I would finally see the face of this god character everyone goes on about. I would become a new religious figure and return to my own time to preach the ways of Glong, our new alien overlord.

Or maybe it is just Monday.

And because it is Monday, (and because I am an idiot who loves both alliteration and spending far too much time on, in and around the Internet) I have created the new bank holiday we shall henceforth know as “Meme Monday.”

To celebrate this auspicious occasion I have created my own meme. It is based on my friend Hugh, whom I have known for what must becoming up on 10 years. He is one of my best friends and as a result I own all rights to his image.

A few weekends ago this photo was taken of him.

It's something in the eyes. It's like he can see into my soul.

  

Since then I have been experimenting with various themes, messages and motifs in order to create what I feel one day may become a meta meme. But first I must create a normal meme first.

I call it the Photogenic Scumbag, Or the Photogenic Creeper.  We can work on the name, regardless here are my early attempts and meme creation.

Here are some of my favorite creations, but I beg of you dear reader do not let what I have created hinder you creatively. While the idea of the photogenic scumbag or even the photogenic creep maybe brilliant you can create your own. And I encourage you to do so. Please leave in the comments your own thoughts and ideas for captions, lets get Hugh’s face on all four corners of the internet! 

The Re-Re-Return

Kaw-kaw

Hark! What is that majestic sound?

Could it be? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it  ‘80’s hair metal icon Vince Neil “singing”?

Well, for this metaphor to work you were right the first time.

 It’s a bird.

A phoenix even! Rising from the ashes.

For those that have missed it the phoenix in this metaphor is me, or more specifically this tiny corner of the Internet that I hangout in and occasionally write things in.

Sure it may not be a phoenix. Maybe a pigeon that can resurrect its self. It still only has half a foot from that time it got to close to the Koi pond. It’s lost some feathers because its diet consists primarily of bits of sushi people dropped and a bus hit it that one time.

For this metaphor to continue it had to be set fire at some point as well. That’s a terrible image but remember, like a thai massage, there is a happy ending.

I wont apologise for being away for so long. I’ve already don’t that enough. What I will say is that this little corner of the Internet I call my own will hopefully be a lot more active in the coming weeks, months, years and if my research goes to plan I will one day and forever be some kind of omnipotent overlord.

I have more stories, rants and of course far too much free time.

Is this a promise? Hell no! Just look at the last few posts. It’s just as heartfelt and apologetic as this one. But I’ve changed this time I really have. And by changed I mean I have much more free time.

Maybe.

So, welcome back. The booze is in the fridge; try not to spill the dip on my new rug. Is this a new haircut? It is, thanks for noticing.

Put on your favourite song about coming home, or coming back, or returning, or just hit random on itunes and see what comes up.

I missed you guys.

Regularly Scheduled Programming.

Oh, I didn’t see you there.

How are you going? You’re in my living room because I haven’t posted in a while?

You are wondering where I am?

You were worried?

That’s so sw…. Oh, no right I lured you here with candy and false promises.

Ah, well. You’re here now.

It has been a while, I know. Since my last post (saying I’d have more time to post, oops) much has happened. 

But for now I feel as though I need to make, at least a few more, excuses before we can go on and truly reconnect.

After leaving advertising I also left Auckland, running away because a) it was fun and b) as much as I want a ‘real job’ not having one is more fun.

Why then, I hear you ask, if you have been having so much fun have you not updated us all. Why have we not been able to be amused by your witticisms and jokes, your cynical and misinformed view on world events?

Well, in advertising I thought, “Look at me, this creativity I have pent up is marvellous, when I can focus it on something, other than creating brilliant ads, I can point my hot sticky beam of creativity at the internet creating the funniest thing since lol cats.”

Unfortunately, as in the case with me, I needed that pressure and stress to be able to do anything remotely creative.  It was the random sparks from creating ads that left me with something to talk to you about. The half finished thoughts and stupid random questions that made me want to write.

But here, or anywhere since I left advertising I haven’t had that stress and that spark to write. So, I have set my self the challenge of getting a more intellectually fulfilling job and to write more, for you.

And then people of the Internet we shall, together, create something so great, so powerful even the mighty might of the internet will not be able to contain us.

Because if I can change, and you can change, then maybe the whole damn world can change!

Ladies and Gentlemen, with no further ado, We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming, “The Whole Thing Stinks.”

Cue applause and fireworks.

Advertising's loss is probably your loss as well.

That’s right fair readers; I have left my no pay internship.

I leave full of hopes for adventure and riches.

I will probably receive neither, but that is here nor there (nor anywhere for that matter, so stop badgering me about it!).

So my dearest reader (yes, you! None of my other readers are as special to me as you are. You are the one I think about when I write these blogs. You are the one I think about in that final moment before I drift off to sleep. I… I think I... love you, fair reader), I feel as though I will have more time to post or at least, think about posting before probably deciding what I have written is complete drivel and find myself driven to push those dreaded keys, ctrl and A, then delete it all, never to be rescued (if you ignore the saving grace of ctrl Z, the saver of lost work, the shining white knight of the clumsy).

So to the point of this short yet, as I feel, punchy, gripping, overly self-indulgent and in the end, pointless post...

I hope to be seeing more of you all (especially you, but do tell your friends to visit too, the more the merrier after all) and with any luck all of this free time will turn my posts into mini novels comparable to Fitzgerald or Doyle.

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.

It Was The Best Of Times It Was The Blurst Of Times.

You all know me as a great entrepreneur, right?

I mean, I’m not just that. I am a copywriter, a friend, a human being, a brother, son. I can do anything, I’m pretty much the whole package. If you ignore my inability to deliver packages, that is.

But back to my original point - More ways to make money, for you and for me and the entire human race. Primarily me, but I do require an outsider's investment, which may be blown on hookers and blow, mainly because I want to be some sort of entrepreneurial rock star. Think CEO Slash or Business Correspondent Mick Jagger.

So the idea; “One thousand monkeys sitting at one thousand typewriters will eventually recreate the works of Shakespeare.”

Look at them, they need jobs too.
The recession hit the jungle just like it hit the rest of the world.

Let's hire those fucking monkeys! Shakespeare’s complete works sells for $60 as far as I can tell on the Internet. Bananas cost between 1-6 dollars a kilo and we'll give the monkeys clothes, smokes and tea, to keep them motivated and to keep myself amused.

So we get 1001 monkeys and 1000 typewriters. The one extra monkey will be my secretary. I shall call her Rose.

There may be some training required, but I imagine through Pavlovian conditioning we can get these monkeys typing my books at quite a rate.

It may only need to be a limited release, because everyone will want books typed out by my monkeys, the pages smeared with projectile monkey shit (old Pete and Davey never get along, always throwing shit between cubicles) and banana.

Order now!

Also, because I never do but probably should, remember to A) hit all the buttons I have all over this blog B)to follow me and C) comment (please, tell me how brilliant my idea is despite me already knowing it's genius) and D) tell your friends so we can expand the republic of Adam (when we get enough followers we'll buy an island and all live together in peace and harmony).