So this past Saturday I headed down to Manhattan Beach for my friend's going-away party. The guy's moving all the way to Miami to work at what's probably the hottest ad agency right now, where he'll be account sup on the Burger King account. From what I've seen of their work, Burger King seems like an awesome client. First you had Subservient Chicken, then a TV spot featuring Brook Burke on a swing, and, of course, this campaign ...
Granted, I appreciate the dark humor of turning your corporate icon into a frozen-smiled serial killer; but I'm not sure the rest of the country gets the joke. Half the time, during the commercials, I expect him to start crawling out of the television screen like in "The Ring." Maybe Burger King can do a tie-in with "The Ring 2" and do a spot where the Burger King and the wet-haired chick go on a blind date at the zoo.
Anyway, if you're going to have a career in advertising, taking that Miami job's a no-brainer. Even if it means leaving behind all of your close friends and moving to a town where you don't know a soul. It also cost him his relationship, as he and his girlfriend realized the distance would be too much and ended it Friday.
Then again, I had a dream job offered to me a long time ago. But I didn't want to live in a smaller city where I'd probably be their first Asian person and be therefore legally required to open a Chinese restaurant. And, most importantly, I didn't want to leave my friends and family. Sometimes I wonder about that decision, and how my career would've turned out if I said 'fuck it' and made the move. But at the time, it was a no-brainer.
On a whole 'nother topic, some of you might remember that during the past winter I lost my only superpower: My immunity to hangovers. Thing is, my hangover patterns make no fucking sense at all. A couple of weeks ago, I was relaxing at home with the girlfriend, and together we finished a couple of bottles of white wine. BAM! Hangover. Last night at the going-away party, I subjected my innards to a non-stop stream of Patron and Jagermeister shots with bottles of Stella in between. No hangover.
Something for you to ponder as you gently stroke your beard.
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