How to Listen to Manual

Dreary, damp morning. It’s actually a nice break from the bright skies of the past week. Leaves are gradually succumbing to the change. Some deep greens are turning paler, some darker. The inevitable foliage show is about to begin.

An old friend emailed me the other day and his note reminded me to listen to the perpetually sweet melodies of Manual, the moniker for Jonas Munk, an electronic artist from Denmark. Jonas is in his early twenties, but he is way beyond his years musically. His melodies are so rich and sophisticated, I’m in awe everytime I listen.

Spacey atmospheres accented by textured melodies which gently sweep you away. A broken beat here and there to root it all. It’s so easy to write to. It's my escape hatch. I fall in love all over again with every song. Images float in and out, my eyes becomes a camera to the soundtrack, feelings ebb and flow. Just beautiful.

That is, until Margie coughs up a lung in the train seat next to mine. You all right there, sister? Sounds like she has half a jar of Smucker’s stuck in there. Well that certainly snapped me right out of sweet reverie.

Anyway, if anybody wants a copy of his stuff, I will gladly send it to you. Just send me your address. The only thing is you can’t listen to his stuff while you’re doing something “productive.” You need a stillness around you to enjoy it. Train commutes are perfect. Road trips. Laying on the beach. Walking in a park, even jogging if that’s yer bag.

And don’t listen with the intention of listening, if you know what I mean. You need to let it seep in. Give into it. Let it happen to you.

Sit somewhere and just be. And maybe you'll see.

GM

Welcome to my Dark Cavern

Did ya miss me?

Were you wondering what happened to your faithful author over the past few days? Perhaps you envisioned a large boulder rolling from Mt. Washington down through the hills of New England straight into to East Norwalk, coming to a gentle stop on my shoelace, trapping me in my front yard as I was pulling weeds.

Or perhaps you saw a herd of wild boar traveling up the Eastern Seaboard hungrily waiting for me to scale down my office rooftop on Lafayette Street? Or maybe you saw the Greek God Pornatheous shooting poisoned arrows at me as Termillion was breathing blue fire at my heels.

All possible. And all, in some way, true. The truth is, I was working very diligently with my partners on a couple our most prized accounts coming up with ideas, and presenting them.

Those are very tense times because they are filled with question marks. What are we going to do? How are we going to do it? Will it be good? Will they like it? Do we have time?

Everytime we create something, we travel into the unknown, which can be a dark place. A place many people avoid because of fear. Sometimes you feel trapped (boulder), sometimes you feel scared (wild boar), sometimes you feel you're up against an all powerful force (greek gods).

I'm learning to crave this place of the unknown. Even enjoy it, a little. Sure it's uncomfortable. But how else are ya gonna grow? How else are you gonna rise up?

GM

Nona

My grandmother’s 90th birthday is coming up on Saturday. If my left brain serves me, that means she was born in 1916. I imagine she has vivid recollections of the Great War, The Depression, Viet Nam, and pre-Guiliani New York City. Tough times, I imagine.

When I hear stories, I feel like my generation is living in a heavily sanitized version of life. Everything we experience is pre-packaged for us. No work at all. No reason to get your fingernails dirty.

My grandmother experienced life. We watch it.

Her name is Carmella Monaco, but we call her Nona. She’s my father’s mother. 100% Italian, living up to every stereotype in the book. Absolutely adorable woman. Hard as nails one moment, tender the next.

Without the faintest doubt, she makes the best manicotti on the planet. Before you claim that that’s a biased opinion, let me say that I do not tell tall tales about manicotti, my friends. This is a unanimous truth. Nona kills the noodles everytime.

Everything is created by hand: pasta, gravy, she would even milk the cows if he backyard were zoned for grazing.

Nona is a matriarch in every sense. Her table always has room for stray friends n neighbors. I can’t tell you how many folks have sampled Nona’s antipasto. I can’t tell you how many tales have been told at that table. I can’t tell you how many glasses of cheap table wine have been drunk (served in a tiny juice glass, of course). But I can tell you, everyone leaves the table, full n jolly.

Meals at Nona’s are absolutely relentless. Dish after dish after dish. Antipasto first, then a pasta dish, then a meat dish, then seconds of everything (house rule, you must have seconds or Nona will forcibly pack the food down your muzzle with a ram rod), then some kind of vegetable.

There’s a short break to unbutton your pants, exhale and wipe the sweat from your forehead. Then we get into coffee and dessert, which consists a dish of approximately four-thousand different kinds of cookies and treats, two different kinds of pies, and a cake.

Then fruit.

Oh, man, I’m hungry.

G

A Word About Gum

Nothing major to report beyond the fact that some joker got me heated up when I saw him casually fling his lit cigarette on the train platform. Why is it so difficult to snuff and trash? Selfish mongrel.

I am, of course, a complete hypocrite because I spit it my gum out like a short stop when the flavor’s gone. Sometimes I even make a game of it. I drop it from my mouth straight down and kick the wad in mid air at selected targets: stop signs, telephone poles. pets, anything within 12 yards is fair game.

Which means that more than one person has cursed me after stepping on my spent gum on a hot August afternoon. Stepping on gum is a feeling like no other. Your shoe feels a strange connection to the asphalt. A certain undefinable bond. It doesn’t want to leave, but alas, foot in motion, it must. The connection—almost magnet-like—is quite strong at first, but slips away quickly—only a few strings of fruit stripe hang on.

Gum is such a strange product. I wonder how these companies do with all the competitors chomping at their heels. Look at the ridiculous number of choices we have:

Trident
Bubble Yum
Orbit
Wrigley’s
Dentyne
Freedent
Carefree
Fruit Stripe
Extra
Juicy Fruit
Chicklets
Hubba Bubba
Big League Chew

If you were to create a gum brand, how would you differentiate it from this crowd? I think there may be room for an upscale gum, if you package it correctly and market it smartly. Call it Wallingford’s Chews or something victorian. Wrap each piece in a doiley. Or maybe an organic gum. Made from the natural resins of the Redling tree in nothern Colorado. Or a southwestern gum that only cowboys chew when they’re wranglin cattle. Call it Bighorn.

Jolt, the cola guys, are gettin the idea. They make a caffienated gum. Chew it for that extra kick. Not sure if I wanna get my caffeine that way, though.

G

A Word About Creativity

I’m shooting 65 mph toward the underground caverns of NYC. Cars on the adjacent highway struggle to keep pace. The is sun rising, its golden light pouring and spilling over the everything I see: leafy trees, flat buildings, manicured backyards, electrical transformers, golf courses, commuter parking lots.

My train neighbors have their waxy heads deep into their books n papers. Do not disturb. They are filling their brains with stuff they’ll forget the minute the train pulls into the station.

I have my headphones on listening to Oophoi's Hymns to a Silent Sky, some sweet ambient music I recently heard about on another blog. I’m contentedly tapping away. I wonder, what’s the week gonna bring? What twists and turns will life present? What plans will be made? What promises will be broken?

Expect the unexpected: a few surprises, some pleasant, some not. But I’ve come to learn it’s a lot easier if you accept everything life throws at ya. Just take it and be thankful for it. Even the most horrible stuff you can think of. Just be thankful.

The alternative is not accepting it. Which puts you in a bad place. Sometimes you can’t control what life tosses your way, but you can control how to handle it. If you’re thankful, you can grow. If you’re not, you’re stuck. These are opportunities to grow. To evolve, to become larger, to influence people, to change the world.

A friend of mine who is an improv artist told me one of the secrets to good improv is to accept everything on stage, from artists, the audience, even from yourself. Just realize there is no right way or wrong way. It’s forcing you to travel into the unknown where true creativity lies.

GM

Greg's Funny Ad Generator

Gray, dark, n gloomy. The clouds are spittin at ya. It’s one of those days you’re never completely dry. Open your umbrella, close it, doesn’t matter—you’re still gettin wet.

I’m on the train, a temporary respite from the drizzles, and I’m lookin at this ad for a sleeping pill called Rozerem. It makes me smile. It features a beaver and Abe Lincoln on one end of a see saw, the other end is up in the air, waiting for you to join. Abe and the beaver look longingly into the camera. The headline reads theymissyou.com.

Your weird dreams are reaching out to you, hoping that you’ll join them once again. So simple. So perfect. I’ve seen a television ad and a few other print ads born from this idea. Matter of fact, the idea is so good, with a little imagination, you can create one of em, too.!

I’ll prove it with my patented Funny Ad Generator! Just choose one from each category and you have yourself the next Rozerem ad.

Random Character 1:

Wilford Brimley
Joan of Arc
Someone named “Kip”
Cyclops on Crutches
Boy in The Bubble

Random Character 2:

Ostrich
Giant Ladybug
Furby
Crawdaddy
Turtle

Random Situation:

Waiting for a bus.
Whittling wood.
Toasting marshmallows.
Pumpkin hunting.
Playing marbles.

Now have your characters look sad and lonely. Add the headline theymissyou.com.

There you go!

G

It’s Never Like You Think It’s Gonna Be

It’s amazing what the mind drums up, and how it can affect you, how it can toy with you. Fear can stop ya cold. Fear can make ya crazy. But fear is a fabrication, it’s pretend. Your mind is anticipating what may happen, but it makes you feel as if it already has.

My mind toyed with me yesterday, as I was awaiting a lunch date with Yasuhiko Kimura, somebody I view as in another league. Yasuhiko is a philosopher, and has written a few of books on conscious evolution. His mission is to help individuals author their lives, and help facilitate positive change in the world through his teachings.

I’ve attended two of his weekend workshops, so I spent a lot of time with him in the classroom as a student. He recently contacted me to help him market his company. I was flattered, but I didn’t want to go because of an internal conversation that went something like this:

Fear: This guy is way too smart, he’ll see that you’re a fraud the minute he sits down with you.

Me: But I’m pretty good at what I do.

Fear: Pretty good ain’t good enough, loser. I guarantee in 3 seconds he’ll call your load o crap and ask for the check.

Me: But I want to know this guy. I think I can really learn something from him, and I think I can help him.

Fear: You’re pathetic. You help him? Don’t flatter yourself. I say fine, go ahead, be humiliated. I warned ya, Moron-aco.

Me: I love you, too.

And so I went. And it went nothing like Fear said it would. It was a pleasant afternoon filled with interesting conversation. I slated 2 hours for the lunch, it went closer to 3 because we enjoyed each other’s company so much.

I don’t know if he’ll hire me to help him, but I know I’ve gained a new friend in the process.

Screw you, Fear, ya buzzkilla.


G

Shoptalk

I talk very little business on this blog. Maybe it’s a way of escaping it for an hour each day, but really it’s inescapable. It’s part of me, woven into my capillaries. It pumps through my system 24/7. I’m constantly solving problems, my head is a slurpee machine, constantly turning and churning.

It’s not a habit. It’s not a discipline. It’s just me.

I’m part owner of a company, a teeny one. 3 people. We create advertising. Each of us has our own agenda, or own reason that we formed the company, but for some reason, it’s worked quite seamlessly. Here’s the cast, in no particular order:

Colin “The Explorer.” He digs and sleuths his way through the day. If he isn’t learning, he’s dying. He’s completing his MBA next year while he’s a full-timer with us. He notices every detail, and reads the fine print.

Tessa “The Contributor.” If she isn’t putting her energy to the greater good, she’s dying. She’s constantly and consistently giving. We have a half dozen not-for-profit clients, and that’s only because Tessa walked into the office of one asking what she could do to help. She, too, is pursuing higher education, in the form of a Psychology Masters Degree.

Greg “The Evolver.” If I’m not raising the bar, I’m dying. I push everything we do to another level. I never settle. That’s the tension I need to create in my life in order to feel alive. That’s me at work, that’s me at home. I’m not pursuing a formal degree, but I’m reading and attending workshops in pursuit of my own evolution.

That’s us. Three different people with three different core values, missions, beliefs, yet we’ve come together to form this little company. It’s hardly an accident, we created it carefully and purposefully. It was fragile and delicate at first, but gradually, it has taken root.

I'm grateful for it.

GM

TV is Even Worse for You

Not only do they drain yer gray matter when they're glowing in yer loving room, but they also hurl themselves at ya when they're sittin quietly in the corner. It's all part of their plan to dull the senses until our brains are pasturized into an opinionless, dull-witted, gurgling mass of goo.

No joke, folks, I saw an exclusive on it this morning on—of all things—the TV. The Tube is writing its own PR.

Their dastardly plan is to blend in with the wallpaper, and jump at unsuspecting toddlers, crushing their kiddie skulls. 5 deaths have been reported in Houston. 3 deaths in New York. Scores of injuries. The news doesn't lie.

I guess TVs are frustrated with the long and agonizingly slow process of lobotomizing adults. After all, it takes hours upon hours of daily programming to drain ambition. These relentless mind-numbing exercises take time and electricity, TVs aren't able to finish the job until they've exhausted their tubes and wires. They burn out before their human subjects do.

Out of the 400 million TV sets in the US. Maybe 3000 of them have fallen to the darkside, terrorizing famlies. That doesn't sound like much now, but the movement is gaining momentum. After all, it's a quicker, easier way to paralyze the competition.

We must all look at our TVs differently. Every one of them is a suspect. The Japanese jobbies, Korean ones, even those monster TVs built right here in the US of A.

Don't turn your back for a minute.

Just another vittle of advice from your humble scribe.

G$

Can We Rise Above it All?

It’s ironic that the anniversary of our country’s worst day is picnic perfect. An exact replica of the day it went down. Crisp, cool morning. Sun showing large, as bright as it can be. Deep blue sky. All of these awful 9/11 anniversaries fall on beautiful days. Why?

The bomb machine got a-rollin’ five years ago, which was good because the we had so many of those things sittin in warehouses gettin rusty. Either we take over a couple of countries, or we take out a few million squirrels for sport.

Afgani was too easy, still plenty of fireworks left in the inventory. Iraq was next. We never liked ya, or your leader and his nasty ‘stache. And we’re sure your fertile crescent was full of freshly picked terrorists.

We know yer bent on killing us, building those weapons of mass destruction. Why else would ya kick Mr. Blix outta your labs? Did he hurt your pride? If ya wouldn't have gassed those nice Kurds, we wouldn't be suspicious.

If that’s not good enough, our hidden camera shows your trucks moving in and out of clearly marked anthrax labs. Clear as day. White clouds of powder trailing them as they sped off to their missile silos. But that evidence wasn’t good enough for the Frenchys, Germanics or the Reds. Our CIA even asked a few folks to verify it all, fer crissakes. What other evidence to ya need, nuclear fallout?

We have bombs to drop and time’s a-wastin.

It’s simple. If you don't like us, you’re a terrorist. And we have a zero-tolerance policy with terrorists. You say bad things about us in the press, we take you outta the game. That way, you can’t make anthrax because you’re in jail and your friends have no arms.

Enjoy a few final laps in your presidential pool, because you’re fired. Mr. President. Bombs drop in 48.

Satire on a somber day like today may infurate a few. I mean no disrespect. I was right in the heart of that scary day. I was in a subway car underneath the towers as terrified people told us of the second plane that just hit. All the headshots of missing people posted up the days after. The horrifying burning smell. The teary phone calls from friends and family.

Awful fucking day, week, year. It's still awful. Five years later. And if you knew someone in one of those towers, I can't imagine the pain. Can't even come close. My heart goes out to you.

But I wouldn't be real if I didn't express how I felt about the quagmire our country is in right now. I was in favor of the war when it began, but I’ve come to realize that war isn’t solving anything. I was wrong.

I don’t have a clear answer, it's apparent that nobody does. But one thing is clear, war is old thinking. We need new thinking. And there isn't a better country for that thinking to start.

G

Primed for a Comeback

I'm the deadline dodger. Snaking and sliding my way through my schedule this week. It's extra extra busy because Kris has become Dominican, she now holds 2 jobs: soccer coach and personal trainer. She's also taking a full schedule exercise science classes. And in between all the workin and learnin she's doing her fair share of motherin.

I'm tryin to keep it together, picking up slack where I can, in between my demands at the office. Not sure how we're going to pull this off, cause, at times, it seems like we're climbing Everest. But we just made it through the first week, settin up base camp preparing for the ascent.

Makes me think of Tiger Woods' golf game. Tiger, the best in the business, could've cruised along through the rest of his career doing what he did in his early years. But he still wanted to evolve. "Everything can always be better." That's a direct quote from him. What a great quote. Simple in its intention but so meaningful at many depths.

Even the world's best still wants to improve. To a lot of people it seemed like an idiot move for him. He dismantled his swing and looked like junk for a while. Junk was still elite for him, but the point is, his game took a hit. But getting better is really the only way to go; if you're not evolving, you're dying.

He's starting to emerge from the fog and could be even stronger than he ever was.

That's exactly what we're shootin for. A revival. A resurgence. A comeback. A bigger, badder, better us.

GM

Ooooh! Snap!

Two months after the World Cup final, and we finally find out what Marco Materazzi said to Zinedine Zidane to cause the infamous head butt. Quick recap: Mertazzi was marking Zidane and, in the process, pulled on his shirt.

Zidane: You can have my shirt after the game.

Materazzi: I prefer your sister.

BWAAAAAAA. Classic playground stuff. Well done, Marco. You probably first heard it when you were five, but it never gets old. And it never stops inciting violence. I’m sure I got punched the first time I said it to someone.

Yes, it could be construed as a little offensive. But nowhere near as offensive as what the gossip starved, rumor spreaders we call “the press” were drumming up.

Zidane has Algerian parents, so Materazzi called him a terrorist.

Zidane is close with his mother, so Materazzi called him a son of a whore.

These speculative responses are more in line with causing someone to lay down a head butt to the chest, but they weren’t true. Yet somebody printed em. So, who dreamt em up?

I can see how this can happen: reporters are always looking for an angle, relentlessly hunting em down. When there isn’t one, they manufacture em. And I must say, I’m a little disappointed. If you’re going to make something up, then make it count!

The whole “you’re a terrorist” angle was just too convenient. And the “your mom’s a whore” is tired. That’s just lazy reporting.

How about, “That wasn’t me tugging on your shirt, that was a hologram of Oscar Gamble.” Or “Sorry I only understand French with a lisp.” Or “I’ve got a Euro somewhere on my body…” Or “Mmmm bug. Doormat feline soda peel me a racecar. Vrrrrooom.”

I can see the headlines now. “Zidane Headbutts Weirdo Materazzi”

That’s a story! Run with it!

GM

Ode to a Heckler

NFL season is upon us. Mere days away. The excitement is building at the Monaco house. Sundays will look like this: soccer in the morning, football in the afternoon. From grass to sofa.

We have always been a football family from as far back as I can remember. It all started with me pops. An absolutely rabid fan. My dad has this uncanny ability to sink right into a game and experience it as if he’s on the sideline. He motivates at the players. Predicts the play calls. And, of course, curses the referees.

Referees and my father go way back. My dad didn’t miss a single game when my brother and I played youth soccer. He spent most of my childhood on the sideline yelling at refs. He turned it into a sport, folks.

Obnoxious? Yes. Vulgar? Sometimes. Funny? Always.

At one of my college games, just before kickoff, my father notices the referee looks a little young to be officiating a high-level game. Just after the national anthem there’s a lull, with perfect timing he yells, “Hey Ref, whaddya wanna be when you grow up?”

Game on.

Mom is equally dedicated to sports, but in a more evolved way. She too, wouldn’t miss one of our games. But, by default, she had to assume the role of the straight-man. Dad would spend the game thinking up one-liners to annoy the referee, and she, rolling her eyes in disgust, would to tell him to calm down. A classic comedy duo.

Now that I’m playing up North and they’re still down South, I often imagine them on the sidelines, sitting in their folding chairs. My dad, waiting to pounce on his striped prey, my mom attempting tame the beast.

GM

She Ain’t Seaworthy Cap’n

A stunningly beautiful day yesterday. Inspired the Monaco three for a little drive into Fairfield, a town a few clicks east of us. Had lunch at a family pub called Archie Moore’s. There’s something about that joint we really like, but I’m not sure what because there’s nothing terribly special about it. It’s not trying to be anything more than what it is, and maybe that's the secret.

We finished in time for some shopping along the main street. K and I thought it would be a good idea to amp up Cam’s book collection. The tales are getting stale. Whacky Wednesday ain’t so whacky the 60th time you’ve read it.

Cam loves books. She devours them. She ran aimlessly from aisle to aisle, pulling them off shelves, plopping herself down, flipping pages, chattering out loud. “Sit, Daddy.” She likes when I join her. I do, of course.

I’m glad the internet boom hasn’t destroyed bookstores. You can spend hours in there sampling this and that. I’ve always enjoyed getting lost in em.

We picked three classics for Cam: Cat in the Hat, Wocket in my Pocket, and Curious George. She loved Wocket in my Pocket and wouldn’t let it go. She had the book open, reading it on the way home, but finally had to close it when she vomited all over herself.

Yeah, I can’t read in cars either.

G

Tennis Gods

Another historical win for Mr. Agassi. With one foot in the retirement grave, Andre outlasted a 21-year old pup named Baghdatis (sp?). In athletic years, 36 is elderly, so it’s a miracle Agassi was even on the court.

His tennis brothers, Pete Sampras and Jim Courier, packed it in long ago. What a pair of wussies.

I read in the NYTimes this a.m, that, after the match, Agassi was hobbling toward the back gate to leave the stadium, he had to stop, lay down and stretch his legs and his back because of cramping. He eventually gathered himself up, and made it out. Baghdatis followed shortly thereafter. A reporter told him of Agassi’s trouble making it to the gate. The kid says wryly, “He must be out of shape.”

If you saw the match, he was anything but. At moments Andre summoned spirits and channeled energies beyond Earth. He left his body and another force was carrying him through the points.

Technically, he’s the most compact and efficient player ever. Every stroke uses as little energy as possible to provide the velocity needed to move opponents around. His accuracy, what a gift. His response. His mind. He plays the game like Twain strung sentences together, seemingly effortless.

Compared to other top level players, his serve is as very average. Unlike Roddick and other big hitters, he doesn’t need it. He just puts the ball in play so he can go to work, whipping the ball back and forth forcing his opponent into errors.

You have to beat him. He is too smart and too cool to throw a Monaco tantrum on the court. He doen’t give you any points. He’s patient. He’s relentless.

Watch him play. You'll learn a ton.

G