It’s dark out now – that’s when they come – when it’s dark. You think you find a spot that’s fortified – where they can’t get at you – but still they come. Their screams, like the hollow howl of a diesel truck horn on the salt encrusted interstate heading to the abyss, haunting a lone traveler sitting in an all night diner searching for a welcome face or some ‘thing’ to eat from a carte du jour that offers its wares by the kaleidoscope of putrid colored stains on this laminated Pollock. The waitress moves with the cunning efficiency of a malignant tumor and plays a death match game of who will crack first. The trick is to keep breathing – hold to the now – the here – through which all future hope plunges to the past.
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Fifteen Hundred and Fifty-Nine Words on Branding
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While we’re here I’d like to take a moment to state how much I think that the terms “disruptive” and “startup” have been over used, beaten to death to the point where they no longer have signal strength. They have become just so much a part of the noise and, as such, no longer deliver the message they once offered. Aside from that, the term “disruptive” also carries a negative connotation, i.e. “disruptive children”, while “startup” has become shorthand for: “We have a baller idea, no assets, and are looking for funding.” A company would be better served, startup or otherwise, if their messaging tended more towards the positive and proactive with a resolute focus that inspires the recipient to dreams of “What Ifs” and “Why Nots”. I suggest we write new code or mine from ancient code to create our own brand of meme that immediately sets us apart from the rabble. Using terms like “innovative” or “evolutionary” and “genesis” or “igniter”, while conveying the same information, has an immediate positive affect and better cuts through the noise to deliver your signal to audience. It also shows that you are not part of the herd of disruptive startups – that you strive to deliver something unique, additive, a distinctive product that really is the genesis of an innovative evolutionary igniter.
The Value of Words – From Hieroglyphs to Emoticons
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When Gutenberg invented the printing press he revolutionized the written word by democratizing the medium. To understand the magnitude of what he did, try to imagine something like a worldwide network of information that anyone could access – oh wait, that would be the Internet. Of course when Gutenberg invented his press there was ninety-five percent illiteracy in the world so it really didn’t open up the markets he had hoped for, but it did set the stage for the eventual devaluation of words. Now before the Gutester came along books were only afforded to the realm of the very wealthy – it took rooms full of monkish scribes daily toiling to craft the tomes of the times by hand. So, as an author, if you had a printing run of, say, seven you were on the best sellers list.
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Artist Sculpture Submission Statement
“The Covey” seeks to express the beauty of nature combined with the fundamental value of family through the visual exploration of a covey of California Quail, the state bird, as they frolic along in a whimsical outing on the banks of the mighty Sacramento River. By setting the subjects in their naturalistic milieu the work alludes to a time before there were the barriers and boundaries of our modern society or even the subjective need to create links between people or communities and, accordingly, creates the narrative that we are all linked together in this world through our connection with nature and the bonds of community as family.
The artist, using his own distinctive approach which he terms “Abstract Naturalism”, designs these larger than life sculptures to beckon the viewer to interact and intermingle with the subject and thereby become a part of the artwork. Creating a truly collaborative experience – a living work of art – a destination for “selfies” attracting peoples of all ages and backgrounds to rejoice in their beauty, whimsy, and craftsmanship. Produced using salvaged wood from California wildfires in an attempt to build a secondary narrative about generating beauty from tragedy while reclaiming the pride and spirit of our great state they offer a unique addition to the Arts Commission’s growing portfolio of world-class art.
The artist, using his own distinctive approach which he terms “Abstract Naturalism”, designs these larger than life sculptures to beckon the viewer to interact and intermingle with the subject and thereby become a part of the artwork. Creating a truly collaborative experience – a living work of art – a destination for “selfies” attracting peoples of all ages and backgrounds to rejoice in their beauty, whimsy, and craftsmanship. Produced using salvaged wood from California wildfires in an attempt to build a secondary narrative about generating beauty from tragedy while reclaiming the pride and spirit of our great state they offer a unique addition to the Arts Commission’s growing portfolio of world-class art.
I remember like it was yesterday – well, not really remember as I was too young but it’s been recounted so many times that it’s ingrained itself like remembrance within the labyrinth of my being. Or maybe I do remember since it was such a life-defining event.
Early morning and the air, like a hungover minister still shuffling off wooly remnants of a collective late night dew, moves improbably. From my crib, through open window I hear first aria of avian welcoming day. Sounds from the five-fifteen out of Ferguson build a rhythmic rumble heading into Rhodesburg, countervailing sweet melody while cutting steel course cross our farm.
The house, nothing to write home about – modest wood frame standing edge of a wheat field, had unwaveringly sheltered several of our generations, seemed as much part of this land as the big oak sentried nearby. Like it had farmed out of earth instead of wrought by human hand.
Discarded piece of paper flutters improvisational dance in jagged morning breeze that eddies the house. In concert, birds cease song as railroad resound draws drowningly near. Air grows still, akin to a world holding its combined breath – paper, losing accompaniment, pulls towards ground. In an instant, sound deafens as if train, having lost track, heads open field towards house. Atmosphere sucks away, vanished to vacuum while paper dissipates without history.
Another instant brings force beyond power as hereditary homestead is swept from existence. Plucked whole, flung through violent air effortlessly, like dandelion spores launched by child's breath. The instant after brings the Ferguson locomotive brutally planting to earth where farmhouse once stood. It would take several more moments before a kind of surreal calm overtakes this prospect of wrack and ruin. It would take years for this community to re-couple to memories and dreams.
It took two days before they found me in a cabbage field unscathed, still swaddled in my bedding, miles from where I started that journey. For a community I would be hero, beacon of hope reborn out of this landscape of devastation. Some said it was an earth shattering beginning portending great events of future as fortune had me miss the train that day. Yet no one claimed me since my familiars had literally been scattered by the four winds. So this village of survivors rallied to lovingly raise me their communal own. From that moment, forever re-christened Tornado Rider Rhodes.
Early morning and the air, like a hungover minister still shuffling off wooly remnants of a collective late night dew, moves improbably. From my crib, through open window I hear first aria of avian welcoming day. Sounds from the five-fifteen out of Ferguson build a rhythmic rumble heading into Rhodesburg, countervailing sweet melody while cutting steel course cross our farm.
The house, nothing to write home about – modest wood frame standing edge of a wheat field, had unwaveringly sheltered several of our generations, seemed as much part of this land as the big oak sentried nearby. Like it had farmed out of earth instead of wrought by human hand.
Discarded piece of paper flutters improvisational dance in jagged morning breeze that eddies the house. In concert, birds cease song as railroad resound draws drowningly near. Air grows still, akin to a world holding its combined breath – paper, losing accompaniment, pulls towards ground. In an instant, sound deafens as if train, having lost track, heads open field towards house. Atmosphere sucks away, vanished to vacuum while paper dissipates without history.
Another instant brings force beyond power as hereditary homestead is swept from existence. Plucked whole, flung through violent air effortlessly, like dandelion spores launched by child's breath. The instant after brings the Ferguson locomotive brutally planting to earth where farmhouse once stood. It would take several more moments before a kind of surreal calm overtakes this prospect of wrack and ruin. It would take years for this community to re-couple to memories and dreams.
It took two days before they found me in a cabbage field unscathed, still swaddled in my bedding, miles from where I started that journey. For a community I would be hero, beacon of hope reborn out of this landscape of devastation. Some said it was an earth shattering beginning portending great events of future as fortune had me miss the train that day. Yet no one claimed me since my familiars had literally been scattered by the four winds. So this village of survivors rallied to lovingly raise me their communal own. From that moment, forever re-christened Tornado Rider Rhodes.
The waitress finally arrives. She doesn’t take my order so much as insinuate the shortcomings in her life choices before handing me a check for food I didn’t order and never received then tells me to pay at the register. Not knowing the steps to this dance, I comply – low profile. While waiting at the register I pick up a book of matches hawking the delights of the nightclub next door. It says – Welcome to The Jungle – we got fun and games…
The bar is crowded – animated – raucous. People vie for space between elbows and looks as some two-bit band tries to tie the room together with a pastiche of off-key ballad covers from the seventies about adrift wayfarers and forlorn dreamers destined for paradises lost. A midget with a monkey dances for quarters. It’s sweltering – tropical – south of many borders of the mind and feels like a powder keg thirsting a spark – just a hint of ignition to set it off. Were those blue lizards climbing the walls for real or have I doused myself in just enough of this bittersweet pickle juice to make the world a better place? The gentleman in the white linen suit and Panama hat – sporting cheaters in the night – a long narrow Cuban jutting a slow smolder from a razor line of lip – sits across the table from me. He’s either the best poker player in the world or he’s shuffled this coil mortal. I can’t tell – I can’t read him. And I really need to stay on top of things if I’m going to make my connection – score that passport out of this hellhole during its day of the dead celebration with my table mate as grand marshal. Then she walks in and all the other patrons seem to melt away – even the midget – for some reason the monkey stays – the band sounds better. She’s got a face with a view.
“Hey, you. How’s it going? Cool. Yeah. We’re kinda in the middle of something here,” I submit, shooting at nonchalance that is Jimmy’s stock in trade. With me it comes off a little bent – off chorus. I pull him into frame along barrel sight as he flames a smoke – something to do. “What’s that? No. I don’t know how long. Why do you want to know? The old place. Yes, up in the park. No. No. All right. Whatever.” Phone pulls from stud holder - I thumb it. Habit makes it slip into pocket. Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice – care.
“So, what are we doing here, Jeff? We dancing devilish tonight? Fine eve for it. Jasmine in bloom, intoxicating as hell,” I flick, offering the cigarette butt off on an arc into dark – wondering if it will fire a start.
“She’s on her way up. Got something she needs to facetime,” posting up latest in program changes. This is awkward. What in hell we suppose to do while we wait. Old days we’d of had a laugh riot up here – now – shit changes too fast in this life. Leave it to Jimmy to fast-forward through the commercials.
“So, what are we doing here, Jeff? We dancing devilish tonight? Fine eve for it. Jasmine in bloom, intoxicating as hell,” I flick, offering the cigarette butt off on an arc into dark – wondering if it will fire a start.
“She’s on her way up. Got something she needs to facetime,” posting up latest in program changes. This is awkward. What in hell we suppose to do while we wait. Old days we’d of had a laugh riot up here – now – shit changes too fast in this life. Leave it to Jimmy to fast-forward through the commercials.
some other words
How to Create Brand Loyalty
How can we create Brand Loyalty?
Let’s take a page from a company that I believe most people have a passing acquaintance, Starbucks. The success that Starbucks has achieved: Coming straight out of Seattle and growing to ubiquitous world domination that will most likely see its morphing into a chain of upscale sit-down Bistros that no longer serve coffee, is truly amazing. Yet their success is based upon simple brain hacks that led to the creation of what could be termed “The Cult of Starbucks”. (And, along the way, ruined a perfectly good 25¢ cup of “Joe”, free refills, with a $2.00 cup – sans refills) This was accomplished by using a term substitution reprograming method – Tall, Grande, or Venti anyone? You ever notice how they patiently, and subtly correct anyone who ordered small, medium, or large – as if we were all children? All by design. Once you know the language you are already part of the culture - you're vested. But, there is more to it than just that. Your Call is Important to Us –
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How do you build a better filmmaker?
In this age of "The Digital Revolution", where a film school degree has become the most over saturated under performing scholastic ROI since the English Lit major and anyone with a smartphone is the next burgeoning Besson, one needs to develop and hone a larger sense of craft in order to rise above the hoi polloi and execute at the level of art. To achieve this stage of artistic functionality one needs to evolve their understanding of the form by gaining a more than workable understanding of the many elements that make up the medium, to be a master interpreter of the language of film.
In other words: To be a filmmaker in this age one needs to be a jack of all trades and a master of some. Yet, more than that, one needs to be a teller of tales, the village shaman around the digital fire of mass media, weaving intricate patterns of content and context into the modern day myths that resolve into the touchstones of humanity's subconscious emotional network. One needs to orchestrate the convergence of light and shadow, sight and sound, action and emotion into a cohesive matrix of compelling narrative that at once satisfies while also leaving the audience wanting for more. It's either that or finding someone who shows up to set on time, somewhat sober, and who can put together at least three coherent words in a sentence. Hollywood is DEAD!
Break out the chalk lines and body bags we got another creative industry biting the dust. Oh sure, you can still find it walking around, talking and doing business just like it always has but that’s because, like a punch drunk stumble bum who’s just taken the last one of too many shots to the cranium and lurches blindly towards his corner not realizing that the tingly feeling in his head and the triple vision is from bursting blood vessels that will soon rend him from non compos mentis to the big sleep, it just doesn’t know it yet. I’m not talking about the recent labor troubles here, although they could be construed as the first of an alarming increase in bloody phlegm on the handkerchief for what one had believed to be just a cold, but now is giving worrisome signs of being something a tad bit more insidious. Don’t get me wrong, I love Hollywood, always have. It has been the dream factory world champ for a hundred years give or take. No one could touch it and for good reason. It had two formidable weapons that secured its place in the pantheon and guaranteed that if you wanted to make a movie you had to do it in or through Hollywood. Don't worry I'm not going to use the old left right combo metaphor here.
If we define Hollywood by these two aspects we come up with something like: Blowing Up Your Brand
What’s it take to create Brand in the realm of popular culture?
Cementing a brand into the zeitgeist of a culture is not that easy yet, not an insurmountable task either – it just takes a little science and magic. There are some key ingredients that, although they will not alone guarantee success, will set a sturdy foundation with which to build success from. The first, and most important, (taking a page from “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”) Making Videos Viral
How can we make a “Viral Video”?
You can’t. Anyone who tells you they can create a viral video should have a great deal of distance put between them and you. They may make a video that goes viral, but… you get the idea. There are some guidelines that can be used in creating compelling content that will, if not make a video viral, produce messaging to engage and compel your audience in ways that really matter – actionable results and brand development. THE NUMBERS GAME
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