shout, shout, young person!

a brand story

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Sun, 18 May 2008 12:02:00 +0000

My friend and colleague Shahan wrote a brand story for a brand that I felt was so amazing that this, and only this, is fitting enough to break our one month silence with. Day after tomorrow the entire office is off to Shillong. We'll post pictures from the hills or whatever they have there if there's any internet. Till then, toodle oo!!!!!!!!!!

The old man, having twenty minutes in hand before his second highlight of the day, his ‘special cup of tea’, was sitting in a park bench. The first highlight being his ‘special morning cup of tea’. He got up from his seat and stooped with effort to pick something up from the ground. It was a windy October day and the playground was filled with children and laughter.

The boy who had just thrown his broken watch away looked on intently as the old man picked it up and sat down. He was looking at its face with mild amusement. The boy got up from the concrete bench, left his friends and walked over to his discarded watch and its apparent new owner. He took a spot, stuck his hands inside his pockets and waited. The old man was still occupied with it; he was rubbing its scratched glassy face and from time to time, turning the tiny knob that made the dials spin. The boy forced a cough and when the man didn’t acknowledge it, decided that he too must be quite deaf like his grandfather. He waited. And then the man spoke.

“Next time start with a hello instead of a grunt. Sounds friendlier.”

The boy didn’t know what to do and would have perhaps run off if the man hadn’t looked up and smiled. That made him stay; an honest smile has that effect. The boy took out one hand from his pocket, shielded his eyes from the dying sun and announced the watch was his. The old man winked at him and thrust out his hand with the watch.

“Lucky you”, the old man said.

The boy didn’t take it. “No, not lucky. I threw it away because the dials don’t turn anymore. It’s old and boring”

“Me or the watch?”

The boy laughed genuinely and said he meant the watch.

“Is that why you threw it away”, the man asked.

“Yes. My mother’s going to give me one with digits on them and not dials”

“Well that must…”

The boy didn’t let him finish.

“And lights too, you know. It’s got a bright green light so you know what time it is even in the dark. And there’s three buttons that beep when you press them. One’s for the date and, and…”

The old man never knew what the other buttons did. He gestured to the boy to take a seat beside him by patting the bench. He smiled again as the boy sat down and folded his arms across his chest, swinging his legs.

“That fat boy from the 4^th floor has one just like it. I saw it.”

“Hmm. Well, can I keep this then?” the old man asked.

“Sure mister. Are you going to get it fixed?”

“No. I’ll just keep it as it is. And thank you.”

If the boy had been old enough to understand sarcasm he’d understand the old man wasn’t being so. He looked astonished which made the man smile again.

“Really? But what are you going to do with it?”

“Remember you.”

The boy didn’t look too convinced. The man continued.

“Besides, it’s not completely useless. I bet it works sometimes.”

“No it doesn’t! It’s been stuck at 11.35 since Monday and my father changed the batteries too. Didn’t help.”

The old man pondered over this for a moment and said, “It still says 11.35 even when it’s say, 5 o’clock?”

“Yes”

“And at 12?”

“Still 11.35. Always 11.35!”

“Hmm, well then. How about when it’s 11.35?”

The boy looked puzzled. He stuck out his lower lip and slapped his knees with his palms.

“When it’s really 11.35 your broken watch says the right time! You see, twice everyday this watch becomes just as right as any other. It can’t help being old and boring but that’s another thing.” The old man held the watch close to his face and looked at it brightly. Sunlight bounced off its glass surface and danced merrily on his face. “Sometimes, even things that seem useless at first have their reasons for being. Sometimes ordinary things, like us, only need favors from circumstance. It’s such a pity that I didn’t know this when I was your age. But now, I’m going to keep it and it’s going to give me the right time two times everyday! And the most fascinating thing is I won’t ever have to worry about batteries! Lucky me!”

It worked. At 11, the boy was on the threshold of life’s first revelation. He looked longingly at his old birthday present but didn’t have the heart to ask for it back. The old man admired it so.

“Well it’s almost time for my special cup of tea, young friend. I’ll just be a minute” said the old man suddenly. And with that he got up, unfolded his sleeves and walked away. The boy hardly heard; he just sat there, not waiting, simply sitting on a park bench on a windy October day.

And of course the old man never returned and of course he ‘forgot’ his remarkable new broken watch and of course when the boy’s mother came to fetch him, he pocketed it and took it home.

accident or genius?

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 10:45:00 +0000

Big ideas come out of inconsequential oversights or a lapse of order, perchance, by accident. Greatness lies in not ‘dismissing’ that accident, but nurturing it, and you might have the next “Alice in the wonderland”.

who says long copy is dead?

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 05:34:00 +0000

Here's the cool, original version of the Daily Star anniversary ad which not only was a hit, but also proves my point that postcard-style ads and full color aren't always necessary for a press ad to break clutter even in this day and age.

Baby don't you do it!

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 07:12:00 +0000

This is what I've been listening to recently:

Levon Helm - Dirt Farmer
Britney Spears - Blackout
The Mountain Goats - Heretic Pride (leaks huzzah!)
Goldfrapp - Seventh Tree (leaks once again!)

All four are either unreleased or recent releases. I realized that Levon Helm's album, which is the most traditionally-written, backwards-looking, gosh-darn oldest-sounding album in this list, is also the best. I mean sure, Levon motherfuckin' Helm and all of that, but what about Britney and the new pop?

THIS IS MEANT TO BE COMMENTARY but I couldn't be bothered to think it through. Cool subject line though if you're feeling clever. Here's something better:

Also, curious fact: both the Levon Helm and Goldfrapp albums have songs called "Little Bird". But my favorite "Little Bird" is from Man of La Mancha.

RIP Sir George. Flashman lives!

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 15:32:00 +0000

Jesus. I've been dealing with Pal's leaving Bitopi (Godspeed you glorious pervert!) which, in spite of the celebrations with cheap alcohol, cheaper prostitutes, and the 40 gigs of porn that we gave him, still leave me lonely and wallowing. And then a couple days ago I heard of Phil Dusenberry's passing.

And now comes the worst news of all--Sir George MacDonald Fraser is no longer the greatest living writer of our times. Sir George MacDonald Fraser is no more. Time to go back home and get to re-reading them all. I can't seem to find my copies of the Great Game, Mountain of Light or Angel of the Lord either, goddammit.

Oh, and side note: none of the early obituaries have even mentioned Pyrates or Black Ajax yet, those bastards.

On happier news, happy birthday to the best friends God can give, the most wonderful alcoholic manic-depressive failure in my world, Seth Augenstein.

The night I met Kaisar Hamid

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 19:25:00 +0000

Picture the Kakoli railgate at 12:30 am December 26th, with the city still sluggish from post-Eid smorgasbording and the convenience of Christmas being a government holiday. All souls are tucked in. Untucked souls are gallivanting at house parties drunk on bootleg vodka. Other untuckeds are in Coffee World, too proud to complain about the price of a latte. Only the guards in their arctic gear are about. A solitary rickshaw waits for a train to pass, heedlessly going CHOO CHOO!!!!!!!! like a wild long-haired man running through a crowd. But there’s no crowd to run through, only the cream soup of cold and fog.

In this show of light-streaks in darkness, a large shape advances. Too fat to stalk, too short to loom, and I’m being kind with the “advances” here since all in all, “predatory waddle” doesn’t really have any style. And I wasn’t really walking with any purpose. Maybe a large shape waddles while scratching its balls (but you can’t see that because he’s got a bitchin’ poncho on). But that large shape, the shapeless hulk, advancing as it were while simultaneously dealing with a testicular itch, is none other than yrs truly, Creative Fellow Arafat Kazi of Bitopi Advertising Ltd.

So it’s midnight, and I’m standing there. Right on the rail tracks actually, because they’re still warm after the passing train and my sandals aren’t doing me much good. Negotiating the purchase of two packs of Benson & Hedges Lights cigarettes from the man called Boss. They call him Boss, he calls me Boss. Like the theme song from Boss Nigger but I think that joke would be lost on him.

Anyway. Midnight. Hulking now, looming over. I buy cigarettes for me and Ammu. Four wheel drive approaches, stops near me. A moustachio’d curly haired face, looking for all the world like an aged matador, or like Athos from The Three Musketeers (haven’t seen the movie, mental picture) peers out and looks at me.

He said: “I am Kaisar Hamid.”

What do you do when an ex-Captain of the National Football Team, longtime Captain of your bitterest foe Mohammedan, says hi to you in the long, dark hours when you’re out by yourself buying a cigarette and there’s not a soul about? I thought of denouncing him by haughtily saying that I was faithful to Abahoni, or even by punching him for the one or two matches he’s won against Abahoni over the years. (Any reasonable judge would acquit me. Any reasonable judge would be bound to support Abahoni.) But then I remembered: Captain of the National Team. Even though the list of National Team Captains that I know include my band’s bassist Farhan and his older brother Fazle, they’re basketball players, not to be held in the same regard or even universe as fuckin’ FOOTBALL. And then I remembered: it’s been years since I’ve cared about football anyway, and plus, I never cared that much.

I look at Kaisar Hamid and said “Assalamualaikum”.

And then that portion of my brain which helps discern reality from that which is not real, of reason from unreason, which in my case is a highly volatile, synaesthetic, arbitrary and frankly temperamental machine, kicked in. Regardless of the many aspects of my life that willfully cock a snoot at the laws of physics and natural aesthetics, there are certain things that should not be. Multilegged creatures dropping from the sky, should not be. Kaisar Hamid should not be wantonly introducing himself to me; he should be pursing his lips at the fat hobo (for Gulshan will one day see the golden day when even beggars can go fat, like in America) and saying “Drive on!” to his chauffeur.

But by the miraculous adipose that flows in my veins, which in my chacha’s case allows him to appear in every one of Sarwar Faruqi’s commercials, stopped this man. The stern eyes that had no doubt stared down Cardinal Richeleu in past lives, battled Scarlet Pimpernels by the dozen and mayhaps even scored a goal or two against Abahoni, was fascinated by the steely lump of stearine solidified in the wintry cold.

I shrugged. I’m fat. Reality is what reality is. Who am I to judge thy grace, reality? Judge Kaisar Hamid not, lest ye be judged yourself by Kaisar Hamid.

Kaisar Hamid is not a man who wastes paragraphs pondering on the nature of his existence. He is, therefore he is. Kaisar Hamid ergo sum. No cogito there. So he reiterated the state of his being.

“I am Kaisar Hamid,” he said.

I am an idealist. I don’t accept reality for what it is. Like Christopher Columbus, Galileo, Baldrick—the great dreamers of the Renaissance—I take what life gives me and idealize it. Usually making circular worlds circle each other, with a great big turnip in the middle. But this time, I was ready for reality. I said, “No way, are you really?”, and then peeked through his window for a closer look. The man, for all that he played for Mohammedan, did not lie. He was, actually, veritably, in fact, in truth—Kaisar Hamid.

I felt like I was trapped in Haruki Murakami’s short story, where Frog saves the world from Worm, and must convince his initially skeptic sidekick that incredible though it may seem, he really did exist. Like Frog, Kaisar Hamid was patient re: my skepticism. Larger than life itself, he understood that others, those who did not move in his exalted circles or hear the harmony of his spherely footballs, must react with human doubt when he chooses to manifest himself. So, to make himself clearer, he said:

“I am Kaisar Hamid.”

Take the bull by the horns, my inner voice urged me. You don’t know when the next night will come when, needing a packet of cigarettes, you will venture out into the cold and be greeted by Kaisar Hamid affirming his existence and proving that he too walks with men. So I closed my eyes, held my breath, and shook his hand. His real hands.

Before I could move the topic of discussion from Cartesian elementaries and Biblical eventualities (Who am I? on my part, to be answered by “I am who am Kaisar Hamid”) to the more speculatory questioning of Darwin or, perhaps, Richard Dawkins (How did we get here and what the hell are you doing?), Kaisar Hamid deftly pirouetted on the Sudoku board of smalltalk and—O visionary futurist!—toe-twirled to the question that Douglas Adams ultimately answers from the window view of Milliways: what happens tomorrow?

“There is a BKSP match tomorrow. You will go there.”

I felt like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken and starts bouncing up and down. Just to be sure, I asked for one last time:

“Are you really Kaisar Hamid?” I said.

“I am Kaisar Hamid”, replied Kaisar Hamid, who is Kaisar Hamid. His chauffeur rummaged through his wallet and gave me his business card. As you have no doubt been expecting with Pavlovian sureness—yes, it was Kaisar Hamid.

I had finally accepted reality. Now I would rebel. I said, “But Mr. Hamid, how can I go to the match tomorrow? I would love to, but I have a job, you see!”

“Where do you work?” said Kaisar Hamid.

I said, “I work at Bitopi Advertising Ltd, in the Creative Department.”

“I needed one with a body like yours”, said Kaisar Hamid.

I hung my head in shame. “When do you think was the last time I played football?” I said.

Kaisar Hamid looked at me appraisingly. “Still,” he said.

I heard his “Still” more as a command than as an argument. And I saw that it was true—the night was, indeed, very still. You would not have believed that ten minutes ago a train had passed by, or that eight minutes ago an economic transaction had taken place. If I were to tell you that, no more than two minutes ago, a conversation had taken place here, between myself and the famous football player Kaisar Hamid, you would have laughed.

The greatest print ad ever made

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 07:32:00 +0000

My friend, Joe Holmes, is now a horse.

Joe always said when he died he’d like to become a horse.

One day Joe died.

Early this May I saw a horse that looked like Joe drawing a milk wagon.

I sneaked up to him and whispered, “Is it you, Joe?”

He said, “Yes, and am I happy!”

I said, “Why?”

He said, “I am now wearing a comfortable collar for the first time in my life. My shirt collars always used to shrink and murder me. In fact, one choked me to death. That is why I died!”

“Goodness, Joe,” I exclaimed, “Why didn’t you tell me about your shirts sooner? I would have told you about Arrow shirts. They never shrink out of perfect fit. Not even the oxfords.”

“G’wan,” said Joe. “Oxford’s the worst shrinker of all!”

“Maybe,” I replied, “but not Gordon, the Arrow oxford. I know, I’m wearing one. It’s Sanforized-Shrunk—can’t even shrink 1%! Besides, it has Arrow’s unique Mitoga tailored fit! And,” I said reaching a crescendo, “Gordon costs only $2!”

“Swell,” said Joe, “My boss needs a shirt like that. I’ll tell him about Gordon. Maybe he’ll give me an extra quart of oats. And, gosh, do I love oats!"

why, indeed, the country?

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 13:47:00 +0000

The GP ad is finally done!

The British have tea and biscuits, Japan has technology, America has capitalism. We Bangladeshis have our country, rescued from the arbitrary machinations of imperialist politics, wrested forcefully from those who would not treat us as their fellow human beings, those whom we had no cultural connections with, who would deny us even the right to speak our language. We have the new-day glory of a country that's not even half a century old, and we have the highminded art that's the legacy of a culture that's been around for thousands of years. We have economic reforms, military coups, political instabilities, corruption, dirty streets, even Nature against us. And at the same time we have the happiest people in the world, we have a country where art and music and literature are considered worthy of dying for, where on the one hand culture stagnates and is held in check by self-appointed guardians and yet, at the same time, we have breakthrough work happening in art, music and literature. We're a country full of religious fundamentalism which at the same time will accept anybody from any religion as its own as long as the love for the people and the soil exist in their hearts. A country, you might say, of contradictions.

Just like every other country in the world.

Where does our pride and patriotism come from? Back in the old days, it was easy. The enemy was the vile Other (not naming countries because my best friend works at Warid!) and our job as Patriot was to literally to wage war and cleanse the country with our bleeding sacrifice. The enemy now is No One. Which is confusing, because we're still not everything we want to be. So the enemy becomes that which keeps us, that which is within ourselves, from being the best that we can be. And what of our pride and patriotism? It's the force which keeps us working towards achievement, both as individuals, and as members of the Bangladeshi community. It's the knowledge that tells us that even though the SIDR cyclone wrecks thousands of homes, we still have one hundred and forty million soldiers fighting against the forces of nature and entropy, working tirelessly to renew their own lives and the lives of those around them. We have two hundred and eighty million pairs of hands that can toil for our country, and for the world.

The new patriotism is recognizing that we are all of us human beings (Banglar Hindu, Banglar Bouddho, Banglar Christian, Banglar Mussulman, Amra shobai Bangali!) living in a world filled with other human beings. Within this world is a tiny bit of space filled with people who are more like us than others, and these people are our neighbors and we are, through causalities beyond the grasp or ability of any single individual, stuck in this ride together. Instead of being patriotism being defined as a common stand against a common foe, patriotism now is defined as a distillation of loving all humans, and loving a specific group of humans more because they're the people that you've shared centuries of history with, and these are the people to whom you turn to for help, and these are your neighbors, your sisters, brothers, your own.

All of this is probably rambling and kind of all over the place. I wrote it to describe my feelings towards the making of this ad (which is one of those things that the whole team did together), for GrameenPhone, celebrating thirty six years of freedom. Joy Bangla!

the brownhouse effect

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 12:27:00 +0000

You know, I've never been able to read one specific part of T S Eliot's Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, i.e. the Sherlockian part, without thinking of farting it up in the winter. Specifically, the lines are:

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

(In case you haven't read what is like the most famous poem in the history of English poetry, you should Google it and read the whole thing.)

I always picture the smoke there being like how smells are visualized in the old Tom & Jerry cartoons--poking at someone, wafting in a thin line and leading Tom towards the blueberry pie while Jerry sniggers and magical negroes play mandolins and stereotypes in the background. Which may or may not be how Eliot pictures it. If he's imagining it that way then he's far ahead of his time, because we didn't even have talking cartoons when Prufrock was written. (Correct me if I'm wrong but Prufrock is 1917, and Steamboat Willie is 1928, and that's what really sets off the cartoon revolution, right? But maybe it's all from Punch and I don't know what the fuck.)

But I also associate--once again, always--this stanza with flatulence. Flatus, the exhalation of the gods. Le Pétomane would know what I'm talking about. In my Wikipedia searches for the history of flatulism (professional farting), I came across this amazing man:

Le Pétomane was the stage name of the French professional farter and entertainer Joseph Pujol (June 1, 1857 - 1945).

He was famous for his remarkable control of the abdominal muscles, which enabled him to fart at will. His stage name combines the French verb péter, "to fart" with the -mane, "maniac" suffix, found in words like toxicomane. In English, a translation might yield "the fart maniac". His profession can also be referred to as a "Flatulist" or a "Fartiste."

It's one of my great sorrows that I could not ever incorporate farts into any of the campaigns that I've worked on. The closest I ever got was at a factory tour of a client, where I blamed my own forceful brownouts on my boss. (Not Awrup, who farts perfume and shits roses and pays me too much money to discuss his windbreakage.) My crime eventuated into nicknaming said boss the Pad Patsy ("pad" being Bangla for fart, and a Pad Patsy being someone who gets blamed for another person's farts) and then, at one point, confessing to him in a methane-infused guilt fit that I had blamed him for my own vile flatus. I expected to be kicked out of my job. But my boss then, i.e. Mr. PP himself, is well known for being one of the nicest (among other things, all of them good) people in Bangladesh, and not without reason. He shouldered the blame gracefully and said that I was welcome to blame future farts on him. He also convinced me that he himself had Godlike control over his own sphincter and could fart at will. Cue weeks and weeks of begging to hear the effusions of my world-shaking Slartibartfast employer, until he gently let me down and told me that he really couldn't fart at will. Alas, uni cherechilen pad kom.

The reason why I brought all this up is because I have been farting up a storm today. I think it's the Thursday lunches from Cafe Alpona, who gives us a banquet on the final day of the working week, which encourages overeating and leads me to express my appreciation in ancient manners. Where I sit, I have two copy writers around me, and we now have to work on Saturday because neither of them could take my shit-buffering. (Given the loading time, the load had better be worth it!) And just now, I was about to leave, for pastures greener or perhaps browners, and I just made the stale air uninhabitable for two more colleagues. Sorry guys, I promise we'll deal with Djuice someday. Let me just deal with my own stewing juices right now.

PS: I just had to add that while I was tagging this post and just before I clicked on Publish, I let another one go and boy is it fucking vile. But was it not A E Housman who said that no man dislikes the smell of his own farts?

Indentity CriSiS!!

noreply@blogger.com (InTeRnaTioNaL_BeGGaR) — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 09:22:00 +0000

It all began on the 21st of December 19(censored) at 12:01 a.m. when I was born. Apparently my voice was so loud that the doctor pronounced me a rock vocal then n there. Anyways let's just keep the narcissism away from the table right now.

Where was I? Right! So as I was born (all thanx to my dad n mom for all their efforts), I had to have a name right? This is where all the problems began. My parents are very uncertainty avoidant (not creative) and believe in gender equity (do not really understand the difference)...how do I know?

As I grew up I came to know my two names. My proper name which is "Imtiaz" and my nick name which is "Punom." It wasn't really a problem when I was young n all, except ofcourse when ppl used to call me Punom Dhilon. But since I didnt even know who that was, it didnt bother me much. But *alas* I grew up and came to realise the absolute non-creativity and utter comedy of my two names. My formal name "Imtiaz" is as common as Rofiq, Shofiq, Forid, Hasan or Potol, where as my nick name is that, which belongs to the opposite sex :S

Just when I had made peace with the perils I've had throughout my educational life (including living abroad where NO ONE could even pronounce my proper name properly) and joined Bitopi, the name factor came to the scene once again. The first problem....my official email address.

Anyhow, since there are two Imtiaz's in the office and the original one (me being the second) refuses to be called anything else...and provided the fact that my nickname only confuses me with a number of girls named Punom (which is much more embarrassing), I have decided that I am going to take OLDER Imtiaz bhai's nickname...and thus from now on you all shall know me as "Duke"

- Duke

p.s. No one with the name of Imtiaz or others mentioned were meant any offense or harm through this post. Arafat...need your approval for the post's grammar/spelling etc.

hey Mukul, art direct THIS!

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:08:00 +0000

My workspace, featuring the greatest creation of everybody's favorite advertising artist (with an MA). The Mum bottle should have been removed to make a nicer picture but I was too busy conducting an ambient and activation campaign on my favorite demographic at the moment, the 5 month old colleague's daughter. How do you advertise to babies?

Who, the Ifad?

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 10:06:00 +0000

I think these two commercials, alongwith the TV ad for Panther dotted (by Mediacom) are my favorite commercials this year. What are yours?

on a different note

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 06:27:00 +0000

Once again the Internet was down and we had had enough. Calls of Murad, Murad, Murad and sometimes Zubair, or even rarely, Sharif rang out throughout the office. Sharif rarely because everyone knows what his response will be: shut down den, reboot koren! The claim to most number of times that Murad's name was called out should be mine. But can't claim the same about lung power to which I admit there is still no one to challenge Anirban. I think I will get a drum like our African anscestors.

The Internet buffers up the notion that a lot of work is happening; everyone looks busy on their computers. So having the Internet is like having a simulation of work being done. It is good for the morale of the office in general. After all, seeing IS believing. Murad usually gave his stock answer whenever he was pestered or heckled: the submarine cable has been sabotaged. Truly, that is what the newspapers reported too. Last week it happned twice in quick succession and it really tested our patience and our will to work. Only this time the answer was different: the Sidr (pronounced: sidor) was the culprit.

While we were beleagured by the absence of Internet the south of the country was counting their deads.

i have got you a screen name and a little free publicity

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 07:53:00 +0000

Now that the Drama Queen has pacified Big Nose, Big Butt should post her Token Hottie #3 picture!

Here here

noreply@blogger.com (Ayesha Farzana) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 10:05:00 +0000

Ayesha Farzana was here. Just to pacify Big Nose. Whew.

lick!

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 11:58:00 +0000

Arafat, our Creative Group Head, put out the most awesome piece of stinking shit, frilled with unflattering pictures; but I still feel like moshing up to that! Let me employ my tongue again to lick this thought: the most awesome creative team ever. Here's a snapshot in words, also called haiku, whatever that is.

arafat:
toothbrush in hand
mouth rinsed off stale ideas

tanvir:
black hair smoking
another iranian film just got made

kimu:
smelling of dark brown coffee
strikes another mocking bird down

I know these are not Haikus. Who cares?

Lick. Lick. Lick.

the greatest team on earth (with pictures!)

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 11:52:00 +0000

YOU HEAR ME TALKIN'?

That's what's blasting out of my speakers right now. From Devo's Turn Around. The last stanza from that song I think describes our wonderful profession perfectly:

Take a step outside the planet
You and round
Now take a look at where you are
It's pretty scary

Today's one of those perfect days when inspiration flows freely throughout the agency. It started with a great night's sleep for me. I literally woke up at the crack of dawn with one single thought ringing like a bell in the pure serene of my mind. One of those magical moments when you literally feel the GE lightbulb above your head. I had found a great way to apply an insight from my wonderful boss Awrup. It's like how Terry Pratchett describes ideas that flow through space like particles and hit you out of nowhere.

So I sent a message to the whole team (all of whom were sleeping) and went back to sleep the sleep of an adman with an insight, which is 33% more restful than the sleep of the just. I was woken up by a wonderful friend who graduated today (much love to Anika and Fariha!) and the day was on. What a great time to be alive! (I am sounding syrupy in my happiness but I am explaining why.)

Sitting down in our lime-green conference room, the creative team was brainstorming one of our most emotionally important pitches of the year. My dawn epiphany was shot down in the first five minutes, because it was irrelevant. But someone else came up with something that was brilliant, elegant, absolutely beautiful, but incomplete--like half a butterfly wing. Someone else added a few changes to that idea and we were closer to a fully-formed concept. A seasoned art director, grizzled and bowed down by years of experience and a Master's degree, had a different way of seeing the climactic shot. A physics student fresh out of university added the tagline that wrapped everything up.

The realization hit me as it often does (and most often did in the two-year hiatus when I worked at other places): this is the best fucking creative team in the country. Which is easily said and said all the time I'm sure by every agency, but this is the most creative, wonderful group of people ever. And I'd go on being maudlin about shit but seriously, where else would you be able to work in the fields of music, literature and film all at once with some of the greatest pop artists of your generation?

Don't answer that. For the purposes of my argument, it's here. And this is what some of us look like. (Pictures taken in five minutes, post written in ten, lots of people aren't even in the office so bear with me here!)

That's our pal Awrup Sanyal, our Group Creative Director, showing off his tonguegotthelove.

Kashtan: "I don't blog." Fuck you too!

Tanvir "Pal" Hossain, Creative Director, engaged in a stream of consciousness.

Token hot girl.

I'M JUST A HOUND DOG BABY!!!!!

Token hot girl #2

Token hot guy!!!

This guy has a fucking Master's in Fine Arts, I swear.

Serious thinking--jotil chinta!

A small cigar can change the world my friend, a small cigar has changed this world again.

Your loving blogger

TOMCAT Gabbana.

can you sell this to mr. fakruddin?

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 11:41:00 +0000

At the Promologic Workshop arranged by Ad Club, Katalyst and NSU Debating Club I proposed these ideas for two SME brands, who I think have awesome brand equity.

One was Fakruddin’s Biriyani and the other was Laz Pharma.

Fakruddin’s Biriyani
Insight: Biriyani is a must in a traditional Bangali wedding
Brand Idea: A true Bangali wedding is incomplete without Fakruddin’s Biriyani
Probable TV Idea: A bridegroom’s party walks out of a wedding because Fakruddin’s Biriyani is not served!
Copy shot: NO DOWRIES. ONLY FAKRUDDIN'S BIRIYANI.

Laz Pharma—the 24 hr pharmacy
Insight: When there is a medical emergency there is no time to waste
Brand Idea: Illnesses don’t come announced
Probable TV Idea: A man sleeps in his bed at night, tossing and turning. Actors dressed as Virus, Bacteria, Diarrhea, Cholera, Dengue, etc., stand around his bed, look bored and yawn. They consult their watches, as if, waiting for daytime to come so that they can attack the sleeping victim!
Copy shot: IN REALITY ILLNESS WON’T WAIT FOR THE DAY TO BREAK. LAZ PHARMA. OPEN 24 HOURS.

the voice inside

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 19:18:00 +0000

It keeps on happening. The ideas strike at wierd hours.

As if the mind has a life of it own. It is thinking irrespective of I am thinking or not. It clearly has it own agenda and goes about its life exclusive of mine. From nowhere, on its own free will, it barges into my chores, smack in the middle of what I am doing and starts dictating the ideas. I can't resist them. They come when they want to. They come like revelations; something messianic about that, don't you think? They come fully thought out; a holistic whole, even if I can't see them altogether I know they are there. If I have a question they will be answered. It is like it has seen every aspect of the brief or the possibilities in the brief even though I don't remember actually taking note of them.

The voice inside, it has its own wierd way. An auto life.

inspiring lines

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 20:39:00 +0000

Writing good English copy is what I miss most.

I still remember a few lines that bowled me over when I was starting off in advertising way back when...

Made for each other. (WILLS Navy Cut cigarette from ITC; the allusion was created because, I believe, the Brief clearly stated that the communication's objective was to convey, here's the best filter for the best tobacco: the copywriter alluded the line to: filter and tobacco perfectly matched, and from there MFEO. In the campaigns that followed it was always the 'perfect couple we all want to be' thus taking the idea to lifestyle and cigarette is related to lifestyle! Brilliant, ain't it?)

Whenever you see colour think of us (Jenson & Nicholson paints)

The streetcar named desire (Kwality Ice Cream pushcart launch)

The Unputdownable (The Telegraph)

Utterly Butterly Delicious (Amul Butter)

Going. Going. Gone. (Elephant tusk poaching in Africa. WWF campaign)

Gotta go now myself. Can we see more Bitopians pitching in? G'night!

discombobulated musings on Awrup's copy post

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 18:58:00 +0000

As far as God or poetry goes, my favorite's always been a stanza from Byron's Don Juan, written in ottavia rima:

Well-- well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails.
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust-- perhaps a name.
-- Stanza 4, Canto 2. Don Juan, Lord Byron

In actual advertising, I think George Gribbin's magazine ad for Arrow Shirts (from Young & Rubicam, unless I'm mistaken) is pretty unbeatable:

"My friend, Joe Holmes, is now a horse!"

Having returned home post-midnight as always (but look out for our new Djuice animation and the Ifad commercials, which I had absolutely nothing to do with but which I think is the best work to come out of a Bangladeshi agency in the past year or so) I'm too tired to explain just how many levels of awesomeness that line works on, but 1938, a shirt company, reincarnation, and body copy that works as a short story, maybe told by a character such as Mr. Dingle the Strong from Twilight Zone? I drink my tea and smoke my cigarette in your honor Mr. Gribbin.

In recent years, Bitopi's been responsible for a bunch of amazing stuff, including my favorite Bangla line ever: JOTIL MOOD, and the best line that I ever wrote: GELI!?. A word and an interrobang. There have been years in the past when this agency was responsible for the guilty hit "Chaka chaka boom boom pah pah" Olympic Battery ad. But what would be the greatest copy ever written in Bangladesh? I submit to you my own humble list, taken purely from commercial advertising (because who can beat "Ebarer shongram amader shongram, ebarer shongram amader shadhinotar shongram", or "Mora shara bissher shanti bachate ajke lori"?) and that too from my own lifetime.

Jodi laigga jaye!

Maccher raja ilish, battir raja Philips. -- Monir sir from Unitrend.

Lagba baji? -- Shonkorda from Asiatic.

Econo likhe chomotkar, ek kolome mile par! -- Khaledur Rahman Jewel, who is now with us.

Jotil mood. -- Awrup or Tanvir, who cares? (Bitopi!)

I KNOW there's more, but I really am tired. I'd bitch about Drake or Bacon or whoever but their being a stupid git has nothing to do with advertising, so goodnight, fair Dhaka!

(On a fairly unrelated note, the greatest refrain is "Moushumi, care bhalobasho tumi?")

top that!

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 11:01:00 +0000

“Let there be light!”
God (the Christian one in this case), I believe will rank amongst one of the best copywriters ever!
(GE must be cursing Dusenberry for not coming up with that one!)

Shakespeare—the Resident God on Earth, closely follows that act.
“Out, out brief candle!”
(Perfect for Rahimafrooz IPS. Better than “one second please”. Please!)

And then I—the unsung hero.
“Talking helps.”
(Only if GP bought it, it would be history.)

a lesson in insight mining

noreply@blogger.com (lovegotthetongue) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 18:03:00 +0000

Oops! Did I say that? I said that- a lesson in insight mining- did I say that? I said that. I did. Shit. F**k. No more swear words or you good for nothing folks who are reading this will start getting an insight into my mighty mind! Is anyone actually reading this blog other than that guy who claims to be the Dhaka Adman? I would hope not. I would pray not. What a waste of time it will be! Shame! In any case, who is interested in advertising other people in the advertising industry? Oh! It is not even an industry and Apon is very angry with this. So, our agenda is to fight for the industryship! Apon, if you ever read this, which I doubt you will, please don't mind me announcing the Agenda of an Anarchist so openly! Please forgive this colleague who belongs to this soon-to-be industry as you. Salute to our Industryship!

Shit! I have lost it or I am lost. Where did I begin? I remember. I remember. Every time I say I remember, I remember, I have to say it twice because in school I had read Robert Browning once and that too only one of his poems ever, which was called I remember, I remember. Since then I can never say I remember, I remember once, I have to say it again I remember, I remember. And that is all I remember, I remember about the poem I remember, I remember that I remember, I remember.

There I go again. Back to what I was saying about the Insight Mining thing; I think I will be sued for it. They are two perfectly bon a fide English words that I have every right to use but since I belong to an industry or soon-to-be industry of ideas I respect the ethics of not whacking other people’s ideas or tools, which happens often here and quite blatantly. It has even become part of the brief language where clients have begin mentioning that since our idea has been usurped by so and so competition we will have to think of something else or reclaim our territory. And there is this particular orange-utan of a client who gives a rat’s ass about whose idea it is. If thery like it they will just go ahead and whack it. As I was saying, Insight Mining is a phrase that is used either by Ogilvy or McCann guys as one of their tools. So I will stop using the phrase because I wouldn’t be talking about that. But, I can still talk about insights, which I will in a while. The reason I started thinking about insights is because of this guy called Farhan. If you claim to be in the advertising soon-to-be industry in Bangladesh you won’t get far not knowing Farhan. Anyways, Farhan called me, for the first time ever I think, in my seven long years in Dhaka, in which I came, fell in love, married a Bangladeshi girl, also from the soon-to-be advertising industry, and have sired a daughter, too. He called me to ask me if I would conduct a workshop that the Ad Club is arranging. I couldn’t refuse Farhan because I respect him. Anyone else I would have turned down. Not that anyone ever calls me to conduct workshops, barring some crazy kids from DU once and these Ad Club guys the second time around. But I respect Farhan because he is a gentleman and a person who never fails to throw you a smile. He is generous not just with his smile, which people think is his PR tool, he is generous with praise too. He was one of the first guys from the soon-to-be advertising industry who actually told me that he loved the djuice campaign and thought that it was the first true youth brand created in Bangladesh. He said it just like that. You must be thinking what’s the big deal, but trust me, it is. I have many a time SMS-ed or called my peers in the soon-to-be industry to tell them that I liked their campaign but never ever have I received any such calls or messages. Of course it just could be we have never ever created a campaign to be praised, but that is unlikely. So, you understand the import of being patted by someone within your fraternity. I mean it feels good. So that is Farhan for you.

So, I thought I would start the workshop with concept of insight, a much-abused word in advertising. And that is how I began by talking about insight. I was thinking this is how I would begin the workshop with:

"Good Morning! Why have workshops on advertising? After all, every Tanvir (not Pal), Dalim and Hasan I have come across have an opinion about advertising. I am sure you do too. Never mind you have never been inside an advertising agency or spend just a few years trying to be a glorified peon in one. (In fact, I had decided to be cogito ergo mum on the subject of advertising but for Farhan.) When it comes to cricket, medicine, and now add advertising to this list, Bangalis know everything about it. They will tell you how the shot selection of Ashraful was wrong or the best medicine for arthritis is turmeric and yogurt paste mixed in cumin seed fried in hot mustard oil, and if you disbelieve him, he will add condescendingly, that you can go seek a second opinion. This flair has now been extended to advertising, especially TVCs. They will tell you why a particular idea didn’t work or how it should have been a wide-angle shot. Phew! That lands us at an insight about Bangalis and we can phrase it as, Beware the Bangali if you are NOT looking for free advice!

I will leave you with this thought. Have you ever thought how awesome James M. Cain would be as a copywriter? Yes it is the same guy who wrote this line: The Postman Always Rings Twice!

the big slip

noreply@blogger.com (Dhaka Adman) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 17:22:00 +0000

Hello hello hello everybody! This most probably means everybody within the agency and maybe a handful of advertising hopefuls, but I shall hope that we have successfully butchered the clutter of blogs and reached through to YOU, our target reader, who by the act of reading become our most beloved and appreciated psychographic empathizer.

The URL was bound to let the cat out of the bag, and it's true. This is the blog for Bitopi Advertising Ltd, Bangladesh's first and often best ad agency. This has been set up mostly so that the failed novelists in the creative team can whine about art, but we hope that we'll be able to convince everybody to contribute advertising insights, clever layouts, artful executions that weren't published, sexual innuendo--all the detritus of an agency. For example, we all talk about rational arguments and emotional hooks, but did you know that the absolute best pitching music is Mike Oldfield, and the best album to cheer up a tired team that's been on the go for 24 hours is Jean-Jacques Perrey and Dana Countryman's maniacal album, The Happy Electropop Music Machine?