Planner Monkeys

These are the members of my planning team at my ad agency. We are deemed either account planners or strategic planners, depending on which you think sounds more impressive. We stand for the consumer...for the people. We hunt for unique truths to base the strategies of entire yearly ad budgets on. Unique truths in a world where "out-of-the-box" thinking has itself become a cliche term. An awful little oxymoron.

We are meant to get our hands dirty in the name of research. To walk in the sandals, stilettos, swim fins of another. We are the meandering soulful characters in every fish out of water movie (think old 80s favs "Big" or "Mr. Mom"). We are journalists, reporting as faithfully as Lois Lane, and often as goofily as Clark Kent. We are muses of creativity - sirens of inspiration.

We work hard to stay true to all of this - to be real. But it ain't always easy.

Often we find ourselves drowning in office politics...battles of bureaucracies. Because people don't always want to hear the truth. It's okay if a brand, product or creative idea has a couple of "issues", but CEO forbid there exist a fundamental flaw. And so many times we become the information monkeys. Fetch this fact. Make the "consumer" dance.

Grind monkey, grind!!!

Well I think it's time that we simply step out of our unlocked cages and bare our banana-stained teeth. I think it's time we throw a little poop at the people peering through the bars.

We are not frustrated creatives because we love what we do. We are not the gophers of human emotional waste because we care about truth, beauty and love. But we are silly, curious, fun-loving, crafty, stout-hearted and more intelligent than you might give us credit for. We are the planner monkeys.

South Beach: City of Sol

I’ve lived among Latinos in Los Angeles for six years now. They are laid-back and contented. But on a recent trip to South Beach, I was struck by how vastly different the Latinos there are. They are entitled and fashion-centric. They’ve created a mini-Euro paradise of sun, society and sex appeal. South Beachers want you to know how much they paid for the latest designer's swimsuit, or how hard they've hunted for the perfect accessory (which sometimes comes in “human”).

I love South Beach, I really do. But it always seems a lot like Vegas after the first couple of days. In the beginning you’re overwhelmed with all the shiny glitz and glamour…but then by the third day you see beyond the pretty paint and it all just seems tacky and overboard. And you get tired of all of the pretentiousness. I mean, I was in a city built for the beach, but was turned away at every door of every lounge for wearing flip-flops!

So that’s when I decided to leave the endless parade of tourists in their fabulous boutique hotels along the coastline in search for the locals. I wanted the South Beach in the raw.

I walked a couple of streets inland from Ocean Avenue and found a gem. A diamond in the rough, so to speak. Automatic Slims Rock ‘n Roll bar, complete with stripper pole and endless 80s anthems. A place you’d expect to find in Hollywood maybe, but not South Beach. I looked around and the room was filled with Latinos! They came in punked-out hair and gothic goatees, Madonna lace bras and Guns ‘n Roses leather pants!

Like so many things, it is not what's on the coastline, but what is inland that counts. We stereotype entire races without recognizing their beautifully complex intricacies. And that’s precisely why I love my job. Because I get to bring them out of the dark and into the sol.

Butt Pirates...heheheh

Johnny Johnny Johnny. I could write about his integrity: how each role he chooses is artistically interesting and counter-"Hollywood". I could write about his earthy sexiness: raw, aloof, unquestionable. But it's his playfulness that I'm really in love with. Each character he has played is a child at heart. I encourage you to see for yourself. Have a Johnny night. Rent a few of his movies, get your favorite childhood candy (mine is Fun Dip) and see if you aren't overcome with silliness. And if you let yourself, I bet you let out a few girlish giggles when no one's watching.

I mean, the man (who is 43, mind you) still goes by the kid version of his name - Johnny. It's like he said right from the beginning: my name is Johnny and I refuse to ever grow up.

Bravo.

In Finding Neverland (one of my favorite movies ever), his character, JM Barrie, writer of Peter Pan, says: "Young boys should never be sent to bed...they always wake up a day older."

So, that's why I'll forgive Johnny for that second Pirates movie and blow a big raspberry to the critics. *PPPPHHHHBBBBBBTTTTT!!!!" After all, he didn't really sell out to the big blockbusters...he's still being a big kid just the same as always. And of course it doesn't hurt to be able to continue my fantasy of Jack & Will falling in love and sailing the seas together...

Along Came Darius

Okay, fine. So probably one of the worst parts of my personality is my fear of commitment. I just hate being tied down. I don't like making plans because I never know what mood I'm gonna be in. I mean, what if I make plans two weeks in advance and then miss out on some grand adventure? I might have locked myself into drinks at some fabulous Hollywood bar only to find that when the day comes, a friend has miraculously produced tickets to Cher's Farewell Tour. And everyone knows that's a one-time thing. *hair toss, tongue roll* "Hooooooooooo....."

However. As I've grown up (stop your snickering), I've come to realize that by committing to something, you may be embarking on a different kind of adventure. Such is what I found when Darius came along.

He is everything I am not. I love spontaneity. He loves planning. I'm moody and irrational. He's even-tempered and wise. He likes movies where teens fall in love. I like movies where teens get homicidally hunted in the dark.

But the beauty of us is in the experiences we share with each other. Recently, I got him out on his own into the Pacific Ocean on a boogie board - and had the pleasure of seeing him, wide-eyed and laughing, as he caught his first wave. And in return he's found a way to get me onto a Google Calendar, which we share so that we always know what the other is doing. Outwardly, I despise this. Secretly, I adore it.

I recently watched the movie, "Along Came Polly." It's cute, but one quote stood out above all: "It's not about what happened in the past or what you think might happen in the future - it's about the ride for Christ's sake. There'’s no point going through all this crap if you're not gonna enjoy the ride. And you know what? When you least expect it, something great might come along. Something better than you even planned for."

So we find ourselves on the "unplan plan" - together. And now I see that this might just be the greatest ride of all.

welcome to munchkinland

i've already told several friends this one and, in the process, taken enough verbal abuse to stiffen the tin man for a year with all his tears. so i might as well stand up tall and come out, come out with it.

you see, a few months back i had a disturbing dream. only i didn't think it was disturbing until i woke up. all during my slumber i was quite surprised to learn just how much fun having sex with a midget could be. i mean, the way they're built, they're just so...accommodating. i could toss him, turn him and spin him any which way that took my fancy. and now my boyfriend (who used to think it was so cute that we are the exact same height) has developed an anti-napoleon complex. sometimes i catch him going barefoot while i'm still wearing shoes just so he can capitalize on the one to two inches he loses.

since then, i have had no less than FOUR midget sightings in the past few weeks. now i don't know about you, but before then i'd probably only seen one or two real-life little people in my nearly 29 years. am i now pyscho-kinetically connected to them? i'm not sure if it's all the beach sand in my brain or if it's god playing a little carnie prank on me.

to the best of my knowledge i don't think i have a midget fetish. but if i do, it's probably best left dealt with by my unconscious self. after all, this ain't no lollipop guild. but flying monkeys, now there's something interesting...

5 to 9

Tick-work, tick-work, tick-work. The time can seem to go by in billable minutes when you're not looking. We spend 60-70% of our lives working and it's always amazed me to realize how many people I know are unhappy in their jobs. I mean, it's your LIFE. In my opinion, it's absolutely critical to love what you do.

The past couple of weeks have been incredibly hectic for me. Late night business pitches, red-eye flights, between-meeting costume changes, brilliance on command....at times I feel like nothing more than a dancing monkey. But then, I'm a fantastic dancer and I've always loved monkeys.

I despise karaoke, but the one time a friend did manage to trick me onstage, I paid homage (not that I have the voice to back up that word choice) to Dolly Parton's "9 to 5". At the time I was busy working with a team of young advertising rockstars on an outside project competition. Needless to say, we won the competition and my celebratory spirit misguided me into thinking I could sing in front of an audience just as well as I could present a communications plan. Sure, I had the dancing and stage presence down, but I was horrified at the warbling voice that reverberated back at me through the speakers. Certainly it was a joke? My echoed bathroom and roaring road trip voices are much more representative of my singing ability.

But I was singing for the freedom of it. Because I had put in more work than necessary in order to win. My ambition, though flighty, has always surprised me.

I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit I recently read the guilty pleasure, The Devil Wears Prada. It's the story of a bright, but achingly dedicated girl completely and utterly dominated by a tyrannical bitch. The whole time I read it, I counted each blessed angel in my career. I've heard gruesome stories from friends, but I've always managed to have the most inspirational mentors. They taught me the worth and fun of a career. And I've realized how much this has affected me and what my future will be. No matter what happens, what path my career takes, I will never, ever settle for anything less than what makes me happy.

In the words of the indomitably inhuman Miranda Priestly: "That's all."

Smoke & Mirrors

I'm not sure when I officially became a smoker...when the addiction really took hold. I can recall a strong feeling of knowing that I could still quit - but I lost it somewhere along the way between being the person asking "hey, can I bum a smoke?" and the one irritably relenting, "sure, have one of mine." I made it to the point of lamenting an emptied box after an all-night outing, but not to the point of actually buying cartons (thank God).

I remember watching those first few episodes of "Sex and the City." Carrie made smoking look so fabulous. A long, lighted cigarette was the perfect accessory to any outfit, the final touch to each devastatingly poignant scene. I worshiped the ending to each show with her at her laptop, cigarette hanging out of the corner of her lips, concluding some wonderfully profound thought.

But it wasn't just the look of it. It's what it represented: smoking makes you cooler. You look like you've got something significant to do, completely indifferent to those around you because you're just too cool. But for me, it began to run deeper than that. Because I started to smoke in my Jeep when no one was around to even appreciate how damn cool I looked. "Sweet Home Alabama" or Lenny Kravitz's "Lady" would come on the radio and I would feel I had no choice but to immediately grab for the pack and struggle with the lighter in the wind for a few minutes before deeply inhaling and then shouting out the lyrics on the exhale. It was exhilarating. It was breaking the rules. It was James Dean and Colin Farrell and Thelma & Louise.

My grandmama smoked for years until an emphysema threat finally scared her off. My mom drew deeply on her Virginia Super Slims underneath a sun hat by the pool until her high blood pressure and incessant coughing stole the fun from it.


It's been almost three weeks since I've had a cigarette now. I took five minutes off my jogging time. I look in the mirror and see whiter teeth, healthier skin. I don't see Carrie the fabulous smoker anymore, but I do see Carrie the writer I so wanted to be. Because in the end I realized something: you can take the cigarette out of your hand and the smug look off your face...and the person looking back at you in the mirror will be cooler than ever.