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A Copywriter’s Blog
I said “Married”, not “Dead”. Ben Levy 14, March

To the Ladies I Hung Out With at the Club This Weekend,

I’d like to start by saying how much the evening was benefited by your presence. Without you, the gathering would have been designated a “Festival du Sausage”, and I greatly appreciate your help in preventing this. Please understand that the following is meant to be taken as constructive criticism. I hope we can remain friends.

To begin with, I hold you in the highest regard for your efforts to respect the sanctity of my marriage. Women of looser morals might have thought it acceptable to “back up on” me, and I appreciate your decision to give me space. In the future, please know that it is perfectly acceptable to dance while facing me, or to acknowledge my presence. Also, if you wish, you may dance nearer than 10 feet away. I have a wife, not leprosy.

Secondly, I wonder if you haven’t confused the title of “husband” with “priest”? After showing another gentleman “what you’re working with”, you turned and apologized to me. Madam, I took several years of figure study courses at University. Furthermore, I have cable TV. I assure you I was previously aware of the way women can shift the “junk in the trunk” before your display. As we were already maintaining the aforementioned distance of 10 feet between us, I hardly think it was necessary for you to turn and offer your apologies for the behavior. My morals were not offended, and I quite assure you I have no “innocence” left to lose.

Lastly- a minor thing. I hesitate even to mention it. Do you think you could tell your friends “he’s married” without making it sound like a pejorative? I made no judgement upon the fact that you have clearly been “poked” by three-quarters of your facebook friends. Kindly respect my decision to choose a life of monogamy as opposed to drunken walks of shame and frequent tests at the STD clinic.

Sincerely,

The Married Guy

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Friday Feature: The End Boss Lament Ben Levy 12, March

Hey, End Bosses!

Just to be clear- that one guy?

That was me.

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Pants. Ben Levy 7, March

My relationship with the word “pants” is surprisingly deep.

Anyone who knows me, who has read my blog, who has overheard me talking, or who has spoken to someone else who fits any of these qualifications, is aware that I have a penchant for the random. For that reason, most of my friends do too. I mean let’s face it, either you roll with the non-sequiturs regarding platypuses platypussies platypie duckbilled mammals and their relevance to the meaning of life, or you don’t.

And so it’s not too surprising that somewhere along the way one of my friends uttered “pantaloons!” as a battle cry, or exclamation, or…well shit, he might have been talking about a particularly tasty slice of pizza. Really, I don’t remember.

But from that point forward, the default answer for silliness in all it’s forms was “Pantaloons”. We were declaring Pantaloons at every opportunity. But before long, it seemed to be lacking something. It was funny, sure, but it was missing a certain immediacy. We needed a word that was equal parts exultation and imprecation. We required a single syllable whose utilitarian randomness was beyond all question. Plus, “pants” is a fairly easy extrapolation.

So, everything became “Pants”. Hit in the shoulder unexpectedly? “Pants!” Just heard a piece of unbelievable news? “Pants.” Want to offer an altogether familiar and yet totally confusing response to whatever was said last in conversation? “Pants.”

And don’t even get me started on how many dead-locked concepting sessions I’ve re-invigorated by suggesting “Pants”. Oh don’t look at me like that. It worked for these guys.

Plus, when The Wife (at the time known as The Fiancee) got me this shirt, I knew I was getting married to the right person.

Photo 59 copy

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Penis. Penis. Penis. Penis. Person! Penis. Ben Levy 5, March
The Daily Show With Jon Stewart Mon – Thurs 11p / 10c
Tech-Talch – Chatroulette
www.thedailyshow.com

Oh the spam I’ll get with that headline.

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Superpowers vs Supercontrol Ben Levy 28, February

If you think about it, most superpowers aren’t that impressive. I mean aside from them being, y’know, superpowers. It’s the level of control heroes and villains have over their powers that really makes them amazing.

By way of example, the following story:

At one point while The (future) Wife and I were dating, she was lying with her head on my chest. “I can hear your heartbeat,” she told me. “That’s good,” I replied. And then I closed my eyes and waited.

And The (future) Wife sat bolt upright “It’s gone!”

I was laughing pretty hard, so it took me a few seconds to explain where it went: I can slow my heartbeat.

It’s a minor trick I learned from Wing Chun. I don’t do the breathing exercises on a daily basis anymore, but I can still freak the doctors out when they go to take my blood pressure. At the time this took place, I was practicing Kung Fu about 5 days a week, so I could cut my heart rate in half, or even by two thirds. To The (future) Wife, who had been listening to my resting heart rate, it probably sounded like I’d just died. Hilarious.

You can see why I get invited to so many parties.

Now, I’m not suggesting that when I finish this blog post I patrol the rooftops of New York as “Heart-Murmur Man”. But I am suggesting that what’s more impressive than a superpower is supercontrol.

Take, for example, Cyclops. In case you live under a rock or something, he’s the dude who shoots lazers out of his eyes. (Note to comic nerds: I’m generalizing, step away from the keyboard, eat some Cheetos, and calm the hell down.) Right. Where was I? Oh, lazer-eye guy. Ok, so here’s the thing, and I want you to bear with me for a second: shooting lazers from your eyes is not all that great.

Technically speaking, all that does is give you the ability to carve a giant swath of destruction. Effectively, this is like me handing you a bazooka with infinite ammo. Ever unlocked those in video games? They’re entertaining for about 5 minutes, before the utter impracticality makes you swap it for something more intimate. Like a car to run people over with.

So what’s really impressive about Cyclops, is his (somewhat bullshit, if you ask me) ability to change his laz-o-vision from bazooka destruction to sniper rifle precision and back again. Shit, he even stuns people with his “deadly” optic blasts in some comics (hilarious). Sure he has an ability, but what’s truly amazing is that he’s mastered every conceivable point on that power’s spectrum. It’s the same for virtually any comic character.

The Flash runs really fast. He also seems to be able to think as fast as his feet move, and stop and corner on a dime. The edge of one. Doing Mach 4. Running fast? Neat trick. Impossibly precise control at sonic boom speeds? Now we’ve got a superhero.

Limits are put on super hero powers, but not on their control of those powers. Which is interesting, because you rarely see that sort of thing in real life. Every once in a while, a member of our species attains extremely precise control over their muscles. And you wind up with someone like Bruce Lee.

Or, say, my yoga instructor. Who earlier this evening managed to not only hold a pose that defied most of what I’d learned about human anatomy in four years of university-level figure drawing courses, but then delicately unfolded from it like some kind of humanoid blossom.

Superpowers? No. Supercontrol? Yes.

So clearly, what’s really impressive is supercontrol. I mean, lazer eye beams are only useful if you regularly fight terrorists, or can’t be bothered to look for a bottle opener. But precise muscle control? I can think of about a billion uses for that.

And half of them rhyme with Llama Bootra.

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How to Report the News Ben Levy 26, February

Just in case you didn’t know how.

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Do you like the ones you love? Ben Levy 21, February

This is one of those posts that someone is going to read, think it refers to them, and the resulting fall-out will last slightly longer than Chernobyl. In other words, it’s gonna be a good one. (No, various family members who think this is about you, it’s not about you. So you can stop worrying.)

It’s about family in general. Family is a weird thing. You get to pick one person-ONE PERSON- to be in your family. Your husband/wife. And in some cultures, you don’t even get to choose that. Some witchdoctor/matchmaker/leftover tea leaves do it for you. But generally in this enlightened age, you get to choose one person.

And that’s it.

Everything else? No choice. Crazy Uncles. Lecherous Grandpas. Insane Cousins. Painfully attractive step-sisters. You just get them. Even your own kids aren’t chosen. More “made”. Sure, you can influence them. But if after 20 years they don’t turn out how you wanted, you don’t get to go “You know what? This isn’t working out. I’m just gonna find some new kids that like more of the same stuff I do.”

The worst used-car deal ever struck probably had better terms than this. Even Satan would feel guilty about offering such a contract. But here it is. And we have to love them. They’re family.

Love them. Not like them. What an odd thing. The people we didn’t chose. Might be completely different from. And would possibly jump out a window to avoid.

I think my family is pretty normal. Oh, certain parts routinely insult other parts in ways that never get resolved, and never will be. But no one’s ever been exiled. No one’s ever taken a swing at someone else. Except for that one serious fight my brother and I had. But shit, we’re brothers. It’s amazing that only happened once. Which is my point, really.

How does this work? Why does it work? Who says it does?

I have some members of my family that I genuinely like. Not just love. Like. These are people that for whatever reason I really click with. I might have become friends with them if I’d met them on the street, or taken a few classes with them in school, or something. Granted, since 95% of my family are doctors, I would never, ever have met them in school (I majored in art), found them on the street (they sleep when they don’t work) or had them as a coworker (see point one). You get the idea. I am routinely, totally amazed that I have family members that I genuinely like. I think it’s a very rare thing.

And understand- these other family members? They’re ok. They are, truly. There’s really nothing wrong with them. It’s just that, if I ran into them in class/street/school, I would have spoken to them once or twice and I’m sure we both would have agreed that we just didn’t have much in common. End of story. No harm done.

The point to this long-winded free-association familial babble is this: Family is a loose collection of varying levels of relations. There is an excellent chance they don’t like you and perhaps you don’t like them. And so if they screw up, or do something that none of your “friends” would do, the “wrong” is ten times greater. When in fact, you should give them a proportionate amount of leeway. We don’t choose our family. Each of us is attempting to figure out how best to relate to these weird people we would never talk to under ordinary conditions, but who we nevertheless love. And that’s why every year we have to set the Thanksgiving turkey back on the table where it won’t be thrown at anybody’s head, and remind ourselves that we love one another.

Because even if we don’t like each other, we don’t have any other choice.

Plus, that would be a waste of really good turkey.

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So You Want To Be A Copywriter Ben Levy 19, February

I used to obliterate (vocab word!) the curve in my high school English classes. Lesson after lesson, I destroyed any hope of my classmates receiving a few extra points on their tests. With one exception.

(Cue crack of thunder)

Grammar.

English is a bastard, idiot, drunken language, and I want it on the record that I have always felt this way about it, and still do today. Below is an approximation of my well-practiced high school English rant:

“Most languages have laws. Rules and guidelines that are generally followed to make the whole thing consistent and coherent. English, on the other hand, was crafted exclusively out of exceptions. I believe the creators went around making up silly one-case scenarios just to fuck with people. Eventually, they made so many that the exceptions started to overlap. Any two exceptions that matched were just considered a law of the English language. That’s why we have about three pages of English grammar laws, and 80 pages of exceptions.”

Why do I bring this up now? Oh, no reason, really. It’s just that this lady is from Mirriam-Webster, AND SHE PRETTY MUCH SAYS I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG.

Suck it, Mrs. Wallen.

Oh, and if you think that’s all in the past thanks to spellcheck, think again:

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Hallmark is Trying to Kill Me Ben Levy 14, February

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I explained last year how I feel about this holiday. Short version: not a fan.

But sellers of chocolate and some dead Christian dude demand that on February 14th I make certain overtures to The Wife. So a few days ago I went to get a card.

There were aisles of these things. Rows upon rows of pink, red, reddish-pink, and pinkish-red. And they all, without exception, sucked.

I don’t mean they were bad. No, no. Bad would be an improvement. I mean they flat-out reeked. There must have been about 200 cards there. But really, there were only three:

“Funny” Cards
Front of card: [Sexual Innuendo]
Inside of card: [HAHA, I bet you thought I was talking about sex, but really I meant something completely non-sexual. It's funny because you were wrong!]

Example
Front of card: “This valentine’s day, I thought we could try a new position”
Inside of card: Couple watching TV while sitting upside down on the couch. (This is real. It exists. This one hurt so bad when I saw it that it seared itself into my brain and I’ve been having ‘Nam-like flashbacks ever since.)

“Heartfelt” Cards
Front of card: [Some mush so diabetes-inducingly sweet it would embarrass the writer of a Harlequin Romance novel.]
Inside of card: [Blank. Fucking blank. Because clearly after the profession of love and emotion you just read, no further words are necessary. You get to pay full price for half a card.]

Example
Front of card: My soulmate, this Valentine’s Day we will share chocolate strawberries and bubbling champagne, but what really sustains me is your endless love.
Inside of card: (What you need more? Read the front again, that shit was amazing!)

Rhyming Cards
Front of card: [A rhyme. Not a good one.]
Inside of card: [Happy Valentine's Day!]

Example
Front of card: “Nothing says ‘love’ like a card that rhymes/ Dear Hallmark, please fucking get with the times.”
Inside of card: “Wasn’t that rhyme awesome?! Happy Valentine’s Day!”

And there you have it. That was it. That was the entire 200 card “selection”.

Listen. Hallmark. I know I’m a writer. I know that makes me extra critical. And I know that makes it a little unfair of me to say I could do better in my sleep. (And by “sleep” I mean “while experiencing a medically-induced coma”.) But presumably you employ writers of your own. Ones who specialize in this “craft”. I mean, for the love of shit, you practically MADE UP this holiday. Can’t you do any better than “SEXUAL INNUENDO- JUST KIDDING! LOL!”?

You know, I actually looked through those the most. And here’s why- I was secretly hoping to find the one card that said “Hey Baby, this Valentine’s Day, let’s get busy”. Then on the inside: “No, seriously- it’s Valentine’s Day, you pretty much have to have sex with me. Start stripping.”

That card would have been fucking awesome. I know it’s not for everyone. But you have an audience of millions. Stretch a little. You can’t tell me your writers go home satisfied and hand these things to their wives and girlfriends. Who the hell wants to hand their loved-one a poem that sounds like it was written by a 2nd grader? “Oh my sweet/ you’re so neat/have some candy hearts to eat.” The only benefit is it makes whatever you do next seem fucking amazing: “Oh honey, a ball of dryer lint? You shouldn’t have! This is so much better than the card you just gave me!”

Fuck you, Hallmark. Fuck you and the vomit-inducing cliches you rode in on. I tried to end the pain by slitting my wrists with your crappy cards, but after 20 minutes I had nothing to show for it besides an arm covered in red and pink glitter. So next year, do me a favor:

Either stop writing shit lines, or invest in heavier card stock.

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Friday Feature: Let’s Not Spoil This With Words Ben Levy 12, February

Just watch.

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