accent is so dense as to cause most listeners to wonder what language he is speaking. Malcolm has no problem understanding him and often translates. Raj is a very good writer but is perhaps the least driven man I have ever met. If heâs near a computer with a video game, heâs happy. Malcolm and Raj smoke. A lot. They smoke in the building even though you canât. They have been reprimanded many times, brought before human resources, threatened with dismissal. The problem is they are so kind to everyone they meet that itâs almost impossible to stay mad at them. Human resources finally suggested, after several meetings that began as reprimands and turned into long, laughing lovefests, that at the very least they dismantle the smoke detector in their office and place a wet towel at the base of their door.
Malcolm on advertising: âI canât believe I get paid to do this. And I was adopted as a child.â
Rajit on advertising: unintelligible. Malcolm says, âThe people are lovely.â
FINBAR DOLAN, COPYWRITER, NARRATOR
Finbar Dolan is the greatest copywriter who has ever lived. Despite never winning a single major advertising award, peers see him as a legend. His keen mind, razor-sharp wit, and deft prose leave industry giants and suburban housewives breathless. The words Now with 20% more absorbency hang in the Guggenheim with his name on it. As if thatâs not enough, he is a powerfully built man in his late thirties and can bench-press four times his bodyweight. He is a scaler of great heights, a poet, a marksman, a man skilled in the art of close hand-to-hand combat. Of the roughly 6,500 languages spoken on the planet, there are only four in which he cannot read and write.
What do you say about yourself? How do you describe yourself when people ask? Height? Weight? Fine. Iâm 6' 2" but appear taller as Iâm thin. I canât seem to gain weight, canât get past 170 or so. I slouch. I feel my ears are too large. I wear the uniform of the new urban landscape, the service economy, post-Apple. Jeans, sweaters, work boots. Itâs all part of the new irony, where college-educated, white-collar workers dress as if they were blue-collar workers, liberal guilt at cushy jobs that require zero physical labor. Where once the subway was filled at the dayâs end with men in soiled work clothes, carrying hard hats and lunch pails, perhaps canvas bags with tools, the smell of honest-to-God sweat, now it is peopled to a greater extent (and certainly on the L train to Brooklyn) with those who are terminally hip and under the mistaken impression that life is supposed to be easy, wearing $300 pairs of jeans made to look old, vintage-inspired eyeglass frames, waxed canvas bags from Jack Spade holding Apple computers/iPhones/iPads/iPods, reeking of Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin for Him. What accounts for this new breed of creative man? The fickle mistress of fashion, certainly. But I would also suggestâfrom my own close observationâthat this inchoate man is also confused and adrift in a world where the generational gap is wider than ever. And who sometimes feels the need to use the word inchoate when not fully formed would have worked just fine. Pulled down by a rip-tide of hair products and spin classes, white wine and feelings , mygeneration of late-to-marry city dwellers lost any connection with their change-the-car-oil-on-Saturday-afternoon-with-a-couple-cans-of-Carling-Black-Label fathers. They bear little resemblance in income, hobbies, outlook, number of sexual partners. Men good with their fists versus men who take yoga. Men who understood how life worked versus man-boys who give long thought/reading/classes/trips to India to allay their confusion about the meaning of life. Who complain that theyâre not happy.
I worry that I have a kind of retardation having to do with romantic relationships (thirty-nine and single), marriage (see the aforementioned cancellation
Malcolm on advertising: âI canât believe I get paid to do this. And I was adopted as a child.â
Rajit on advertising: unintelligible. Malcolm says, âThe people are lovely.â
FINBAR DOLAN, COPYWRITER, NARRATOR
Finbar Dolan is the greatest copywriter who has ever lived. Despite never winning a single major advertising award, peers see him as a legend. His keen mind, razor-sharp wit, and deft prose leave industry giants and suburban housewives breathless. The words Now with 20% more absorbency hang in the Guggenheim with his name on it. As if thatâs not enough, he is a powerfully built man in his late thirties and can bench-press four times his bodyweight. He is a scaler of great heights, a poet, a marksman, a man skilled in the art of close hand-to-hand combat. Of the roughly 6,500 languages spoken on the planet, there are only four in which he cannot read and write.
What do you say about yourself? How do you describe yourself when people ask? Height? Weight? Fine. Iâm 6' 2" but appear taller as Iâm thin. I canât seem to gain weight, canât get past 170 or so. I slouch. I feel my ears are too large. I wear the uniform of the new urban landscape, the service economy, post-Apple. Jeans, sweaters, work boots. Itâs all part of the new irony, where college-educated, white-collar workers dress as if they were blue-collar workers, liberal guilt at cushy jobs that require zero physical labor. Where once the subway was filled at the dayâs end with men in soiled work clothes, carrying hard hats and lunch pails, perhaps canvas bags with tools, the smell of honest-to-God sweat, now it is peopled to a greater extent (and certainly on the L train to Brooklyn) with those who are terminally hip and under the mistaken impression that life is supposed to be easy, wearing $300 pairs of jeans made to look old, vintage-inspired eyeglass frames, waxed canvas bags from Jack Spade holding Apple computers/iPhones/iPads/iPods, reeking of Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin for Him. What accounts for this new breed of creative man? The fickle mistress of fashion, certainly. But I would also suggestâfrom my own close observationâthat this inchoate man is also confused and adrift in a world where the generational gap is wider than ever. And who sometimes feels the need to use the word inchoate when not fully formed would have worked just fine. Pulled down by a rip-tide of hair products and spin classes, white wine and feelings , mygeneration of late-to-marry city dwellers lost any connection with their change-the-car-oil-on-Saturday-afternoon-with-a-couple-cans-of-Carling-Black-Label fathers. They bear little resemblance in income, hobbies, outlook, number of sexual partners. Men good with their fists versus men who take yoga. Men who understood how life worked versus man-boys who give long thought/reading/classes/trips to India to allay their confusion about the meaning of life. Who complain that theyâre not happy.
I worry that I have a kind of retardation having to do with romantic relationships (thirty-nine and single), marriage (see the aforementioned cancellation
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