Category Archives: This just in

Laurel Ann Bowman

Posted on by
Reply

I was devastated to learn this week that my pal, colleague, confidante and mentor Laurel Bowman passed away.

Wait a minute – weren’t we supposed to grow old together and sit around the Old Ad Folks Home and talk about how kids know nothing anymore and how it was back in the day? Weren’t we supposed to found the Geriatric Sound Museum where old rockers could wheel off and have another go at fame and ear drum damage?

So it’s only now dawning on me that this is the real deal and that Laurel has left us. I guess that means that I’m leaving Denial behind and about to experience Anger.

Laurel BowmanSo… I remember being introduced to Laurel at 855 Boylston Street, where i worked for IQ&J/121 Marketing. (“Help Clients Win.”) I worked for Jim Ricciardi at the time, managing computer art and layout in his studio. When Laurel came on board, Jim knew her from Arnold and I got the signal that she was good people, family. They shared laughs about folks they knew in common, and I could tell immediately that Laurel was somebody I needed to get to know.

I was spending a lot of time flipping between the Photoshop/Quark workflows that fed the print production beast, and writing HTML and figuring out this new dealy-o thing called The Web. There were like maybe two other computer geeks in the building who got it (Lee Stanford and Bill Fanning), but for everyone else it was a mystery – in fact almost nobody had heard of it. So a skunkworks task force formed, and Mark Wilson came on board, and we decided to go to Management (Bink and Tom) to show them what this new medium could do and to get buy-in that we should take the agency in this direction and pursue work. Mark selected Jay Bernasconi as his art director, and Laurel as his writer.

We landed work, thanks in no small part to the fact that when Laurel entered a room, things lit up. She was a force to be reckoned with. There was no denying her presence.

Clients loved Laurel. They believed in her, because she made it clear that she believed in them. She was their partner. We got repeat business, from clients who would leave their company and brings us along to their new employers. We started to grow.

There was a period of time when it was sort of like we were moonlighting – direct ad spreads by day, interactive projects by night. At one point, Laurel and Emily Gallardo went to the Kwajalein Atoll. on a project for Raytheon. They came back jetlagged and exhausted and filled with stories. I still have a little wooden Buddha that Laurel gave me from that trip.

Ingalls moved to the Design Center in South Boston and rebranded itself. I almost got myself fired, I was so angry over the move. For the record, and to clear the air, I want to say this to Tom Block: I am sorry I was such an asshole. Now that I am older, I understand what you did, and I know my words and actions must have really irritated you. I apologize, once again.

You see, Laurel and Tom had a great rapport. Of course! Laurel and Mark helped me through that rather bleak moment in my life. I owe you guys still for that one.

But back to Southie, and the freshly-minted Ingalls Interactive. Mark brought Katie Fitzgerald on board, and we started pulling down business for real. We were full time interactive, and we became a component in most new business pitched for General and Direct – especially Direct.

You must think that all we did was advertising. Not so. Here’s the heart of the story for me.

Laurel had her band, Lumen. Through her gigantic magnetic field, she managed to pull me away from the desperate orbit I had fallen in to and helped me achieve enough velocity to rejoin the world of the living rockers. I dusted off my keyboard gear and found myself playing with Jack Frosting. I hung out and took in the local rock scene. I felt my fingers thaw and I got back into action.

One time Laurel had a gig or something and she asked if I would come along and maybe just help out a little. I said sure, of course. So we’re riding along in Walter, and we get to TT’s or some place, and we’re getting out of the car, and Laurel leans over and in a confidential voice she says to me, “You know, I’m not as butch as I look. Would you mind grabbing that amp out of the back seat?”

We went to each others gigs. We listened to each others studio roughs. We celebrated each other’s CD releases. When her copy of CMJ would come in, she’d drag me into her office and play me the cuts she thought were worth anything.

Laurel used to dog sit for my family. She took the Baby Dog when we went out of town. I recall also having Bailey come and live with us for a week at one point. What a sweetie Bailey was.

Simone glommed on to Laurel. It was sort of like watching two atoms fall into orbit and bond to form a bigger molecule. Simone insisted on being dedicated at the Theodore Parker Church and on having Laurel as her godmother. At work, Laurel was always asking about Simone.

We grew and grew. Sichon, Mel, Michah, Anthe, Jill (“SHAPIRO!!!!!!!”), Johnny Figs came on board. We landed a whopper from John Hancock and Matt Warren and Ryan McDonough joined the family. And we were a family, with Laurel as den mom.

Comedy was a central part of our daily rituals. We usually had a Howard Stern debrief around 11 am every day. Me and her, we did Jerky Boys routines. We traded being “Sizzle Chest” and “Liver Lips”. That’s where the concept of the Hot Mop came from, a Jerky Boys call that had us on the floor laughing. Laurel turned it into a verb, so when she indicated we should hotmop something, that meant climb up on the roof of it and fix it pronto, bud. No excuses!

Things change, the world turns, people get new jobs. Katie went to iXL, I followed about six months later. Laurel and Robert Guay peeled off and formed Red98 – a whole ‘nuther story that I really don’t know much about, since I was already drinking iXL’s Coca-Cola. Laurel and I kept exchanging dog sittings until she moved to Ipswich and I moved out and got an apartment of my own.

Laurel, Mary, I’m sorry I never made it up to Ipswich to visit. It’s totally my lack of initiative that’s to blame. But then, I guess we take each other for granted sometimes, don’t we?

Back in the old days, when I was pounding out HTML for Ingalls Interactive, I’d run across situations where the copy needed an edit or tweaking – or there was just no copy outright. So, I’d supply my own and run it past Laurel in an email. She’d either tweak my tweak or tell me “Rock on!”. The greatest honor Laurel gave me was to tell me I was an honorary member of Local 855, her pet name for her club of copy writers at the agency.

Laurel, as I write this, they’re laying you to rest. I’m glad I was with you and Mary and your mom and dad and uncle and family last night. I’m glad I saw all our family from back in the day. I love you all.

I love you Laurel. I can’t tell you enough.

The Future Futures Index Is Down

Posted on by
Reply

Think back to ancient history – like before Al Gore invented the Internet.

I don’t recall ever hearing the top story of the hour being “American Stock Exchange futures are down, due to heavy losses in Asian and European markets”. I reckon that we can now know this because we can all see stock performance around the world instantly thanks to the web, and because we have people who stay up all night following this kind of activity.

I guess I have few problems with this bit of news. For one thing, it is manipulative. If I invested in the markets (I don’t), I’d be gearing up for the bell to sell whatever shabby bits of paper I have left because – omigod – the market’s headed LOWER. I mean, when the radio tells you it’s going to rain, you bring an umbrella, don’t you?

For another thing, though it maybe newsworthy, does it deserve the lead spot at the top of the hour? When I decode the message “stock futures are down” or phrases like “pretrading”, I visualize the really rich and powerful Joe Stock Traders out there getting a jump on the stock market by betting on what it’s going to do before it opens.

When do these guys do this? As soon as the NYSE closes? Or do they go to dinner first?

When the stock market was explained to me, my grandfather pointed to a building we were passing on the Rapid and said, “Jimmy, you own a brick of that building.” Of course, I had to ask if we could go to the building and take my brick home with me, to which he patiently explained that it was better if I let the company use my brick, to keep their walls up. Later, I was taught the basic principle, “buy low, sell high – and hang on to a good stock. When it’s down, it’s down, but if it’s a good stock, it’ll go up again.”

Does anyone still believe this? Or am I just waiting for the ice man to deliver a block from a horse cart?

In other news, layoffs are coming. The American auto industry will be insolvent within 12 months. Cheerful stuff about, um, the future.

Oh yeah, it’s going to rain this weekend. Bring an umbrella.

Barefoot children

Posted on by
Reply

I’m thinking hard about a site redesign for my minimalist, boring link page casually known as sendai77.com. The problem is me of course: i’m the client, the writer, the designer, the technical consultant, the developer, and the cobbler.

More about me: I’m a busy consultant for IBM. I use the word “consultant” loosely: in the Global Services branch where I serve, we’re all consultants, so I sort of can’t avoid the moniker. But a more accurate description of what I do is “IT Specialist – RIA Developer”, which, translated into Ordinary American, means I make web pages. True, I try to get on the slick projects that require Flash or Flex, but since I’m a sub genus of Consultant, I go where the work takes me.

But that’s not all. In my less lazy off-hours, I’m a musician, painter and photographer. I try my hand at songwriting and composing, and I’m not a bad cook to boot. My pals tell me that I have a “very full life”, which may be a way of saying I take on too much.

Given that, you’d think I’d have a smashing, wildly self-promoting web presence. Well, I don’t. Maybe I never will – maybe it’ll always amount to what LimeyG referred to as a few “sad, lonely blogs” which are perennially neglected.

I had a long discussion with Viv yesterday on the topic of blogs and topics. See, I feel that one WordPress is not enough. My infrequent rantings tend to jump categories, and it’s my personal feeling that WP does an inadequate job of fully presenting multi-topic content. Instead, users are force to pick the content channel out of the raging stream (or in my case, pathetic trickle) and apply the Category Filter technique of content sifting to arrive at a page that sieves the stream into, well, categories, which are basically akin to del.icio.us tags.

Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong with that…. except I’d like to write a music blog and a technology blog and a somewhat-related-but-entirely-new-thread user experience blog – in short, I sort ofwant more silos, each with the ability to categorize within themselves – and possibly out to each other.

One answer may be to skin my own WordPress in such a way that it reacts the way I want it to.

Viv suggest that I redesign my site. What I’m describing is basically a one-person magazine.

That brings up the spectre of Content Management….

So am I going to put the yellow “Digger Dude” sign up on sendai77.com? I’d rather just unveil the new site when it’s ready, rather than titllating the 1.5 readers I’ve got and letting them down when they realize that “Coming Soon” means “Coming By The Time The Sox Get To The World Series Again”.

Anyone seen my kids anywhere? There’s the barefoot ones.

Rock-lag and the ghost of Tom Sheehan

Posted on by
Reply

Here’s what my day was like yesterday:

Viv and I hop out of bed around 5:45 am-ish. Viv hops in her car and heads west to get her boys and bring them home, ahead of the massive snowstorm bearing down on New England.

I prepare my things carefully, grab my laptop and bass guitar, and head on down to South Station, where I grab some brekkie and jump on the 8:20 Amtrak regional to NYC.

On the train, I get a port side window and an outlet. I con call in to work for an hour, and spend the rest of the ride writing and testing little code widgets that’ll come in useful real soon. I’ve been building these little ditties for weeks now, and the rubber’s hitting the road right about yesterday, at this rate. The blizzard is breathtaking as we whiz through it, each time I look out the window.

I haul in to Penn Station, grab a number 2 to Times Square, change to the N-R-W heading downtown, and find my way to 23 and Broadway. Sleety rain. Gigundo puddles. After a salad and a coffee, I head up to the 18th floor of 11 Madison Ave. and dig in and work some more. Look Dad, I made it to Madison Avenue. Hum. He sneers from beyond this world.

5:15 I hit the street and grab a number 6 to Bleeker Street, change to the F train, which takes me to the Lower East Side. It’s a little warmer for some reason, and New York is coated with slush. The older subway stations are dipping and dank. I’m still carting the laptop and the bass, my shoulders are hurting.

I find the club and join Chris W. at the bar. 5:50 – I’m 10 minutes early for sound check. No sign of Tom.

The club is not bad, in a post-surf-decor kind of way. Young trendy kids are drinking it up at happy hour, which I guess is still allowed in NY, happy hour being banned in Boston. Come on, none of these kids have cars in the city anyway. The room we’re playing in is actually kind of sonically sealed off from the front room, and it’s got a stage with good monitors and a kickass sound system. Our sound guy is named Ofer (hope I’m spelling it right) and he know his shit (as we say in the biz).

The band before us is finishing up their check, and as they’re leaving the stage the drummer tells me they’ve flown in from California just to do this show. He makes a point of introducing himself to us as “Country Bumpkin”. We immediately call him “C.B.” to his face, and he nicely asks us to stick around and hear their set, it’s unique and kind of unusual. They’re from “the high desert town of Joshua Tree”. OK. They all head back to their hotel to prepare for their hour of NYC stage time.

Our check goes well. The bass sounds good. I’m thinking of Tony Maimone and my pal Tom Sheehan who left us two years ago, making NYC that much emptier for me. I’m sure he would have made it down to see me, and maybe even heckle me for trying to play bass. I know that in his last few years in the city, he told me he was starting to play again in clubs, but then he got real sick, and I’m pretty sure he checked out without getting to play out much more.

We go hang out front while the opening act (Wounded Buffalo Theory) sets up to check and be ready to open. We’re number 2 in line, wheels up at 9 pm. The Buffalos’ lead player introduces himself to me as Lucas and we chat about guitarists, saxophone giants, and academia.

8 pm sharp, the Theory goes live, and man they are loud. I watch them for about half an hour, then my medulla needs a break, and I want to psych up for Rotary, so I bail to the front. The Buffaloes conclude, pack up and leave, and take their crowd with them. We’re now playing for maybe 12 people. But hey, Limey G and The Boy are in town, and they made it out to hear us. I’m thrilled! I brought some peeps!

Well, I manage to have my grisly moment pretty early on, playing a very convincing C# where a B was clearly required at the beginning of a new phrase. Tom just shook his head and gave me That Look. But hey, better get my clam out of the way up front, then relax and play the rest of the show. It went really well, but I would argue that Tom made a few ducks and turns that weren’t on the rehearsal mp3s.

Next up: Gram Rabbit, our pals from the high desert town of Joshua Tree. They’re all dressed up in outrageous costumes, kind of like the Village People performing a magic act in the High Chaparral quarter of Outer Space. Jess, their lead singer is wearing a very cute little white top hat ribboned on to her noggin at a cocky angle. They had a number of technical difficulties. Between the Korg Triton sending out digital barfing sounds at an SPL of 120 dB and their laptops firing off the wrong songs, they were fighting electronic chimera all night. But they didn’t let it rattle their studied cool. Except when the drummer jumped out of his seat and lunged at the bass player. We thought there would be blows. No such luck.

If you can imagine my pals Count Zero fronted by a Deadpan Cowgirl From Venus, that’s sort of what it was like. They had a song about being ready to die in the desert that made me really sad. I can’t find it online, but here’s one in the big old key of E. They were really loud too, but to Ofer’s credit, I could hear everything and understand the words and everything. The Rabbits had a VJ that sprayed them with ponderous images that coordinated with the songs. Quite an operation. They played – of course – White Rabbit for an encore. Jess, here’s my suggestion, should you ever see it: ditch the keyboard. The lines you’re playing don’t contribute that much. You’re trapped behind it. Get out there and front this band, dammit, and hire an old sod (like me) to play key lines in the back, if you really miss them. You’re trapped behind that keyboard. Free yourself.

Well, the Rotary posse split after the Rabbits, and we all went to a really trendy pizza place on Allen Street, where we dissected the show, the Rabbits, New York real estate, and about six pizzas. After that, Chris, Shannan and I chilled at Wee Molly’s over on Eighth Ave for an hour, watching rugby.

I made my way to Penn Station and caught the 3:15 (yes, AM) train to Boston. It was packed. I found a seat and fell asleep before I could give my ticket to the conductor. I managed to snooze all the way to Kingston RI.

I got home – laptop, bass and all – at 8:15, exactly 25 hours and fifteen minutes after I had left. That was my day yesterday. Today I have rock-lag. My meal schedule is off, the room feels kind of floaty to me, and my eyes hurt. I have wounded feelings about growing old in this young rock culture, but the feelings pass and are replaced with optimism.

Rock until you die.

February crow

Posted on by
Reply

Last night, New England watched in horror as Eli Manning executed a once-in-a-lifetime, win-one-for-the-Gipper comeback touchdown series to beat the invincible New England Patriots 17-14. For those watching, it was truly football history in the making.

Mind you, I was sitting on the Patriots side of the ball, eating my guts out, along with all of my friends and neighbors. The last series before The Downfall, Tom “Achilles” Brady finally began to look like his old self. He figured out the right rhythm: go for short yardage, unload the ball fast, and don’t even think of the run. It’s a pity it took him three quarters of the game to finally get his sea legs, but that last full-on possession, the Pats started behaving like the Pats once again.

Two problems though: despite cramming the Giants deep in to their own territory on the last Patriot kickoff of the night, there was an eternity left on the clock. And second: in one of the most amazing feats of skill and daring, Eli managed to avoid getting sacked in a blur of tug-on-the-jersey evasion and fancy footwork. You could hear all Massachusetts (and Rhode Island and New Hampshire, for that matter) screaming “SIT ON THAT GUY! DO HIM LIKE WAS DONE TO BRADY!” But no. Manning managed to fire off a completion to the 13 yard line that spelled doom for the Bluecoats.

All the palaver on the radio this morning restated the obvious: the Giants knew that the key to winning was to go after Tom Brady, and to go after Tom Brady, and when that was done, to still go after Tom Brady. Mr. Brady was looking haunted and desperate by the third quarter, and only after the Giants went ahead 10-7 he finally managed to settle in to his zone and marched the Pats upfield and down like the scoring machine they had been all year. If only he had shaved another minute off the clock…

If. If. Well, he didn’t and the two minutes and thirty game clock seconds that followed stunned New England into silence and, for the first time this season, humility. Despite the defeat, though, you have to admit: it was one hell of a football game. History in the making. Yeah. All that.