My friend, Erick Montes, decided to produce a short video to accompany his fragrance-packaging project. To capture the essence of Erick’s fragrance we wrote a short treatment for the main character. I think it turned out well.

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Michél Aston-Elizalde is a man. Of course that’s his gender, but he’s a man in the traditional sense. The lost sense.

Michél is both gentleman and scoundrel. His style is effortless and his demeanor, collected. He does not look for trouble, but he always seems to find himself in the middle of the action—even at the most distinguished of gatherings. He is well-traveled and well-spoken.

Elizalde is wealthy. Understatedly so. He never talks about cost or what he does for a living. He believes it’s distasteful.

He is happy to pick up the tab and expects nothing in return.

But he does have his motives. Michél’s eyes are always open for the next venture or opportunity.

Elizalde seems to find himself perpetually in the company of beautiful women. Almost unintentionally. The fairer sex describes Michél as witty, honest, and aloof. Some would describe him as disinterested and pompous.

Michél has no tolerance for the uncultured or uninteresting. Especially women.

In the company of his peers, Michél conducts himself as any gentleman would. He is jovial, but not overly friendly. He speaks directly and assertively, but he is not loud.

Michél listens to the boastings, and ramblings of his peers with composed indignance. He knows who they are, and he does not care for their petty gamesmanship.

It is because of his seemingly cool demeanor, Michél does not have many close friends.

By most standards, Michél is overdressed for every occasion. He wears smartly tailored suits everyday, and most have not seen him without a suit jacket. He will dress in linen in the summertime, but Elizalde thinks casual clothing is tacky and unbecoming of a gentleman.

The most distinguishing quality of Michél is his depth of knowledge of most everything. He knows every Italian car by the sound of its engine. He knows how to make the perfect cocktail. And he can cook French, Italian cuisine—from any region.

Michél is a man among a breed of soft, codependent adolescents. He is a man for the ages. And, like all good men, he makes it look good.

Via We Love You So

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This campaign is actually for a side project of ours called Whoopassvertising. Follow us on Twitter to find out what we’re about. 

Off to Boston and NYC for interviews at Arnold, Fort Franklin, and Merkley+Partners. Wish me luck!

A well-oiled machine producing burger after burger, hour after hour.

It’s a number’s game. Consistent. Not McDonald’s-consistent, but pretty good. Tonight I watch for numbers. Percentages of group dynamics. Microtrends among small groups of friends.

In walk 4 teenagers. They can’t be older than 19. At youngest 16. 75% of this little group wears khaki shorts. 25% wear seersucker. All very good choices for summer.

They stand in front of 2 cash registers. 1 is turned off.

50% of the khaki crew pay with cash and the others pay with cards. Among this group, 75% wear sports-inspired baseball caps. ALL from the university of Kentucky. I don’t know if they’re actual Kentuckians, or what.

Their Bluegrass-State percentages are off the charts.

The lone ranger in the group wears a bright red golf visor. He’s obviously the freethinker of the group. Or his Kentucky hat was in the wash. He’s  the Maverick to their Goose. Either way, this group looks staggeringly similar.

Homogeny.

Which makes me think about one thing: does fast food make people boring? I think it does. I think the makers of fast food have evil motives, besides making asses bigger.

Let’s just say Steak & Shake contains a secret additive called phenylevilene. When added to any food, it triggers an addiction within the user. When the addiction kicks in, it triggers cravings at odd hours of the day. And, if left untreated, this chemical causes boringness.

This postulate is in its infant phases. It has no real substance, but I’m pretty sure it’s accurate. Probably.

I say this because this essay is boring. I blame it on the damn fries.

An empty diner is an alien thing. No orders. No chaos.

Almost heartless. Not one demanding more ketchup. Less pickles. More ice in their orange soda.

It is a Monday night.

Lulls like this happen quite often, I assume. All the time, really. And the waitresses don’t mind…at all.

The people aren’t in the sticky, sometimes cracked vinyl booths. They’re not making the drive up I-75 for the cherry-topped Snickers milkshakes.

If they’re not here, where are they? Lots of places. Especially at 1:26 AM.

At the far reaches of the bell curve, there are the overachievers. Naturally they’re not wolfing down saturated fats because they’re finalizing large presentations. Or doing deals with the Singapore stock exchange (They’ve already started their trading day).

Of course pot smokers are always contenders. Smack dab in the middle of the bell curve. They wish they were at Steak & Shake, but most of them are too wasted or too lazy to go. Or forgot Steak & Shake existed.

The pot smokers are tripping. And they’re hungry. But they’re out of the running.

On the far left of the bell curve, you have your early-to-bed-early-to rise people. They’ve been dead asleep since 10:30. They floss and use grocery-store teeth whitening.

The entire bell curve is not here tonight. The exceptional. The marginal.

They’re all elsewhere.

It’s just me. And the pretty brown-eyed girl in my booth. I’ve never been so aware that I deliberately traveled to such a low-priority place.

Tonight, the place to be…isn’t here.