I Blame Bad Headlines on my Dad.

Last week, my brother John showed my brother Will and me a picture of a dead squirrel he took with his camera phone. We laughed. There was something about the expression on the squirrel's face. He looked like he was faking. Like he set himself up in a taxidermist shop to get a laugh from his friends. The moment passed and we moved on. And then I got this email from Will yesterday:

this is wat i think a real squrl should look like after it dies!!!!!! as u recall on yur b-day party we were waiten in the car for sarha and john showed us that pic! well.... this is my pic that i took 2 days ago!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This photo was attached.


This shouldn't be funny to me. It's sick. It's gross. But I think it's funny. I blame my father. He's just socially acceptable enough to be accepted as pleasant company but weird enough to generate a "check please" kind of moment that makes everybody seem sort of uncomfortable. I've been subjected to those moments all my life and have no option but to find the humor in them. And as I'm finding in my own life, he's gifted me with the ability to make the same sorts of comments.

Here's where my writing comes in. I'm about four quarters into the copywriting program at the Creative Circus and by now I can tell the difference between a good headline and a bad one. But somewhere in bad headline land, there's a little island inhabited by bad headlines that I, for whatever reason, think are good. Almost always, there's something off-beat about them. They're offensive, make a weird reference or are just plain stupid. Yet I'm attracted to them. My internal bouncer lets these headlines into the party even though they don't have the proper credentials. The part of my brain that thinks dead squirrel emails are funny also allows this island to exist. Most of these headlines, like the dead squirrel, generate a pungent odor that only rotting rodents and bad advertising can produce.

But there's something cool about this island of headlines. Every now and then, among the most horrible of puns and the ramblings that only make sense to me, something will come off the island that is pure gold. It's like a gift from the advertising gods. Headlines that are like a down and out Daniel LaRusso who conquers the naysayers around him. They're unexpected gifts – Christmas presents in July.

From this island will come work that says something about me and that solves a problem in a way only I know how to solve it. I can only benefit as a creative by tapping into things that are funny/interesting/angering/weird/heartbreaking/uplifting/inspiring to me because of who I am and how I was raised.

If only I could find my way out to that island more often, I'd make better ads. If I just had more dead squirrels, I could build a raft.