Draw a chalk outline

Traditional media is a tempestuous vixen, but rightly petted, she croons fountains of wealth. Jeez, Michael must have broken into the cabinet with those cocainey markers again.

Butt seriously. Since the beginning of the middle of the last bit of last year that’s all I could say. Analogue this, non-digital that. But it’s  too damn convenient to bridge the entire arduous birthing process of squeezing something traditional into being and then coaxing it delicately up some digital fallopian tubes so that it can be made concrete again.

Okay, it’s late, so lemme translate. Rhymed. If you make everything digitally, you don’t have to scan or photograph a drawing so you can print it or post it online.

Plus paper is expensive, y’all.

And traditional is wily. I picked up some chalk with a smirk and thought because I swing a wacom tablet like a morningstar, I can handle any dirtmaker no problem. Each medium is different, and each teaches you something beautiful. Like chalk drawings. It takes precision, neatness and a purpose driven hand. I’m ADD like Speedy Gonzalez on a hamster wheel made by Escher, so these things are hard.

But it’s the hard lessons you have to learn. And I learned another secret, but that’s for another time.

I actually did this bad boy for babysoft.


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My dad taught me how to draw better than your dad and your stupid head

So that’s heartfelt. So here’s something crude to balance it out. Crud. I’ll crud a crudding crudsicle right up your crudhole, you crudsucking fathercrudder. Yeah, can’t really swear with this one, for it’s about crudsachets i.e. diapers, which are generally for kids.

We did this thing for Huggies for father’s day where we asked people to facebook or Tweet in what their favourite activity was to do with their male parental unit. And I drew every one.

My dad taught me how to draw. Damn, I love thatsonofabitch. Sorry grandma.

Look through them all. If you’ve got the stones.

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K the F O 3 !!!!!!!!!

That’s 9 exclamation marks. 3 x 3. I was going to go to 27, but you don’t want to get on the dark side of whoo-girls (I’m pretty sure you have to pay royalties to them for every exclamation mark you go over 4. ZOMG. YOLO).

It’s been nuts. But it’s done. Smear your ocular orbs with baby oil, because this puppy is on the offender list, namsayin’? Here’s the first one and the second, in case you missed it.

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You will forget, which you’ll regret. Boba Fett.

takin'-notesObscure Star Wars reference, or life lesson? Both. And it rhymes. Bam.

Get yourself a notebook.

The human brain is butter. No seriously, the human brain is the consistency of butter. What fool would let his/her/hurrrgh life be controlled by the fat that quite literally marbles the brain. A fool, that’s who.

Imagine you’re trying to come up with an idea, from nothing, from nowhere. Odds are that the substance of that idea will be of that which it draws from, namely nothing – flimsy, like a limp-wristed badminton player that enjoys powdering the very tip of their nose with the delicate powder that keeps marshmallows separate.

Your ideas should be informed by life, true events and personal experience. Write what you know. And the only way to know what you know is to remember. And how will you remember when you have a fat head?


Also, separate your self-involved anecdotes into sections. The idea is to order your thoughts, not create another labyrinthine hall of narcissism that you’ll never look at again. Online resources are available, like Evernote and Simplenote, but I often feel technology doesn’t have the same hipsteresque appeal of analogue pen and paper.

Boba Fett will never forget. Vengeance drives him. But you don’t, you have a baconbrain.


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Onward to the past

I recently came across some o’ the drawings I drew in the years of my youth. When I was about 16, in fact. I did this thing in high school where I drew on a piece of notepad with a blue ball point pen e’eryday (I called them my DAYLY DIABOLICAL DUBIOUS DEVIOUS DOODLES
of the DAY!!!!) and these are some of the self-indulgent spunk. You can even see them on my old deviantart page.

This was what I wrote in the description for this one.

“Sam and Max freelance police!
The goofy duo without sam…That’s like samdwich without the Sam, Sam-Francisco without the Sam And Sam and Max without the Sam. As you can see…Max is but a plushy of his former self.
Oh, and there’s a lion with fingers and a guy totally tripping on freebase. of Idiocy.

Strike the world by a hail of flaming bananas and concrete donkeys.
Good times…good times…

DDDDDotD ma’am.

Oh, yes and all fear the budgie of pain…Yadda, yadda”

Man, wasn’t that just an omen for the dark tidings of incoherent non-sequiturs  to come? It’s fun to review your past work/journal entries/effluvia emissions, because you’ll often find valuable insights into your current person. Mine was that I was tangy from the get-go.

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Hug those idiots at the watercooler

Foster true relationships with your colleagues. No really.

I made the grievous mistake to think that you should keep work and play separate. The ideal is to have your weekends and weeks bleed into each other, when the people that buy your fish and O2 are the people that you share your fish with. Because lord knows they take your O2 anyway, the damn moochers.

But for real real.

Think about the funnest work you’ve ever done. If you’re like me, it’s probably that off-beat stupid video you made on a drunken whim when you didn’t have anything vicing your angerglands except for a burning desire lodged within those same mansatchels.

Clients have a tendency to dilute the artistic integrity of your craft, sometimes even up to the point when you throw your hands up and say “I’ll make it, you damn machine-cog, but I’ll have eyes more glazed than honeyed hams.” Alliteration. Don’t compound the soulless interest.

You cannot separate work and play, because by it’s very definition you’ll separate your soul from your hands. And everybody knows Raziel without the Soul Reaver is just a tall smurf with an overbite.

You play with your friends, you work and make belittling comments behind your colleagues’ backs. Foster the former, obliterate the latter. By. any. means. nessy.

This is a animation I made for Bulelwa, and I love her to horrific facemelting death-death.



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No dog would care about this post

So, if you consider that the universe has a finite amount of f%#s to give, and that the entire canine segment of the all-pie chart is eliminated, logic dictates that you should probably care.

And here’s why.

The psychology of colour is fascinating, we have cultural associations and physical responses.

The colour of blood, sex, heat, war, speed, anger, love, courage, defiance, revolution, tension and it’s the colour of Cyclops’s eyebeams for pity’s sake. Vreeem!

I’m taking the obsequious kiss-ass route and sharing this nifty little thing I made for my dark masters (who are actually quite affable). Oooh, negative space.

red-is-_thumb (1)

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Your life. a music video.

My friends and I. Made by my brother, Adam. Hugs.

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Ogilvy for Vendetta.

I’ve been scarce. And now I’m back with a vengeance.

I’ve started working for international communication powerchalet, Ogilvy. Where dream humongous is written in technicolour dreamcrunk on the roof, koi fish coyly tease peacocks and park-grade grass stain the ol’ pantaloons on a lunch break. Despite my predisposition to the ol’ McHyperbole, I’m not even exaggerating.

C’mon you guys! Yeah! Follow my wacky adventures as I learn so much it feels like I’ve got my eyes wrenched open and corneas badtouched a la Clockwork orange. My 9 to 5 is better than your 9 to 5. Believe it.

Ogilvy for victory

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The death of Money

Bill Hicks once joked that advertising-folk should be euthanised. By firing squad.



I pushed it out of my head. ‘Cause me, I like making ‘em pretty pictures, and he’s dead (who won that round eh, Hicks?). But man, does he make a point sharper than a Hattori Hanzō sword wearing Jean Paul Gaultier. Lookit me, I’m the devil with a name tag.

But seriously, advertising is built around persuasion, about giving the visual cues that would in natural setting would allude to health, nutrition and other things conducive to living more better. Except without the substance.

I went to the Tomorrow’s leaders convention 2013, which centred around the rising stars in the field of leadership. Yadda yadda yadda. I rocked a beadhead and a smirk where people whore suits that could cut through glass. I’m really piling on the sharpness metaphors, aren’t I? I know how to spell tailored, but they bled it. With a smarm brow I politely and quietly sipped water du mineral when the proceedings began. Money people. Yikes.

But truly they came with valuable insights, inasmuch as making the rugged axle grinding of an Afrikaans accent sound eloquent. It resonated around an approach removed from profits. Profits were only the hallmark of a succeeding business. And what was a successful business? One that added true value to people’s lives. Bazinga.

Jon Foster-Pedley, dean and director of Henley Business school, suggested that a businesses needed a purpose. Think about life. Life isn’t about hedonism. It’s not about doing fried cocaine and drinking sparkling wine carbonated by the delicate whistles of orphans. It’s about finding a true cause, a passion that gives meaning. People like éclairs, people loved William Wallace.

Full circle to advertising. Advertising can no longer go: “ ‘Ere boy, buy me chicken, ‘cause it’s more sparkly than that fella’s chicken.” People don’t believe your lies, they believe your truths. I don’t sell chicken, I sell the idea of a family meal. And I’m going to create a campaign highlighting the importance of bonding with your kin (with the scent of secret herbs and spices to create ambiance). You have to bring the good, to sell the goods. It’s not about money, it’s about people. People and chicken. Mostly chicken. Mmm, chicken.

I may be a no good tree-hugging hippie, but that’s just ‘cause everbody else is.

In that spirit here’s some pictures of the catering.


Heal the world, make it a better place. With flan and jelly.

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